Mort, by Terry Pratchett

The Colour of Magic was the author having fun and happening to strike gold; The Light Fantastic was an only partly succesful attempt to recapture that winning formula; Equal Rites was a mostly succesful but still flawed attempt to tell a different type of story in a similar setting; Mort is where Discworld is really born.

Mort takes a lot from Equal Rites, most importantly the central revelation that Discworld out to be a series of books about real people in a pastiche fantasy world, not just a pastiche of fantasy. In this case, the real people don’t live in Bad Ass, but on another side of the Ramtops, in the Octarine Grass Country, but that doesn’t make too much difference. The novel’s central character, Mort, occupies a similar niche to Esk in the previous novel: a strange, overly-intelligent child is born to a rural farming family, and has no place among them, but is called to power and purpose in an entirely different setting. Mort isn’t exactly Esk: he’s gangly and daydreamy and bookish, rather than concentrated and practical – in fact, he’s essentially a non-idiot-savant non-wizard version of Simon, Esk’s counterpart in the preceding novel. And his family isn’t exactly the same as Esk’s – the Octarine Grass Country is more southern, more prosaic, than the wild mountain northernness of Bad Ass. [Both setting and character are perhaps closer to Pratchett’s own background: born in a small market town outside London, complete with an annual fair, he credits his education to the time he spent in the public library reading everything he could find.*] But the contours of the situation are the same.

(If written today, surely both books would be marketed as ‘YA’).

Anyway, rather than becoming a wizard, this time the misfit hero becomes Death, or at least Death’s apprentice. Needless to say, things go wrong.

Continuing and expanding a structural trait of the two preceding novels, the main body of Mort is split into two plots (actually, by the end, three or four). The main plot follows Mort’s attempts to come to terms with the role of Death, while correcting for and covering up the results of a mistake he made (or possibly chose to make), alongside Death’s adopted daughter, Ysabel, and butler, Albert. This section clearly grew out of the ‘Death’s domain’ section of TLF, in which Death and Ysabel are introduced (in the latter case, with little explanation – was Pratchett already planning Mort, or was she a random loose end he later decided to do something with?). The counterplot is a lighter-hearted affair in which Death goes on holiday to find out what’s so great about life, ultimately ending up in Ankh-Morpork. At first glance, this seems like comic relief, although in many ways it’s the real core of the novel: it’s through this establishment of Death, not only Death as a character but what it must mean to be Death (he’s never invited to parties, for a start), that the main storyline gets its depth. Pratchett does a good job of conveying that ‘Death’s apprentice’ is more than a joke, more than having a strange employer – as he often does in his best work, he takes a whimsical concept and fleshes it out into something powerful and dark.

On another level, it may be worth mentioning that Death’s time in Ankh-Morpork is vital for another reason: to continue Discworld’s meditation on the difference between London and the rest of the UK. Well, OK, more universally on the difference between town and country, but as both Pratchett and I have grown up in the shadow of the Smoke, it’s hard for me to see it outside of that context (perpetuating, of course, the traditional British obsession with role and strangeness of London – Equal Rites in particular can be seen in light of the rich literature of bright northerners coming south to seek their fortune). In Mort, Ankh-Morpork is even symbolised by a carbuncle, much as London is known as the Great Wen. In any case, in TCOM, Ankh-Morpork was only one fantastical place among many, but both TLF and ER placed the rural/urban distinction at their hearts (in the former case, through Rincewind’s homesick citydweller; in the latter, through Esk and Granny as naïve country women encountering the city for the first time). In Mort, the contrast is less explicit, as the characters largely do not overlap, but nonetheless the powerful big-city light is being shone on the small and trivial world both of Mort’s home and of the petty politics of the Sto Plains, while the honesty and simplicity of the rural setting is being used to accentuate the decadence of the city.

Hmm. OK, I’ll admit: I’m finding it hard to right about this one. You’ve probably noticed. There’s a very clear reason why it’s hard to say much about this book: there’s almost nothing wrong with it. It’s not really deep enough to go on about its themes, but it’s just too damn good to explain its flaws at length.

