Rating: 4 out of 5

I originally read this 20 or so years ago and decided to revisit it after Terry Pratchett’s death. I remember Mort with great fondness and was charmed reading it a second time.

Highlighted passages:

The Ramtops are full of deep valleys and unexpected crags and considerably more geography than they know what to do with. They have their own peculiar weather, full of shrapnel rain and whiplash winds and permanent thunderstorms. Some people say it’s all because the Ramtops are the home of old, wild magic. Mind you, some people will say anything.

Poets have tried to describe Ankh-Morpork. They have failed. Perhaps it’s the sheer zestful vitality of the place, or maybe it’s just that a city with a million inhabitants and no sewers is rather robust for poets, who prefer daffodils and no wonder.

there was a light at the end of the tunnel, and it was a flamethrower.

People don’t alter history any more than birds alter the sky, they just make brief patterns in it.

There should be a word for the microscopic spark of hope that you dare not entertain in case the mere act of acknowledging it will cause it to vanish, like trying to look at a photon. You can only sidle up to it, looking past it, walking past it, waiting for it to get big enough to face the world.

Originally posted to my Goodreads account