Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett
Location 4869:
Skuzz muttered something. The police sergeant leaned over. "Don’t try to speak, son," he said. "The ambulance’ll be here soon." "Listen," croaked Skuzz. "Got something important to tell you. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse…they’re right bastards, all four of them." "He’s delirious," announced the sergeant. "I’m sodding not. I’m People Covered In Fish," croaked Skuzz, and passed out.
Location 4899:
Okay, so Hell was down on him. So the world was ending. So the Cold War was over and the Great War was starting for real. So the odds against him were higher than a vanload of hippies on a blotterful of Owlsley’s Old Original. There was still a chance.
Location 4953:
But, to look on the bright side, all this only went to prove that evil contains the seeds of its own destruction. Right now, across the country, people who would otherwise have been made just that little bit more tense and angry by being summoned from a nice bath, or having their names mispronounced at them, were instead feeling quite untroubled and at peace with the world. As a result of Hastur’s action a wave of low-grade goodness started to spread exponentially through the population, and millions of people who ultimately would have suffered minor bruises of the soul did not in fact do so. So that was all right.
Location 4982:
It would take a lot to faze a copper from the Met. It would take, for example, a huge, battered car that was nothing more nor less than a fireball, a blazing, roaring, twisted metal lemon from Hell, driven by a grinning lunatic in sunglasses, sitting amid the flames, trailing thick black smoke, coming straight at them through the lashing rain and the wind at eighty miles per hour. That would do it every time.
Tags: favorite
Location 5168:
instead of a gleaming twelve-mile-long spaceship, it was an off-white twenty-year-old motor scooter. And you didn’t have the special rainbow effects. And it probably wasn’t going at more than two hundred miles an hour. And instead of a pulsing whine sliding up the octaves, it just went putputputputput… VROOOOSH. But it was exactly like that anyway.
Location 5404:
R. P. TYLER, ONLY TEN MINUTES away from the village, paused, while Shutzi attempted another of its wide range of eliminatory functions.
Location 5600:
It looked as if it had smoked glass windows, although this was just an effect caused by it having ordinary glass windows but a smoke-filled interior. The driver’s door opened, and a cloud of choking
Tags: blue
Location 5851:
All over the world, people who had been wrestling with switches found that they switched. Circuit breakers opened. Computers stopped planning World War III and went back to idly scanning the stratosphere. In bunkers under Novya Zemla men found that the fuses they were frantically trying to pull out came away in their hands at last; in bunkers under Wyoming and Nebraska, men in fatigues stopped screaming and waving guns at one another, and would have had a beer if alcohol had been allowed in missile bases. It wasn’t, but they had one anyway.
Tags: blue
Location 5976:
"So you’re not one hundred percent clear on this?" said Aziraphale. "It’s not given to us to understand the ineffable Plan," said the Metatron, "but of course the Great Plan—" "But the Great Plan can only be a tiny part of the overall ineffability," said Crowley. "You can’t be certain that what’s happening right now isn’t exactly right, from an ineffable point of view." "It izz written!" bellowed Beelzebub. "But it might be written differently somewhere else," said Crowley. "Where you can’t read it." "In bigger letters," said Aziraphale. "Underlined," Crowley added. "Twice," suggested Aziraphale. "Perhaps this isn’t just a test of the world," said Crowley. "It might be a test of you people, too. Hmm?" "God does not play games with His loyal servants," said the Metatron, but in a worried tone of voice. "Whooo-eee," said Crowley. "Where have you been?" Everyone found their eyes turning toward Adam. He seemed to be thinking very carefully. Then he said: "I don’t see why it matters what is written. Not when it’s about people. It can always be crossed out." A breeze swept across the airfield. Overhead, the assembled hosts rippled, like a mirage. There was the kind of silence there might have been on the day before Creation. Adam stood smiling at the two of them, a small figure perfectly poised exactly between Heaven and Hell.
Tags: blue
Location 6083:
there was a spark of goodness in you." "That’s right," said Crowley bitterly. "Make my day." Aziraphale held out his hand. "Nice knowing you," he said. Crowley took it. "Here’s to the next time," he said. "And…Aziraphale?" "Yes." "Just remember I’ll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking." There was
Tags: blue
Location 6380:
There was no plate. There was just Madame Tracy, wearing a cameo brooch, and an unfamiliar shade of lipstick. She was also standing in the center of a perfume zone.
Tags: blue
Location 6415:
He grunted. There was a formality that had to be observed in all this. Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell took a long, deep drink of Guinness, and he popped the question. Madame Tracy giggled. "Honestly, you old silly," she said, and she blushed a deep red. "How many do you think?" He popped it again. "Two," said Madame Tracy. "Ah, weel. That’s all reet then," said Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell (retired).
Tags: blue
Location 6548:
The point they both realized the text had wandered into its own world was in the basement of the old Gollancz books, where they’d got together to proofread the final copy, and Neil congratulated Terry on a line that Terry knew he hadn’t written, and Neil was certain he hadn’t written either. They both privately suspect that at some point the book had started to generate text on its own, but neither of them will actually admit this publicly for fear of being thought odd.
Location 6599:
is that rarity, the kind of author who likes Writing, not Having Written, or Being a Writer, but the actual sitting there and making things up in front of a screen. At the time we met, he was still working as a press officer for the South Western Electricity board. He wrote four hundred words a night, every night: it was the only way for him to keep a real job and still write books. One night, a year later, he finished a novel, with a hundred words still to go, so he put a piece of paper into his typewriter, and wrote a hundred words of the next novel.
Location 6630:
He exists in a blind spot, with two strikes against him: he writes funny books, in a world in which funny is synonymous with trivial, and they are fantasies—or more precisely, they are set on the Discworld, a flat world, which rests on the back of four elephants, who in turn stand on the back of a turtle, heading off through space. It’s a location in which Terry Pratchett can write anything, from hard-bitten crime dramas to vampiric political parodies, to children’s books.
Location 6664:
He also had a very bad hat. It was a gray homburg. He was not a hat person. There was no natural unity between hat and man. That was the first and last time I saw the hat. As if subconsciously aware of the bad hatitude, he used to forget it and leave it behind in restaurants. One day, he never went back for it. I put this in for the serious fans out there: If you search really, really hard, you may find a small restaurant somewhere in London with a dusty gray homburg at the back of a shelf. Who knows what will happen if you try it on?
Updated: May 23, 2022
IT WAS A NICE DAY. All the days had been nice. There had been rather more than seven of them so far, and rain hadn’t been invented yet. But clouds massing east of Eden suggested that the first thunderstorm was on its way, and it was going to be a big one.