It isn’t perfect exactly. The two plotlines, while working well together, do feel a bit disconnected. The overall plot still feels a bit rushed and not entirely coherent – although it’s considerably better in that respect than any of the previous books. [I think ER hit a higher level in the early sections, but Mort has fewer flaws]. It has considerable pathos; it has excitement (and a duel! and an elephant!); it has a lot of humour. It’s the funniest Discworld so far, with a good mix of jokes, from the broad to the sophisticated. It’s clearly a major milestone in solidifying the nature of the Disc and setting the benchmark for future novels. Some fourth-wall-breaking persists, and I didn’t entirely appreciate it, but it is better handled than before, and not a major problem.

Frankly, the only serious defect of this book is that it’s just too short.

Oh, and I should also add: it’s full of sex. I mean seriously full. In Equal Rites Pratchett quite straightforwardly set out to talk about sex (in both senses of the word) and Mort continues in the same vein. It’s a little awkward really. In many ways, this is a book it would be great to read to, or with, a child – except that you literally cannot go three pages in any direction without a nod, a wink, an innuendo, a risque diversion, or a barefaced “gurgle of passion” off in the bushes. As an adult, it just makes it more fun to read – Pratchett is one of the few authors who can walk the line between seeming prudish and seeming lecherous, and his embrace of sexuality is just one part of his embrace of life in all its glories – and most children wouldn’t notice a lot of it and would shrug past the rest (I know I did when I first read it), but boy would I have a red face trying to read this to someone under the age of majority…

Anyway. Short version. Very good book. Still a bit shallow and a little wobbly around the edges. But not only a good omen for his later books, but also a reminder that early Pratchett wasn’t just there to grow up into later Pratchett. If he’d stopped writing at this point, Mort wouldn’t be a bad magnum opus for an author to have.

But, of course, he didn’t…

Scores!

Adrenaline: 4/5. I found this gripping! Could easily have been 5/5, except that honestly the exciting part is only a small portion of the whole.

Emotion: 3/5. Not exactly grabbed by the neck and shaken, but there’s no denying there’s pathos to it. And continues ER’s trend toward deeper characters – nobody here stands out to the same extent as Granny, but there’s a decent ensemble cast.

Thought: 3/5. Not a work of high philosophy, but also not afraid to at least look at some serious questions of life, death, and everything in between.

Beauty: 3/5. May be being harsh, because this is a book with a lot of great lines, and a lot of great images too. On the other hand, it still feels a bit raw and ungainly here and there.

Craft: 4/5. Between a well-structured climax, plot twists, and a lot of great humour, this is definitely a notably well-put-together book. Not perfect yet, but progressing.

Endearingness: 4/5. Again, no one character stands out, and I didn’t fall in love with anyone or anything. However, it was fun, funny, moving and clever, I’ve read it a bunch of times and I’m going to read it a bunch of times more.

Originality: 4/5. It’s a strange book. A lot of the individual elements seem cliché, but they’re handled in surprising and original ways. It’s not particularly predictable, and features a lot of things that would never have occurred to most authors.

Overall: 5/7. Good. The same score as Equal Rites – but ER is down at the more-than-just-not-bad end, and Mort, I think, is up at the almost-very-good-indeed part of the spectrum. It’s the best Discworld so far (and frankly I’m a bit embarrassed about giving it such a brief and incoherent review, so sorry about that…). But on to the next!

[Actually, the next is Sourcery, which to be honest I’m looking forward to mostly as a stepping stone to Wyrd Sisters. Then again, I’ve been pleasantly surprised before when revisiting books I last read a decade and a half ago]

*Fun coincidence: he was born in Beaconsfield, the same town where his stylistic predecessor GK Chesterton is burried.

P.S. Krull!

Equal Rites, by Terry Pratchett

[Part Three of an ongoing 're-reading all the Discworld Novels in chronological order' project]

The first Discworld novel, The Colour of Magic was an uneven but sparkling exercise; the second, The Light Fantastic, was a disappointing attempt to recapture the success of the first.

