Ode to a Beautiful Wordsmith: RIP Sir Terry Pratchett

They say that Sir Terry Pratchett is dead, but I find that very hard to believe because, although the body may no longer function, he poured every thought, idea, belief and thesis of his into the hundreds and thousands of words he wrote down. I looked at his bibliography earlier and the man wrote more books in his lifetime than I’ll ever probably read in my lifetime! The Wizards of Unseen University may not be able to bottle immortality or cheat Death (at poker or Chase My Neighbour Up the Passage¹), but I think Sir Terry found a way. RIP, all the same! Your work is done, sir, and you worked so very, very hard!

I came to the Pratchett party late. I had some dabbling into Discworld lore via the second video game and through a very good friend of mine in secondary school. I think the first Discworld book I ever read was Mort, but I can’t be sure. My interest waned until I played Discworld Noir at a cousin’s house for an entire evening, then I read Men at Arms from cover-to-cover and I was hooked. Either way, I feel I was one of the last to turn up and I feel a bit guilty to wave the banner of the mourning fandom when compared to friends who have read all (or at least most) of the books and were “there” years before me.

I haven’t even read all the Discworld books yet. How could I, there’s bloody loads! I find that quite exciting!

Once you’re a fan of Pratchett, it’s like being part of an exclusive clique². I’ve quickly made friends with at least two people (one of whom is a long-term best friend) just by a casual mention of the Pratchettverse. The ultimate ice breaker is cracking obscure in-jokes plucked from various books he’s written³ as you immediately “get” the other person’s sense of humour. They must be a nice person with half a brain, they read Sir Terry Pratchett.

I think the best credit I could give to Sir Terry’s craft, his writing (word-smithery?), is that it was never patronising. You felt like you were reading something written by an ordinary bloke like yourself, which is an odd way to put it but with many books the author is the authoritative voice of the story and they can put on a grand act, like the words are there to construct a million pound stage play to pander to your mind. With all Pratchett books, Discworld or otherwise, I always felt like I was invited to the story and it wasn’t all a grand act, it was a charming tale that was down-to-earth and about people being people. For the narration in Discworld books my mind tends to construct an image of Sir Pratchett sat in a community library or a bookshop reading aloud to people of all ages (me included!)⁴. His writing has many a time inspired me to take to my keyboard and create my own fantasies.

In his books, people were human (even the dwarves and trolls). They made mistakes, they tried to redeem themselves. Sometimes they were complete and utter bastards, but these unseemly types always met with an unfortunate end – villains never prosper in a Pratchett story⁵. Overall I think Sir Terry had hope in people and humanity and believed that they could do amazing things.

It has been a privilege to read the man’s works, and will continue to be for a very long time yet. Thank you again, Sir Terry Pratchett.

Credit to ABVH for the animation.

A few Pratchett-related things to mention:

• I recommend watching Shaking Hands with Death – it’s a heart-breaking, admirable essay by Pratchett read by Sir Tony Robinson as Sir Terry couldn’t read it himself due to his condition.
• Fans are already petitioning Death to bring back Sir Terry – non Pratchett fans might think this to be tasteless but then they don’t get the joke.
• Quite a few websites are placing a hidden Terry Pratchett reference in their headers in tribute to the way John Dearheart was remembered in the Discworld’s version of the internet, the Clacks. I have also implemented it on my website, and there are plugins for Firefox and Chrome that allow you to see which sites are taking part.

I would like to conclude this small tribute with some of my favourite Pratchett quotes and passages.

From The Light Fantastic:

There was no need for torches. The Octavo filled the room with a dull, sullen light, which wasn’t strictly light at all but the opposite of light; darkness isn’t the opposite of light, it is simply its absence, and what was radiating from the book was the light that lies on the far side of darkness, the light fantastic.

It was a rather disappointing purple colour.

From Mort:

“It’s beautiful,” said Mort softly. “What is it?”
THE SUN IS UNDER THE DISC, said Death.
“Is it like this every night?”
EVERY NIGHT, said Death. NATURE’S LIKE THAT.
“Doesn’t anyone know?”
ME. YOU. THE GODS. GOOD, ISN’T IT?
“Gosh!”
Death leaned over the saddle and looked down at the kingdoms of the world.
I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU, he said, BUT I COULD MURDER A CURRY.

