Sam Vimes Quotes

Commander, I always used to consider that you had a definite anti-authoritarian streak in you.” “Sir?” “It seems that you have managed to retain this even though you are authority.” “Sir?” “That’s practically zen.

There’s lots of people will help you with alcohol business, but there’s no one out there arranging little meetings where you can stand up and say, ‘My name is Sam Vimes and I’m a really suspicious bastard.

Cheery was aware that Commander Vimes didn't like the phrase 'The innocent have nothing to fear', believing the innocent had everything to fear, mostly from the guilty but in the longer term even more from those who say things like 'The innocent have nothing to fear'.

But the helmet had gold decoration, and the bespoke armorers had made a new gleaming breastplate with useless gold ornamentation on it. Sam Vimes felt like a class traitor every time he wore it. He hated being thought of as one of those people that wore stupid ornamental armor. It was gilt by association.

There was no universe, anywhere, where a Sam Vimes would give in on this, because if he did then he wouldn't be Sam Vimes anymore.

Odd thing, ain't it... you meet people one at a time, they seem decent, they got brains that work, and then they get together and you hear the voice of the people. And it snarls.

Yeah, all right, but everyone knows they torture people," mumbled Sam. "Do they?" said Vimes. "Then why doesn't anyone do anything about it?" "'cos they torture people.

That's a nice song," said young Sam, and Vimes remembered that he was hearing it for the first time. "It's an old soldiers' song," he said. "Really, sarge? But it's about angels." Yes, thought Vimes, and it's amazing what bits those angels cause to rise up as the song progresses. It's a real soldiers' song: sentimental, with dirty bits. "As I recall, they used to sing it after battles," he said. "I've seen old men cry when they sing it," he added. "Why? It sounds cheerful." They were remembering who they were not singing it with, thought Vimes. You'll learn. I know you will.

I assure you I will not kill you," said Inigo. "I know that," said Vimes. "But will you try?

Shut up sergeant. You're a free troll. That's an order" Sam Vimes

History was full of the bones of good men who'd followed bad orders in the hope that they could soften the blow. Oh, yes, there were worse things they could do, but most of them began right where they started following bad orders.

I'm not a natural killer! See this? See what it says? I'm supposed to keep the peace, I am! If I kill people to do it, I'm reading the wrong manual!

Well, the news has got around. The Duchess of Keepsake has invited us to a ball, Sir Henry and Lady Withering have invited us to a ball, and Lord and Lady Hangfinger have invited us to... yes, a ball." "Well, that's a lot of..." "Don't you dare, Sam.

Sam Vimes could parallel process. Most husbands can. They learn to follow their own line of thought while at the same time listening to what their wives say. And the listening is important, because at any time they could be challenged and must be ready to quote the last sentence in full. A vital additional skill is being able to scan the dialogue for telltale phrases such as "and they can deliver it tomorrow" or "so I've invited them for dinner?" or "they can do it in blue, really quite cheaply.

It wasn't by eliminating the impossible that you got at the truth, however improbable; it was by the much harder process of eliminating the possibilities. You worked away, patiently asking questions and looking hard at things. You walked and talked, and in your heart you just hoped like hell that some bugger's nerve'd crack and he'd give himself up.

I'm not a natural killer! See this? See what it says? I'm supposed to keep the peace, I am! If I kill people to do it, I'm reading the wrong manual!

It was, he felt, a persistent flaw in his wife's otherwise practical and sensible character that she believed, against all evidence, that he was a man of many talents. He knew he had hidden depths. There was nothing in them that he'd like to see float to the surface. They contained things that should be left to lie.

Sam Vimes could parallel process. Most husbands can. They learn to follow their own line of thought while at the same time listening to what their wives say. And the listening is important, because at any time they could be challenged and must be ready to quote the last sentence in full. A vital additional skill is being able to scan the dialogue for telltale phrases, such as “and they can deliver it tomorrow” or “so I’ve invited them for dinner” or “they can do it in blue, really quite cheaply.

The plain old Sam Vimes had fought back. He got rid of most of the plumes and the stupid tights, and ended up with a dress uniform that at least looked as though its owner was male. But the helmet had gold decoration, and the bespoke armourers had made a new, gleaming breastplate with useless gold ornamentation on it. Sam Vimes felt like a class traitor every time he wore it. He hated being thought of as one of those people that wore stupid ornamental armour. It was gilt by association.

