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Denne 20. Discworld-romanen handler om Susan, den gotiske guvernanten, som må handle fort, helst i løpet av natten, for å unngå katastrofe.
Forlag Corgi Books
Genre Humor Fantasy
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Dullness. Only humans could have invented it. What imaginations they had.
Humans need fantasy to be human. To be the place where the falling angel meets the rising ape.
Then take the universe and grind it down to the finest powder and sieve it through the finest sieve and then show me one atom of justice, one molecule of mercy. And yet [...] you act as if there is some ideal order in the world, as if there is some... some rightness in the universe by which it may be judged.
The path to wisdom does, in fact, begin with a single step. Where people go wrong is in ignoring all the thousands of other steps that come after it. The make the single step of deciding to become one with the universe, and for some reason forget to take the logical next step of living for seventy years on a mountain and a daily bowl of rice and yak-butter tea that would give it any kind of meaning. While evidence says that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, they're probably all on first steps.
She looked around. Her door had been pushed open and a small figure stood there, barefoot in a nightdress.
She sighed. "Yes Twyla?"
"I'm afwaid of the monster in the cellar, Thusan. It's going to eat me up."
Susan shut her book firmly and rised a warning finger.
"What have I told you about trying to sound ingratiatingly cute, Twyla?" she said.
The little girl said, "You said I mustn't. You said that exaggerated lisping is a hanging offense and I only do it to get attention."
Susan didn't like Biers but she went there anyway, when the preasure of being normal got too much.
It is the things you believe which make you human. Good things and bad things, it's all the same.