"The Color of Magic" Quotes

Rincewind was not good with complicated ideas. He was good with things that were short, and more or less curved.

Rincewind hadn't made a life's study of women. He was aware of them, of course, but simply as another aspect of the world's bewildering complexity.

He'd been aware that he was alive, of course, and what he was observing was the interior of a small wooden box.

The color of magic is a sort of octarine, the eighth color. It's the color of magic, and it's always a sort of greenish-yellow purple.

A spectacular city, and a spectacularly dangerous one. The river Ankh is probably the only river in the universe on which the phrase ‘not fit to drink’ can be a term of praise.

Rincewind had never been in a room where the walls, floor, ceiling, and door were all trying to kill him.

It was a sword, a double-handed broadsword of indeterminate age, with a slightly curved blade and a large, square guard, which was covered in intricate scrollwork, although once it might have had some sort of inscription. Now it looked as though it had been used as a screwdriver.

But the spell was gone, and a lot of the roof, and the walls, and the floor, and the windows, and a good deal of the street outside.

The Luggage was following him slowly, its lid moving from side to side in a way that suggested it was looking for someone to hit.

It was a bird, but it was no bird. It was a bat, but it was no bat.