… he’d thought a wild surmise was some kind of exotic bird. Well, he was now looking out over new worlds with somewhat of a tame surmise. (LE)
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… they were a cunning bunch, poets, and could sneak up on you when your back was turned. (Sn)
'All her clothes might fall off. I am sorry about this, but it appears to be a by-product of the whole business of poetry.' (UA)
Mention has already been made of an attempt to inject a little honesty into reporting on the Disc, and how poets and bards were banned on pain of - well, pain - from going on about babbling brooks and rosy-fingered dawn and could only say for example, that a face had launched a thousand ships if they were able to produce certified dockyard accounts. (LF)
'I’d like to know if I could compare you to a summer’s day. Because - well, June 12th was quite nice ...' (WS)
There are many things to be said about cabbages. One may talk at length about their high vitamin content, their vital iron contribution, the valuable roughage and commendable food value. In the mass, however, they lack a certain something: despite their claim to immense nutritional and moral superiority over, say, daffodils, they have never been a sight to inspire the poet’s muse. Unless he was hungry, of course. (M)
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. So let’s just say that Ankh-Morpork is as full of life as an old cheese on a hot day, as loud as a curse in a cathedral, as bright as an oil slick, as colourful as a bruise and as full of activity, industry, bustle and sheer exuberant busyness as a dead dog on a termite mound. (M)
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The world has lost Sir Terry, and it's so much the poorer for that. Vale Sir Terry. Categories
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March 2023
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