The same approach continued in The Light Fantastic, and if that had been all there were to the series, it wouldn’t have been anything special. However, with Equal Rites, it started to become something more. Equal Rites isn’t a parody of fantasy novels; instead it’s what happens when a story goes wrong, and someone is born into the wrong role.
Mort is about what happens when people refuse to follow the story they’re in.
Stories. It’s all about stories. Right from the start, Discworld ran on stories, and the stories we were told were the ones where something didn’t go the way it was meant to, where the stories played out because people expect them to, even though something had not gone according to plan, or a character had wound up in the wrong role.
Mr. Pratchett has said several times that Discworld is a place that doesn’t have much reality to it; it’s a place where pretty much everything can go away if people stop believing in it. As such, it’s almost the opposite of our own world where, as science fiction writer Philip K. Dick famously said, “Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.” What the Disc does have is an intense magical field, and as Messrs. Stewart, Cohen, and Pratchett tell us, “Magic is indissolubly linked to Narrative Causality, the power of story.”
That is, “. . . magic is what turns stories into reality.”
So the Disc’s magical field builds Discworld’s reality out of stories. Narrativium is what makes it all go. It’s all about stories.
Each series takes its own approach, but they’re all about stories. It’s stories all the way down. Just as what Ankh-Morpork is mostly built on is Ankh-Morpork, Discworld stories are mostly built on stories. Where much modern fiction tries to base its story on reality—well, reality is thin on the Disc, so the stories have to be built on something else.
Other stories.
51
Your Questions Answered
NOTICE THAT DOESN’T SAY ALL your questions answered, but I do want to respond to a few that I suspect some of you fine readers would like to ask, especially those who haven’t already read several Discworld stories.
Let’s start with, “I haven’t read anything by Terry Pratchett. Will I like Discworld?”
Obviously, I don’t know, since I don’t know your tastes, but I sure like it, as do millions of other people. There’s a very broad appeal here.
There’s humor. Every book has plenty of funny moments of varying kinds. If you don’t like puns, there are character bits; if character bits don’t appeal, there are double entendres; if those do nothing for you, there’s slapstick. In-jokes. Running gags. Grotesque exaggeration. Mordant wit. Clever banter. There isn’t a trick in the comic writer’s arsenal that Mr. Pratchett hasn’t tried at least once—except possibly fart jokes, and I may just not happen to remember those, since that’s a form of humor that doesn’t amuse me.
There are complex characters—Granny Weatherwax and Sam Vimes and Tiffany Aching are fascinating.
There’s lovely prose. I’m not going to cite examples because everyone’s tastes vary in this, too, but honestly, Mr. Pratchett can turn a phrase beautifully.
There are exciting plots. If your pulse doesn’t quicken when Vimes is running down Carcer, or Granny confronts the vampires, well. . . .
So yeah, if you like reading any sort of humor or any sort of fantasy, I’d expect you to enjoy at least parts of the Discworld series.
But not necessarily the whole thing.
Where, then, to start?
The traditional answer for any series is to start at the beginning, but that’s not necessarily the best approach here. The earliest books are noticeably weaker than later ones—though fans can argue endlessly about whether the best are the most recent, or whether there was some peak that we’re now past and they’ve gotten too dark, or whatever. And the various series within the whole may appeal to different audiences; the Watch stories are almost police procedurals, Tiffany Aching’s series is a coming-of-age story, and so on.
Discussions of where to start can get very long and complicated, but let me give you my own opinions:
Since there are eight series within the whole, there are eight obvious starting points—the first books in each series. Any of these would work. Those eight are: The Colour of Magic
Equal Rites
Mort
Pyramids
Guards! Guards!
Moving Pictures
The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents
The Wee Free Men
Of those eight, The Colour of Magic is short, so it’s not a major commitment, and it’s divided into four stories to make it even more accessible for those just wanting a taste, but it’s generally considered atypical of the series as a whole as well as one of the weakest, and it ends on a cliffhanger that’s resolved in The Light Fantastic. I therefore don’t recommend it—though I am reliably informed that it sells the most copies, presumably simply because it was the first. If you really want to start with a story about the wizards, Sourcery is probably the way to go.
Equal Rites is a fun book and a decent starting place, but it’s only loosely tied to the rest of the series, and I’d suggest starting the witches series with Wyrd Sisters, instead. It’s a better story, it’s more typical, and you really won’t have missed anything by starting there instead of with Equal Rites.
Mort stands on its own quite well. Good starting point if you aren’t bothered by its metaphysical nature—I mean, it’s a book about Death. Some readers don’t mesh well with that.
Pyramids is very much a stand-alone story, and a good starting point—but so is Small Gods, and all in all, Small Gods may be a better book. Many people suggest Small Gods as the best Discworld story for a beginner, and I can’t gainsay that.
For the Watch series, you really do need to start at the beginning, which is Guards! Guards! It builds up from there.
