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Amanda Theunissen on Terry Pratchett

In Praise of Pratchett

OF COURSE, SINCE YOU BELIEVE IN REINCARNATION said Death to Bjorn Hammerlock [the recently murdered dwarf in Terry Pratchett’s Men at Arms], YOU WILL BE BJORN AGAIN.
He waited.
WAS THERE ANYTHING AMUSING IN THE STATEMENT I JUST MADE? IT WAS A PUNE OR PLAY ON WORDS. I’VE BEEN TOLD I SHOULD TRY AND MAKE THE OCCASION A LITTLE MORE ENJOYABLE.
‘Bjorn again?’
YES.
‘I’ll think about it.’
THANK YOU.

Death turns up a lot in Terry Pratchett’s books. He’s one of his most popular characters, a seven-foot-high skeleton with burning blue eyes who speaks in CAPITALS. He is as terrifying as one would expect – except that he has a real horse called Binky (the skeleton ones kept falling apart), loves curry, can’t play chess and has a deep compassion for all the living things whose lives he terminates. I find it a curiously comforting image.

Death personifies for Pratchett a lot of the themes he thinks are important: the strangeness of the universe and Man’s place in it; the human capacity for self-deception; the fact that few things are exactly as they seem and that it is vital to think for yourself.

It’s no secret that Pratchett himself has early-onset Alzheimer’s. For a man of his devotion to words, sparkling wit, breadth of erudition and memory, it seems particularly cruel. He has already donated $1 million to research, but as his recent television documentary showed, he is also a fervent proponent of assisted suicide. ‘My life, my death, my choice,’ he says. It’s not an issue that has yet been covered in his books, but maybe it’s only a matter of time. However, it is not his courage and wisdom in life I want to praise, but those qualities in his work.

Pratchett writes fantasy novels. Many people whose judgement I respect just don’t get him, finding the plots ludicrous and the humour childish. Many more are possibly put off by the lurid covers, heaving with dwarves, dragons, vampires, goblins,

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OF COURSE, SINCE YOU BELIEVE IN REINCARNATION said Death to Bjorn Hammerlock [the recently murdered dwarf in Terry Pratchett’s Men at Arms], YOU WILL BE BJORN AGAIN. He waited. WAS THERE ANYTHING AMUSING IN THE STATEMENT I JUST MADE? IT WAS A PUNE OR PLAY ON WORDS. I’VE BEEN TOLD I SHOULD TRY AND MAKE THE OCCASION A LITTLE MORE ENJOYABLE. ‘Bjorn again?’ YES. ‘I’ll think about it.’ THANK YOU.
Death turns up a lot in Terry Pratchett’s books. He’s one of his most popular characters, a seven-foot-high skeleton with burning blue eyes who speaks in CAPITALS. He is as terrifying as one would expect – except that he has a real horse called Binky (the skeleton ones kept falling apart), loves curry, can’t play chess and has a deep compassion for all the living things whose lives he terminates. I find it a curiously comforting image. Death personifies for Pratchett a lot of the themes he thinks are important: the strangeness of the universe and Man’s place in it; the human capacity for self-deception; the fact that few things are exactly as they seem and that it is vital to think for yourself. It’s no secret that Pratchett himself has early-onset Alzheimer’s. For a man of his devotion to words, sparkling wit, breadth of erudition and memory, it seems particularly cruel. He has already donated $1 million to research, but as his recent television documentary showed, he is also a fervent proponent of assisted suicide. ‘My life, my death, my choice,’ he says. It’s not an issue that has yet been covered in his books, but maybe it’s only a matter of time. However, it is not his courage and wisdom in life I want to praise, but those qualities in his work. Pratchett writes fantasy novels. Many people whose judgement I respect just don’t get him, finding the plots ludicrous and the humour childish. Many more are possibly put off by the lurid covers, heaving with dwarves, dragons, vampires, goblins, trolls, and busty blondes bursting from their tightly fitting armour. But there are also those, like me, who discovered his books early, read them all, like most of them and devour each new one with greedy pleasure. I must confess to having once covered the newest with brown paper and labelled it The Principles of Geology in an attempt to disguise it from my clamouring family. What I would like to do is persuade the reluctant to pick up just one and give him a chance. There are 39 adult Discworld novels, 13 for children and young adults, and endless adaptations for stage and television, compendiums, science books, graphic books and even a cookery book. They run in rough chronological order but each stands alone. The Discworld is a small, flat world supported by four enormous elephants standing on the turtle Great A’Tuin, which swims slowly through space. It’s basically a medieval world where magic is the norm. Pratchett has said he focuses on fantasy because ‘It’s easier to bend the universe around the story and it isn’t just about wizards and silly wands. It’s about seeing the world from new directions.’ Within this world, humans, witches, wizards, trolls, dwarves, vampires and various forms of the undead live recognizably human lives. Dwarves and trolls abandon the hard life of mines and mountains for the big city of Ankh-Morpork, where they work in shops or act as hit-men and generally try to make better lives for their children. Golems, gnomes and zombies join the police force where Sergeant Angua, a werewolf, is already extremely successful in both her shapes. The difficulty of running a multi-species police force and trying to be honest in a dishonest world drives many of the books. The context is crucial. Unlike Dr Who, which has accustomed us to strange races inhabiting the universe, the Discworld doesn’t really work on television. I think this is because the contrast between the essentially normal behaviour of the inhabitants and the upside-downness of Discworld is lost on screen. And a lot of the jokes don’t work because they are too literary and too clever. Pratchett published his first short story when he was 15 and he has been writing ever since. I find the early books, which are parodies of science fiction, fun but not memorable. Then in 1990 came Moving Pictures, the first to introduce real-world modern innovations into this fantasy medieval setting. It’s about film-making and is stuffed with references to early Hollywood. The hero has a thin moustache, ‘can’t sing, can’t dance, can handle a sword a little’ and stars in a ten-minute three-reeler epic about the Civil War called Blown Away. The book’s about the magic of movies and the power of dreams, for good and evil, and the need to grab life’s chances as and when you can. It was followed by a string of other books with a serious idea at the heart of the jokes – journalism and the power of print (The Truth); rock and roll (Soul Music); the Gulf War ( Jingo); feminism (The Monstrous Regiment); Egyptian history (Pyramids); and high finance (Making Money). Astronomy, university politics, science, sport and trades unions all appear. And the underlying philosophy is consistent. Pratchett is a staunch republican, against organized religion, anti-authoritarian whether it’s priests or politicians, anti-racist and a firm supporter of women. He has several strong heroines including Granny Weatherwax, the doyenne of witches, and serious, practical Susan, Death’s adopted granddaughter, who occasionally and reluctantly takes over Death’s duties for him. Pratchett says that to write, you must read to overflowing on every subject. He cites P. G. Wodehouse, Jerome K. Jerome, G. K. Chesterton and Mark Twain as influences and has clearly obeyed his own rule and read incredibly widely. The combination of anachronism and strong stories gives his books their richly distinctive style, with references to religion, anthropology, philosophy, natural history, politics, science, music, literature and history all in the mix. In fact, working out the references is half the fun. Like this, from Wyrd Sisters (basically Macbeth with real witches). Hwel, the dwarf playwright whose head is full of ideas whose time has not yet come, is having trouble with his new play.