From Jingo:

Give a man a fire and he’s warm for a day, but set fire to him and he’s warm for the rest of his life.

From The Hogfather:

“I’m your worst nightmare!” said Teatime cheerfully.
The man shuddered.
“You mean … the one with the giant cabbage and the sort of whirring knife thing?”
“Sorry?” Teatime looked momentarily nonplussed.
“Then you’re the one where I’m falling, only instead of the ground underneath it’s all–”
“No. In fact I’m–”
The guard sagged. “Awww, not the one where there’s all this kind of, you know, mud and then everything goes blue–”
“No, I’m–”
“Oh, shit, then you’re the one where there’s this door only there’s no floor beyond it and then there’s these claws–”
“No,” said Teatime. “Not that one.” He withdrew a dagger from his sleeve. “I’m the one where this man comes out of nowhere and kills you, stone dead.”

From Night Watch:

“You’d like Freedom, Truth, and Justice, wouldn’t you, Comrade Sergeant?” said Reg encouragingly.
“I’d like a hard-boiled egg,” said Vimes, shaking the match out.
There was some nervous laughter, but Reg looked offended.
“In the circumstances, Sergeant, I think we should set our sights a little higher–”
“Well, yes, we could,” said Vimes, coming down the steps. He glanced at the sheets of papers in front of Reg. The man cared. He really did. And he was serious. He really was. “But…well, Reg, tomorrow the sun will come up again, and I’m pretty sure that whatever happens we won’t have found Freedom, and there won’t be a whole lot of Justice, and I’m damn sure we won’t have found Truth. But it’s just possible that I might get a hard-boiled egg.”

From Thud!:

Night, forever. But within it, a city, shadowy and only real in certain ways.
The entity cowered in its alley, where the mist was rising. This could not have happened!
Yet it had. The streets had filled with… things. Animals! Birds! Changing shape! Screaming and yelling! And, above it all, higher than the rooftops, a lamb rocking back and forth in great slow motions, thundering over the cobbles…
And then bars had come down, slamming down, and the entity had been thrown back.
But it had been so close! It had saved the creature, it was getting through, it was beginning to have control… and now this…
In the darkness of the inner city, above the rustle of the never-ending rain, it heard the sound of boots approaching.
A shape appeared in the mist.
It drew nearer.
Water cascaded off a metal helmet and an oiled leather cloak as the figure stopped and, entirely unconcerned, cupped its had in front of its face and lit a cigar.
Then the match was dropped on the cobbles, where it hissed out, and the figure said: “What are you?”
The entity stirred, like an old fish in a deep pool. It was too tired to flee.
“I am the Summoning Dark.” It was not, in fact, a sound, but had it been, it would have been a hiss. “Who are you?”
“I am the Watchman.”
“They would have killed his family!” The darkness lunged, and met resistance. “Think of the deaths they have caused! Who are you to stop me?”
“He created me. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Who watches the watchmen? Me. I watch him. Always. You will not force him to murder for you.”
“What kind of human creates his own policeman?”
“One who fears the dark.”
“And so he should,” said the entity, with satisfaction.
“Indeed. But I think you misunderstand. I am not here to keep the darkness out. I am here to keep it in.” There was a clink of metal as the shadowy watchman lifted a dark lantern and opened its little door. Orange light cut through the blackness. “Call me… the Guarding Dark. Imagine how strong I must be.”
The Summoning Dark backed desperately into the alley, but the light followed it, burning it.
“And now,” said the watchman, “get out of town.”

Finally, a very poignant one from The Hogfather:

“All right,” said Susan. “I’m not stupid. You’re saying humans need… fantasies to make life bearable.”
REALLY? AS IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE.
“Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little—”
YES. AS PRACTICE. YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES.
“So we can believe the big ones?”
YES. JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING.
“They’re not the same at all!”
YOU THINK SO? THEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET—Death waved a hand. AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME…SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED.
“Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what’s the point—”
MY POINT EXACTLY.

Post by Sean Patrick Payne+ | March 14, 2015 at 12:12 pm | Vaguely Topical | No comment

Tags: Discworld, RIP, Sir Terry Pratchett