Equal Rites is something very different.

In outline, there are strong similarities. The central character of Rincewind may have been dropped (thankfully – he didn’t have much narrative potential, not without allowing him the sort of growth that Pratchett clearly wasn’t willing to put into him), but in some ways this book seems like a re-write of The Light Fantastic – starting from a mountainous, peculiar wooded area near(ish) the Hub, the main character, an unconventional but strangely powerful wizard (strangely and very precisely powerful in Rincewind’s case, since he only knows one spell – it just happens to be one of the eight spells holding the universe together) treks across the Disc to the magical Unseen University, in legendary Ankh-Morpork, and thwarts the invasion of Things from the Dungeon Dimensions.

What’s different here is the tone. This feels completely different from the first two Discworld books – I’d suggest that this is where Discworld proper begins. There are still holdovers from the first two installments that mark this as clearly an early-era Discworld novel – there are some quite clunky fourth wall jokes, and there is clearly a lot more magic and a lot less logic in the world than there will be later. But the core transformation has happened: he’s stopped writing a parody of fantasy characters in fantasyland, and started writing a parody of ordinary people in Britain.

Where the first two novels proceed at breakneck pace from one set piece comedy episode to the next, Equal Rites wants to actually be a novel rather than a loosely-linked sketch show. It takes its time, at least by the standards of the first two books – more than a third of the novel is set-up, before the quest even starts, and halfway through the book we’ve barely started. As a result, there is far more characterisation than in the earlier books – of the protagonist, Esk, but more importantly of the dominant character, Granny Weatherwax, and more broadly of the ‘old remote rural Britain’ setting; when we get to Ankh-Morpork, it has been transformed from a violent and chaotic sword and sorcery city of adventurers into a parody of old London, complete with class structure and register-switching accents. It’s all very comfortable and familiar stuff, but it brings a depth, and in particular warmth, that was lacking in the first two installments.

The main plot, meanwhile, goes for the empathic throat of teenage geeks everywhere, as it focuses on an intelligent, sassy, rebellious, yet studious tomboy defying both gender roles and authority figures at the same time. Obviously, on that level I loved it. The early sections in particular also do a great job of making magic seem magical – and strange, and even disturbing.

Unfortunately, there are some problems. First, Esk is a ridiculous Mary Sue – I wanted her to kick ass as badly as everybody else, but having her be, basically, the best in the world at everything, even though she’s not even teenaged yet, kind of drains the dramatic tension out of things. Second, and more seriously, the end is just awful. Not the actual scenes near the end, some of which are very good – as with the end of The Light Fantastic, Pratchett is able to be surprisingly dramatic and powerful with what ought to be fairly light material – but rather the construction of the end, which involves far too many over-easy resolutions and nonsensical explanations, and too great a compression and ramping up of pace. It feels like the first half of the novel is what Pratchett actually wanted to write about, and the ending is just something he threw in because he didn’t know what else to do.

That said, it does make me nostalgic for the Things from the Dungeon Dimensions, sadly lacking in later books. Sure, their plot utility is limited, and they are overused terribly in these early books, but they sure are creepy. They have a wonderful combination of simultaneous patheticness and unspeakable danger that really adds an edge to these books, even when they are used as badly as they are in this book.

All in all, then, this is a badly flawed, but nonetheless quite interesting book, that marks an important turn in Pratchett’s writing.

Adrenaline: 3/5. Rather diluted by the rushed and unsatisfactory ending.

Emotion: 3/5. I love Esk.

Thought: 3/5. Pratchett does a good job here with the wry observations, both on life in general and on class structures and sexism and so forth, and the relative sloth of the early chapters is intriguing. On the other hand, nothing really penetratively insightful is said, and it remains a fairly light read.

Beauty: 3/5. Meh.

Craft: 3/5. Would like to give it a higher mark, since elements of this book are very well crafted. Unfortunately… the ending. And that’s really just a symptom of the general poor construction of the plot and of the poor pacing. At this stage, the author was clearly still learning.