If you’re a fan of parody, Moving Pictures is a fine place to start. It stands on its own well, and contains lots of the best features of the series. The one drawback is that it doesn’t lead naturally into the next, and after reading it you may find yourself saying, “That was great! Which should I read next?” and not having an obvious answer.
That’s a possible issue with The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents, too, but in that case I’ll suggest going on to the Tiffany Aching series next, as the other “young adult” entry.
And like the Watch series, the Tiffany Aching books need to be read in order, starting with The Wee Free Men.
So there you have . . . well, eleven choices, which is still too many. Let me arbitrarily narrow that down.
If you’re a kid, or a kid at heart, start with The Wee Free Men.
If you’re not, I’d recommend starting with Wyrd Sisters, Small Gods, or Guards! Guards!, depending on which series seems most suited to your tastes.
And how do you know which series is best suited to your tastes? Well, if you’ve read this far, you might have figured it out already, but if not, the next seven chapters, Part Five, are further remarks about each of the series (other than the Amazing Maurice).
PART FIVE
The Series
52
Rincewind and Unseen University: The Virtues of Cowardice, Gluttony, and Sloth
WHEN MR. PRATCHETT INTRODUCED us to the nominal hero of The Colour of Magic, we did not find ourselves face to face with a sword-wielding hero, nor a farmer’s son with a destiny, nor a young female outcast, nor any of the other standard fantasy protagonists; instead we met a rather bedraggled young wizard by the name of Rincewind, who was in the process of fleeing the burning city of Ankh-Morpork.
In fact, Rincewind spends most of the first two books fleeing one thing or another. Fleeing becomes his most salient characteristic. In Sourcery, he’s relatively flightless, but through Eric, Interesting Times, and The Last Continent, he spends most of his time trying to run away from one something or another.
By the time we get to The Last Hero and the t
hree volumes of The Science of Discworld, Rincewind is an acknowledged expert on running away, to the point that he no longer needs to demonstrate his mastery of the art. Instead it’s recognized that despite his cowardice, he has a knack for not dying—he’s a sort of mirror image of Cohen the Barbarian, who has survived to a great age by being very, very good at not dying while being direct, fearless, and violent. Rincewind has become very good at not dying by being sneaky, cowardly, and harmless. Both of them are survivors; they just take opposite approaches to the problem.
Most people would not send a coward off to save the world, but Mustrum Ridcully, with his skewed way of looking at things, has noticed Rincewind’s talent for survival, and therefore does indeed repeatedly thrust poor Rincewind into various perils in The Last Hero and The Science of Discworld.
It’ s notable, though, that by that point Rincewind is no longer a solo protagonist. In The Last Hero, he’s just one of a band of heroes, while in the three volumes of The Science of Discworld he’s a member of the ensemble cast that is the faculty of Unseen University. Yes, he’s the one that Ridcully sends into danger first at every opportunity, but the other wizards are there as well. Rincewind really needs other characters to play off; for one thing, left to his own devices, he wouldn’t do anything. He is, as Mr. Pratchett has said, an observer by nature, rather than someone who makes things happen.
In the first two books, he has Twoflower to drag him into things. In Sourcery, he’s forced into action by the world collapsing around him. In Eric it’s Eric who pushes Rincewind, in Interesting Times he’s summoned against his will, in The Last Continent it’s Scrappy urging him on, and then finally, in The Last Hero and the science books, it’s Archchancellor Ridcully thrusting Rincewind, with his knack for surviving, into danger.
By that point, the other wizards have become a regular cast, and Rincewind is merely their point man.
This logical but apparently backward approach of sending a coward to play hero is representative of the wizards of Unseen University as a group. Students come to Unseen University to learn magic, but generally learn that often the best way to use magic is not to use it. The University, ostensibly dedicated to disseminating magical knowledge, actually serves to restrain it; in fact, it exists largely to suppress magic, thereby preventing widespread devastation, not by any sort of crude ban, but by redirecting wizards’ energies.
The typical wizard at Unseen University is not as interested in magic as he is in dinner.
In fact, the wizards expend much of their energy on eating. They’re too busy stuffing their faces to cause trouble. They’re greedy, fat, and lazy. Sloth, gluttony, and cowardice are not vices among the faculty, but merely the norm.
In a way, Rincewind is the ultimate wizard, even though he can’t perform any magic; he no longer even pretends to be accomplishing anything.
And this is a good thing. Why? Well, in Sourcery we get a look at what happens when you have wizards who are energetic and inventive, and it’s not pleasant. Keeping most of the Disc’s most powerful magicians focused on their next meal is far safer than letting them focus on their spells.
When the wizards do tackle real difficulties, they very rarely defeat them through the direct application of magic. Magic almost always seems to cause more problems than it solves.
Ponder Stibbons and Hex may well be one of the greatest threats to the well-being of Discworld, even though they’re utterly well-intentioned, because Stibbons has not let himself be distracted from his magical studies. They’re messing around with Things Man Was Not Meant to Know.
In a way, Ponder Stibbons is Simon from Equal Rites reinvented.