And Sam Vimes thought: Why is Young Sam's nursery full of farmyard animals anyway? Why are his books full of moo-cows and baa-lambs? He is growing up in the city. He will only see them on a plate! They go sizzle!

Upstairs, in what had been until then the cash office, Young Sam slept peacefully in a makeshift bed. One day, Vimes hoped, he would be able to tell him that on one special night he'd been guarded by four troll watchmen. They'd been off duty but volunteered to come in for this, and were just itching for some dwarfs to try anything. Sam hoped the boy would be impressed; the most other kids could hope for was angels.

Oh, good grief," said Vimes. "Look, it's quite simple, man. I was expected to go "At last, alcohol!", and chugalug the lot without thinking. Then some respectable pillars of the community" - he removed the cigar from his mouth and spat - "were going to find me, in your presence, too - which was a nice touch - with the evidence of my crime neatly hidden but not so well hidden that they couldn't find it." He shook his head sadly. "The trouble is, you know, that once the taste's got you it never lets go." "But you've been very good, sir," said Carrot. "I've not seen you touch a drop for -" "Oh, that," said Vimes. "I was talking about policing, not alcohol. There's lots of people will help you with the alcohol business, but there's no one out there arranging little meetings where you can stand up and say, "My name is Sam and I'm a really suspicious bastard.

The Sam Vimes "Boots" Theory of Economic Injustice runs thus: At the time of Men at Arms, Samuel Vimes earned thirty-eight dollars a month as a Captain of the Watch, plus allowances. A really good pair of leather boots, the sort that would last years and years, cost fifty dollars. This was beyond his pocket and the most he could hope for was an affordable pair of boots costing ten dollars, which might with luck last a year or so before he would need to resort to makeshift cardboard insoles so as to prolong the moment of shelling out another ten dollars. Therefore over a period of ten years, he might have paid out a hundred dollars on boots, twice as much as the man who could afford fifty dollars up front ten years before. And he would still have wet feet. Without any special rancour, Vimes stretched this theory to explain why Sybil Ramkin lived twice as comfortably as he did by spending about half as much every month.

Vimes was hazy on religion. He attended Watch funerals and went to such religious events as the proper fulfilling of the office of Commander entailed, but as for the rest . . . well, you saw things sometimes that made it impossible to believe not only in gods, but also in common humanity and your own eyes.

But it must’ve happened!” snapped Vimes. “I told you, I can remember it! I was there yesterday!” “Nice try, but that doesn’t mean anything anymore,” said the monk. “Trust me. Yes, it’s happened to you, but even though it has, it might not. ’Cos of quantum. Right now, there isn’t a Commander Vimes–shaped hole in the future to drop you into. It’s officially Uncertain. But might not be, if you do it right. You owe it to yourself, Commander. Right now, out there, Sam Vimes is learning to be a very bad copper indeed. And he learns fast.

Sam Vimes had learned a lot from watching Lady Sybil. She didn’t mean to act like that, but she’d been born to it, into a class which had always behaved this way: You went through the world as if there was no possibility that anyone would stop you or question you, and most of the time that’s exactly what didn’t happen.

Nevertheless, it bothered Vimes, even though he'd got really good at the noises and would go up against any man in his rendition of the HRUUUGH! But is this a book for a city kid? When would he ever hear these noises? In the city, the only sound those animals would make was "sizzle." But the nursery was full of the conspiracy with bah-lambs and teddy bears and fluffy ducklings everywhere he looked. One evening, after a trying day, he'd tried the Vimes street version: Where's my daddy? Is that my daddy? He goes "Bugrit! Millennium hand and shrimp!" He is Foul Ol' Ron! No, that's not my daddy! It had been going really well when Vimes heard a meaningful little cough from the doorway, wherein stood Sybil. Next day, Young Sam, with a child's unerring instinct for this sort of thing, said "Buglit!" to Purity. And that, although Sybil never raised the subject even when they were alone, was that. From then on Sam stuck rigidly to the authorized version.

