“Bursar?""Yes, Archchancellor?""You ain't a member of some secret society or somethin', are you?""Me? No, Archchancellor.""Then it'd be a damn good idea to take your underpants off your head.”

“After a while the Senior Wrangler said, "Do you know, I read the other day that every atom in your body is changed every seven years? New ones keep getting attached and old ones keep on dropping off. It goes on all the time. Marvelous, really."The Senior Wrangler could do to a conversation what it takes quite thick treacle to do to the pedals of a precision watch. "Yes? What happens to the old ones?" said Ridcully, interested despite himself."Dunno. They just float around in the air, I suppose, until they get attached to someone else."The Archchancellor looked affronted. "What, even wizards?""Oh, yes. Everyone. It's part of the miracle of existence.""Is it? Sounds like bad hygiene to me," said the Archchancellor. "I suppose there's no way of stopping it?""I shouldn't think so," said the Senior Wrangler, doubtfully. "I don't think you're supposed to stop miracles of existence." "But that means everythin' is made up of everythin' else," said Ridcully."Yes. Isn't it amazing?”

“Well, at least he keeps himself fit," said the Archchancellor nastily. "Not like the rest of you fellows. I went into the Uncommon Room this morning, and it was full of chaps snoring!""That would be the senior masters, Master," said the Bursar. "I would say they are supremely fit, myself.""Fit? The Dean looks like a man who's swallered a bed!""Ah, but Master," said the Bursar, smiling indulgently, "the word 'fit,' as I understand it, means 'appropriate to a purpose,' and I would say the body of the Dean is supremely appropriate to the purpose of sitting around all day and eating big heavy meals.”

“He was certain he was anorectic, because every time he looked in a mirror he saw a fat man. It was the Archchancellor, standing behind him and shouting at him.”

“...I also know - and this won't alter the course of history or your personal view of me - that you will die with a clenched fist and a tense jaw, the epitome of hatred and struggle, because you are not a symbol (some inanimate example) but a genuine member of the society to be destroyed; the spirit of the beehive speaks through your mouth and motivates your actions. You are as useful as I am, but you are not aware of how useful your contribution is to the society that sacrifices you.”

“If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered.”