MJ

“Where I come from, Annagramma, they have the Sheepdog Trials. Shepherds travel there from all over to show off their dogs. And there're silver crooks and belts with silver buckles and prizes of all kinds, Annagramma, but do you know what the big prize is? No, you wouldn't. Oh, there are judges, but they don't count, not for the big prize. There is - there was a little old lady who was always at the front of the crowd, leaning on the hurdles with her pipe in her mouth with the two finest sheepdogs ever pupped sitting at her feet. Their names were Thunder and Lightning, and they moved so fast, they set the air on fire and their coats outshone the sun, but she never, ever put them in the Trials. She knew more about sheep than even sheep know. And what every young shepherd wanted, really wanted, wasn't some silly cup or belt but to see her take pipe out of her mouth as he left the arena and quietly say 'That'll do,' because that meant he was a real shepherd and all the other shepherds knew it, too. And if you'd told him he had to challenge her, he'd cuss at you and stamp his foot and tell you he'd sooner spit the sun dark. How could he ever win? She was shepherding. It was the whole of her life. What you took away from her you'd take away from yourself. You don't understand that, do you? But it's the heart and the soul and center of it! The soul... and... center!”
― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky

“in a cottage deep in the forest lived the wicked old witch...it was a cottage out of the nastier kind of fairy tale”
― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky

“Sometimes, Lady Constance, you really are the woman of my dreams.” “Thank you for finally realizing it,”
― Scarlett Peckham, The Earl I Ruined

“Vosotros los humanos sois expertos en pasar cosas por alto. Estáis casi ciegos y casi sordos. Miráis a un árbol y veis… un árbol sin más, una hierba rígida. No veis su historia, no sentís el bombeo de la savia, no oís a cada insecto de la corteza, no sentís la química de las hojas, no distinguís sus cien tonos de verde, los minúsculos movimientos con los que sigue al sol, el sutil crecimiento de la madera…”
― Terry Pratchett, Un sombrero de cielo