But the helmet had gold decoration, and the bespoke armourers had made a new, gleaming breastplate with useless gold ornamentation on it. Sam Vimes felt like a class traitor every time he wore it. He hated being thought of as one of those people that wore stupid ornamental armour. It was gilt by association.

Young Sam at this point had tired of petticoat company and had drifted over to an elderly goblin man who was working on a pot, and was watching with extreme fascination to the apparent pleasure, as far as Vimes could tell, of the elderly goblin. That's a lesson to us...I don't know what kind of lesson, but it's a lesson, he thought.

Fortune favours the brave, sir," said Carrot cheerfully. "Good. Good. Pleased to hear it, captain. What is her position vis a vis heavily armed, well prepared and excessively manned armies?" "Oh, no–one's ever heard of Fortune favouring them, sir." "According to General Tacticus, it's because they favour themselves," said Vimes. He opened the battered book. Bits of paper and string indicated his many bookmarks. "In fact, men, the general has this to say about ensuring against defeat when outnumbered, out–weaponed and outpositioned. It is..." he turned the page, "'Don't Have a Battle.

The only way to put 'em down is to put 'em out.' 'I think I recognize the type, yes,' said Lady Sybil, with an irony that failed to register with Sam Vimes until some days later

Sybil entered, with a plate. "You're not eating enough, Sam," she announced. "And the canteen here is a disgrace. It's all grease and garbage!" "That's what the men like, I'm afraid," said Vimes guiltily. "I've cleaned out the tar in the tea urn, at least," Sybil went on, with satisfaction. "You cleaned out the tar urn?" said Vimes in a hollow voice. It was like being told that someone had wiped the patina off a fine old work of art. "Yes, it was like tar in there. There really wasn't much proper food in the store, but I managed to make you a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich." "Thank you, dear." Vimes cautiously lifted a corner of the bread with his broken pencil. There seemed to be too much lettuce, which is to say, there was some lettuce.

…but young Sam was watching him, across thirty years. When we break down, it all breaks down. That’s just how it works. You can bend it, and if you make it hot enough you can bend it in a circle, but you can’t break it. When you break it, it all breaks down until there’s nothing unbroken. It starts here and now.

Sam Vimes, I’ve dreamed of visiting Koom Valley all my life, so don’t you think for one moment you’re gallivanting off to see it and leave me at home!” “I don’t gallivant! I’ve never gallivanted. I don’t know how to vant! I don’t even have a galli! But there’s going to be a war there soon!” “Then I shall tell them we’re not involved!” said Sybil calmly. “That won’t work!” “Then it won’t work in Ankh-Morpork, either,” said Sybil,

A Duke couldn't have the arse hanging out of his trousers when meeting foreign diplomats. Actually even plain old Sam Vimes never had the arse hanging out of his trousers, either, but no one would have actually started a war if he had.

The horsemen came closer. Sam Vimes was not good at horses. And something in him resented being addressed by anyone eight feet above the ground. He didn’t like the sensation of being looked at by nostrils. He didn’t like being talked down to.

For some reason Lady Sybil, keen of eye in every other respect, persisted in thinking of Corporal Nobbs as a cheeky, lovable rascal. It had always puzzled Sam Vimes. It must be the attraction of opposites. The Ramkins were more highly bred than a hilltop bakery, whereas Corporal Nobbs had been disqualified from the human race for shoving.

It was the same book, every day. The pages of said book were rounded and soft where Young Sam had chewed them, but to one person in this nursery this was the book of books, the greatest story ever told. Vimes didn't need to read it any more. He knew it by heart. It was called Where's My Cow? The unidentified complainant had lost their cow. That was the story, really. Page one started promisingly: Where's my cow? Is that my cow? It goes, "Baa!" It is a sheep! That's not my cow! Then the author began to get to grips with their material: Where's my cow? Is that my cow? It goes, "Neigh!" It is a horse! That's not my cow! At this point the author had reached an agony of creation and was writing from the racked depths of their soul. Where's my cow? Is that my cow? It goes, "Hruuugh!" It is a hippopotamus! That's not my cow! This was a good evening. Young Sam was already grinning widely and crowing along with the plot. Eventually, the cow would be found. It was that much of a pageturner. Of course, some suspense was lent by the fact that all other animals were presented in some way that could have confused a kitten, who perhaps had been raised in a darkened room. The horse was standing in front of a hatstand, as they so often did, and the hippo was eating at a trough against which was an upturned pitchfork. Seen from the wrong direction, the tableau might look for just one second like a cow ... Young Sam loved it, anyway. It must have been the most cuddled book in the world. Nevertheless, it bothered Vimes, even though he'd got really good at the noises and would go up against any man in his rendition of the "Hruuugh!" But was this a book for a city kid? When would he ever hear these noises? In the city the only sound those animals would make was "sizzle" But the nursery was full of the conspiracy, with baa-lambs and teddy bears and fluffy ducklings everywhere he looked.

