Granny Weatherwax was a witch. That was quite acceptable in the Ramtops, and no one had a bad word to say about witches. At least, not if he wanted to wake up in the morning the same shape as he went to bed.

Granny looked up at the zombie. He was - or, technically, had been - a tall, handsome man. He still was, only now he looked like someone who had walked through a room full of cobwebs.'What's your name, dead man?' she said.

What's all this about? How does it work? What should I do? What am I for?

Witches were a bit like cats. They didn’t much like one another’s company, but they did like to know where all the other witches were, just in case they needed them.

Trouble began, and not for the first time, with an apple.

Like any sensible witch, she wore strong boots that could march through anything—good, sensible boots.

What I say is, if a witch can't look after herself, she's got no business calling herself a witch.

Everybody needs a witch, but sometimes they just don't know it.