Except for Granny Weatherwax, Rosie Palm, Death, the Librarian, and Mrs. Whitlow, none of the characters from Equal Rites ever appeared again, but several of their characteristics resurfaced later.161 Simon’s dangerous ability to understand and use powerful magic without seeing the risks involved reappeared in Stibbons, in a somewhat softened form. Where Simon was so focused on his theories that he barely noticed the outside world, Stibbons has the knack of telling Archchancellor Ridcully whatever portion of the truth will get Stibbons what he wants.
To some extent, Stibbons may be taking over the series from Rincewind, just as Susan has taken over Death’s series; after a while, there’s not much more to do with a character as limited as Rincewind. Stibbons, on the other hand, has great potential as a source of disasters.
In fact, the wizards have turned up in roles of varying importance in any number of other series, with Ridcully and Stibbons being particularly useful.
At any rate, the series that began as a mockery of fantasy adventure has gradually mutated into a satire on academia and Big Science—the academic angle is most obvious, perhaps, in “A Collegiate Casting-Out of Devilish Devices.” Rincewind has gone from being a young wastrel to being a burned-out wreck. There are rumors that another Rincewind novel may be in the works, but I have no idea what else can be done with the character.
53
The Witches of Lancre: Telling the Story Where to Go
THE WITCHES OF DISCWORLD seem very English to me, each serving a village as midwife, veterinarian, nurse, and constable. These are not the isolated, forest-haunting old crones of the Brothers Grimm, or the cattle-cursing terrors of the Scottish witch trials, or Satan’s handmaidens as described in the Malleus Malificarum, or the gossip victims of Salem, Massachusetts. They’re clearly largely based on the witches in fairy tales, but only on the most benign sorts; they see cackling, poisoned apples, and ginger-bread houses as occupational hazards best avoided.
They’re a very practical sort of witches, and really, the whole series about them, including the Tiffany Aching books, demonstrates their practicality, along with their refusal to be bound by the stories other people unquestioningly accept.
In Equal Rites, Eskarina Smith is a female wizard, something that’s never been seen before, but Granny Weatherwax accepts it—she doesn’t force Esk to go on trying to be a witch once that’s clearly not working, yet she refuses to give up when Archchancellor Cutangle fails to accept Esk. She deals with what’s there, instead of what’s expected, or what should be there.
This contrast between expectation and reality is far more pronounced in Wyrd Sisters, right from the opening scene: three witches gathered around a cauldron in the midst of a stormy night, straight out of Macbeth. One says, “When shall we three meet again?”
And the response, rather than being poetical or theatrical, is, “Well, I can do next Tuesday.”
Which is not just funny, but sets the tone for the entire novel, which is constantly playing expectations off against reality, story against truth. The witches always see the truth, but they know that most people won’t, that most people want the story—so they try to make sure that it’s the right story, the one that will have the best outcome for the kingdom. The Duke is trying to promulgate the story of the hero deposing the wicked king and ruling happily in his stead, and initially the witches don’t really have a problem with this, but when it turns out that the Duke is incapable of ruling competently, they substitute the story of the rightful heir returning to claim his birthright, even though they know that isn’t any more true than the Duke’s version of events.
The witches don’t care who’s king, as long as he’s a competent king. They’re utterly pragmatic. They know people will believe stories, rather than truth, but they want them to believe the stories that will treat them well—they want people to control the stories, rather than letting the stories control people.
They don’t want stories that treat people as things—that’s Granny Weatherwax’s definition of sin in Carpe Jugulum, treating people as things, and it’s a good one.
So in Witches Abroad, they reject and destroy the story Lily is presenting. In Lords and Ladies, they reject the fiction the elves impose. In Maskerade, they reject the fantasy of the Phantom they’re given. In Carpe Jugulum, they reject the vampires’ lies. In every case, they see through t
he story intended to lull people into the acceptance of evil, see to the truth underneath, and find a better story to put in its place.
In fact, Granny Weatherwax becomes a story herself, the story of the prideful, powerful witch who will defend Lancre against all threats. The vampires know that story, and try to get around it, only to find that the story is simpler than the truth.
And in “The Sea and Little Fishes,” Letice Earwig makes it plain that she doesn’t like Granny’s story, and wants a nicer one, only to find that Granny’s story is too firmly established to change—even she doesn’t believe Granny can really change.
Granny is what she is, whether she wants to be or not—and she makes plain in Witches Abroad that it’s not what she would have chosen, but if it’s what she has to be, then she’ll bloody well do it up right. And she’ll have no truck with people or creatures who commit the sin of treating people like things, who put the stories in control rather than the people.
54
Death in the Family: The Very Model of a Modern Anthropomorphic Personification
ONE OF THE CHARACTERISTICS of the Disc’s intense magical field, as explained in the Science of Discworld books, is reification—things that people believe in becoming actual things, rather than remaining abstract concepts. Foremost among those is everyone’s final friend, the Grim Reaper, the man with the scythe: Death.
The Turtle Moves! Page 17
