i commend my soul to any god that can find it.
“I DON’T SEE THE POINT, Death said.
“Sorry?”
WHAT IS SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN?
“How many drinks have you had?”
FORTY SEVEN.
“Just about anything, then,” said the barman and, because he knew his job and knew what was expected of him when people drank alone in the small hours, he started to polish a glass with the slops cloth and said, “Your lady thrown you out, has she?”
PARDON?
“Drowning your sorrows, are you?”
I HAVE NO SORROWS
“No, of course not, forget I mentioned it.” He gave the glass a few more wipes. “Just thought it helps to have someone to talk to,” he said.
Death was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said:
YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME?
“Yes, Sure. I’m a good listener.”
NO-ONE EVER WANTED TO TALK TO ME BEFORE.
“That’s a shame.”
THEY NEVER INVITE ME TO PARTIES, YOU KNOW.
“Tch.”
THEY ALL HATE ME. EVERYONE HATES ME. I DON’T HAVE A SINGLE FRIEND. EVEN CATS FIND ME AMUSING.
“Everyone ought to have a friend,” said the barman sagely.
I THINK—-
“Yes?”
I THINK … I COULD BE FRIENDS WITH THE GREEN BOTTLE.

— Mort, Terry Pratchett.

@темы: книги, Mort, Discworld, terry pratchett, цитаты, DEATH