Oh, that,” said Vimes. “I was talking about policing, not alcohol. There’s lots of people will help you with the alcohol business, but there’s no one out there arranging little meetings where you can stand up and say, ‘My name is Sam and I’m a really suspicious bastard.

Ataerk ellerini önünde birleştirdi ve tepelerinden Vimes'a baktı. "Sana bir öğüt vereyim, Yüzbaşı," dedi. "Evet, efendim?" "Dünyayı biraz anlamana yardım edebilir." "Efendim." "Sanıyorum yaşamı böylesine sorunlu algılamanın sebebi, iyi insanlar ve kötü insanlar olduğunu düşünmen." dedi adam. "Yanılıyorsun, elbette. Her zaman ve yalnızca kötü insanlar var, ama bazıları karşı taraflarda." Zayıf elini şehre doğru salladı ve pencereye doğru yürüdü. "Engin, dalgalı bir kötülük denizi," dedi, sahip çıkarcasına. "Bazı yerlerde daha sığ, elbette, ama diğerlerinde daha derin, ah, çok daha derin. Ama senin gibi insanlar küçük kanun ve iyi niyet salları inşa ediyor ve, karşı taraf bu, sonunda bu galip gelecek, diyor. Şaşırtıcı!" Vimes'ın sırtına iyi niyetli bir şaplak attı. "Orada, aşağıda," dedi, "her tür eşitsizliğe kayıtsız kalacak, herhangi bir ejderhayı takip edecek, herhangi bir tanrıya tapınacak kişiler var. Hepsi günlük kötülüklerin monotonluğu içinde. Büyük günahların yüksek, yaratıcı iğrençliklerinden değil, ruh karanlığının bir tür toptan üretiminden. Orijinallik izi taşımayan günah, diyebilirsin. Kötülüğü, evet dedikleri için değil, hayır demedikleri için kabul ediyorlar. Bu seni üzüyorsa özür dilerim," diye ekledi. Yüzbaşının omuzunu okşayarak, "ama sizin gibi adamların bize gerçekten ihtiyacı var." "Evet, efendimiz?" dedi Vimes yavaşça. "Ah, evet. İşlerin nasıl yürüyeceğini bilen yalnız bizleriz. Görüyorsun, iyi insanların başarılı oldukları tek şey kötü insanları alaşağı etmek. Bunu iyi beceriyorsunuz, kabul ediyorum. Ama sorun şu ki, bu sizin iyi olduğunuz tek şey. Bir gün çanları çalarak kötü tiranı alaşağı ediyorsunuz, ertesi gün herkes, tiran alaşağı edildiğinden beri çöpler toplanmadığı için şikayet ediyor. Çünkü kötü insanlar plan yapmayı biliyor. Bu gerekli koşulların bir parçası da diyebilirsin. Her kötü tiranın dünyayı yönetmek için bir planı vardır. İyi insanların en ufak bir fikri bile yoktur." "Belki, Ama kalanı hakkında yanılıyorsunuz!" dedi Vimes. "Yalnızca insanların korkması, yalnız kalması yüzünden-" Durdu. Kendine bile oldukça boş gelmişti. Omuzlarını silkti. "Onlar yalnızca halk," dedi. "Yalnızca halk ne yaparsa onu yapıyorlar. Efendim." "Elbette, elbette," dedi. "Buna inanmalısın, takdir ediyorum. Aksi halde çıldırırdın. Aksi halde Cehennem'in mahzenleri üzerinde, tüy inceliğinde bir köprüde durduğunu sanırdın. Aksi halde varoluş karanlık bir ıstırap ve tek umut da, ölümden sonra yaşam olmaması olurdu. Oldukça iyi anlıyorum." Masasına baktı ve içini çekti. "Ve şimdi," dedi, "yapacak çok iş var. Korkarım zavallı Wonse iyi bir hizmetkar, ama yetersiz bir efendiydi. Gidebilirsin. Güzel bir uyku çek. Ah, yarın adamlarını getir. Şehir minnetini göstermeli." "Neyini göstermeli?" dedi Vimes. Ataerk bir parşömene baktı. Sesi çoktan organize eden, plan yapan, kontrol eden birinin dalgın tınısına kavuşmuştu. "Minnet." dedi. "Her muzafferane zaferden sonra kahramanlar olmalı. Bu şart. O zaman herkes, her şeyin düzgün yapıldığını anlar." Parşömenin tepesinden Vimes'a baktı. "Olayların doğal düzeninin bir parçası," dedi. Bir süre önündeki kağıda kurşun kalemle notlar aldı, sonra başını kaldırdı. "Gidebilirsin demiştim," dedi. Vimes kapıda durdu. "O şeylerin hepsine inanıyor musunuz, efendim?" dedi. "Sonsuz kötülük ve mutlak karanlığa?" "Evet, evet," dedi Ataerk, sayfa çevirerek. "Tek mantıklı sonuç bu." "Ama her sabah yataktan kalkıyorsunuz, efendim?" "Hmm? Evet. Ee?" "Bilmek isterdim, neden, efendim?" "Ah, git artık, Vimes. Aferin sana.