He’d sorted out the falling chandelier and found a place for a villain who wore a mask to conceal his disfigurement and rewritten one of the funny bits to allow for the fact that the hero had been born in a handbag. It was the clowns that were giving him trouble again . . . one fat and one thin – ‘thys ys a main Dainty Messe you have got me into, Stanleigh . . .’ He had laughed until his chest ached and the rest of the company had looked on in astonishment. But in his dreams it was hilarious.

One critic has described his style as philosophical badinage interspersed with slapstick. What Pratchett loves is words and the way they can be turned and twisted. The jokes are thrown away with mad generosity and, as always with humour, it’s hard to pull examples off the page – you have to be there! One joke in Truckers, a children’s book, is a good example. Trying to escape the planet, small alien Nomes are driving a stolen lorry and see a sign coming up.

‘Looks like “Road Works Ahead”,’ said Grimma in a puzzled voice.

‘Yes but’, said Masklin, ‘why say it? I mean, you could understand “Road Doesn’t Work Ahead” – why tell us it works?’ ‘Sometimes’, said Gemma, ‘I think humans really don’t understand anything about the proper use of language.’
There are so many Discworld books it’s easy to pick up a less good one and be put off for ever. When I am proselytizing on behalf of Pratchett I suggest Small Gods as the best starting-point. This is a satire on institutionalized religion, calcified by form and custom and corrupted by power. It’s also about the nature of belief, spiritual regeneration and forgiveness. His theory is that gods need believers and men want gods. There are gods of every size and shape in the Discworld, jostling for space and power in a game of celestial snakes and ladders. Belief is their food – without it they slide down the snake and dwindle away to an unheard voice, chittering in the desert. It’s a god-eat-god world where only the ones with enough believers survive. Small Gods is the story of the once-great god Om of Omnia – currently manifested as an elderly tortoise – and the ignorant novice Brutha, his only true believer. It tells how Brutha grows in stature and wisdom to become a true prophet, and how Om acquires a sense of responsibility and compassion, and becomes a true god. In his time Om was a ferocious Old Testament god, smiting and trampling the heathen, and holding that respect equalled fear and fear equalled belief. ‘If the price isn’t high,’ he asks Brutha, ‘how can people respect you?’ Looking after his believers or helping them live good lives is not on the agenda. He’s trying to make his way back up the ladder but something is missing. Then he reads in an old book by an ancient philosopher: ‘Around the Godde there forms a shelle of Prayers and Ceremonies and Buildings and Priests and Authority, until at Last the Godde Dies. And this maye notte be noticed.’ And he realizes no one actually believes in gods any more. Except Brutha. Brutha not only believes in Om, he believes every word Om is ever reported to have said. Om apparently dictated all 193 Precepts to the prophet Ossery from a pillar of flame in the desert. By them, the people of Omnia live – or die painfully. Om remembers the pillar of fire but not Ossory and is even less sure about the Precepts.

‘I don’t think I did that,’ said Om doubtfully. ‘I’m sure I would have remembered 193 chapters.’ ‘What did you say to him then?’ ‘As far as I can remember, it was “Hey, see what I can do!”’ said the tortoise. Brutha stared at it. It looked embarrassed, insofar as that’s possible for a tortoise. ‘Even gods like to relax,’ it said. ‘But if you’ve been down here as a tortoise, who has been listening to the prayers? Who has been accepting the sacrifices? Who has been judging the dead?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said the tortoise. ‘Who did it before?’ ‘You did!’ ‘Did I?’

So much for Moses and the Burning Bush. Small Gods is Pratchett at his best – erudite, subversive and very funny – and the best place to start. After that, you’re on your own. And if you still can’t bring yourself to pick up a luridly coloured paperback, there is a scholarly edition of Small Gods. Plain black cover, sober lettering, no monsters. Everyone will think you’re reading a serious study of comparative religion – which in many ways you are. Just give it a try.

Extract from Slightly Foxed Issue 33 © Amanda Theunissen 2012


About the contributor

Amanda Theunissen is a journalist and television producer who tries to follow Terry Pratchett’s rule and reads to overflowing.

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