...Yoksa bütün bunlar sadece bir anlık baygınlıktır da tepenize dikilen piçin teki şimdi bir kazmanın küt ucu ile asıl işine mi girişecektir? Bilinç. bilmek ister, üzüm getirilecek midir? Bu noktada dışarıdan gelen bir uyarı faydalı olur. En popüler olanı, "Her şey yoluna girecek"tir, ama "Plakasını aldınız mı?" kesinlikle kötü bir işarettir; ama ikisi de, "Siz ikiniz ellerini arkasından tutun"dan daha iyidir.

Let the record show Sergeant-at-Arms John Keel did that,” he said. “Vimes, what did I tell you about waving weapons around when you’re not going to use them?” “You laid him out, Sarge!” Sam squeaked, still staring at the sleeping captain. Vimes shook some life back into his hand. “Let the record show that I took command after the captain’s sudden attack of obvious insanity,

He wanted to go home. He wanted it so much that he trembled at the thought. But if the price of that was selling good men to the night, if the price was filling those graves, if the price was not fighting with every trick he knew . . . then it was too high. [...] What else had the old monk said? History finds a way? Well, it was going to have to come up with something good, because it was up against Sam Vimes now.

And elsewhere in Ankh-Morpork, the Fools’ Guild was on fire. This was a problem, because the Guild’s fire brigade largely consisted of clowns. And this was a problem because, if you show a clown a bucket of water and a ladder, he knows only one way to act. Years of training take over. It’s something in the red nose speaking to him. He can’t help himself. Sam Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch leaned against a wall and watched the show. “We really must put that proposal for a civic fire service to the Patrician again,” he said. Across the street, a clown picked up a ladder, turned, knocked the clown behind him into a bucket of water, then turned again to see what the commotion was, thus sending his rising victim into the bucket again with a surprising parping noise. The crowd

A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that'd still be keeping his feet dry in ten years' time, while a poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet.

Because our Wolfgang's a damn bottle covey, dear. I know the sort. Any normal person, they crawl off if they get a beating. Or they have the sense to stay down, at least. But sometimes you get one who just won't let go. Eight-stone weaklings who'll try to headbutt Detritus. Evil little bantamweight bastards who'll bust a bottle on the bar and try to attack five watchmen all at once. You know what I mean? Idiots who'll go on fighting long after they should stop. The only way to put 'em down is to put 'em out.' 'I think I recognize the type, yes,' said Lady Sybil, with an irony that failed to register with Sam Vimes until some days later.