Endearingness: 4/5. It’s respectably funny, and did I mention that I love Esk? If she’d been a tad less overpowered, and if her story had been a tad more interesting, I could really have loved this book.

Originality: 2/5. Stock characters, familiar plot, it’s surprising it feels as fresh as it does, frankly – and it’s hurt by reading it immediately after The Light Fantastic.

Overall: 5/7. Good. A promising shift in tone and style, toward a more realistic and complex type of novel – but one unfortunately hamstrung by the limitations of its plot and characters. Nonetheless, I found it a very enjoyable read. In particular, probably works very well as a children’s book, on account of its very young protagonist, themes of empowerment, and the greater latitude children commonly give to unsatisfying plotting.

The Light Fantastic, by Terry Pratchett

When I decided to (re-)read all the Discworld books, in order, I was a smidgeon trepidatious. The early books, after all, weren’t very good, and I wasn’t looking forward to wading through them until I reached the better volumes.

So when I read The Colour of Magic, I got a very pleasant surprise: it wasn’t bad at all, it was fun and clever and witty and imaginative and fun and fantastic and fun. Unpolished, yes, out of keeping with the continuity, certainly, and a little hamstrung by its episodic and parodic form; but good. So maybe, I thought, this ‘complete reread’ business wouldn’t be so bad after all.

When I read The Light Fantastic, unfortunately, I got another surprise.

Perhaps the external history of these books explains some of what I felt the difference between them was. The Colour of Magic (TCOM) was Pratchett’s fourth published novel – The Carpet People was a fairly well-received children’s book but had hardly been a bestseller, and both The Dark Side of the Sun and Strata were commercial flops. TCOM may well have been Pratchett’s last chance, and I don’t imagine he had the highest hopes. As a result, it’s easy to think of a defiant author setting out, on the one hand, to dazzle his audience and get them to finally pay attention, and, on the other, to show people what they were missing. And that’s what we get in TCOM – a superficial but very shiny book where we watch a skilled and intelligent author having some fun. It also marked a turn in Pratchett’s writing, from humorous-but-serious to outright comedy (though still not as comedic as much of his later work).

The Light Fantastic (TLF), on the other hand, was written three years later, as Pratchett set out on the grand career of Being A Professional Author. TCOM had been a massive critical and commercial success, and if Pratchett was going to make it as an author he was going to have to find a way to replicate it. And that, I’m afraid, is what we get in TLF – a replica.

The biggest change is that the episodic structure has, at least in theory, gone, with the entire book having a single plot (which shifts away from Sword and Sorcery toward Epic Fantasy). This sounds like a good idea on the surface, but is practice is a very bad thing. TCOM’s wild, meandering plotting could work when hemmed in by the shortness of each componant story – let lose on a longer format, it turns into an unstructured mess of a narrative. And it doesn’t much help it feel bigger as a story, because it’s still fundamentally a series of comic episodes, which have little connexion to one another.

The humour is turned up to eleven… which isn’t funny. There are still incredibly awful puns, which are mildly amusing, but there are just so many of them that it becomes oppressive; and the flamboyant narrative voice of the original becomes a confused, intrusive, over-stylised mumbling. Every page has at least one passage of the “I could say X… but it would be wrong” or “perhaps I could say Y… but I won’t” – just one among many examples of Pratchett flogging his jokes to death. A few of these, and the in-world justification of laws enforcing literalness in descriptions, would have been funny, and at first were, but very soon I found myself just sighing. In general, then, where the original novel employed a fairly subtle and intelligent wit, with flashes of obviousness, the sequel resorts to constant obviousness, comedic cliché, and an unfitting broadness of humour. There are very few jokes – very few scenes, even – where you can’t predict exactly what the punch line will be, or what will happen next, very early on.

Along the way, much of the heart of the original – both in its characterisation and in its moral sense – have been discarded. In particular, Rincewind, originally an interesting man with hopes and desires and amoral greed and vindictiveness and random acts of kindness and a sympathy for the oppressed, becomes a caricature of himself, existing only to move the plot along by running away from things. Partly as a result of this, there is very little narrative tension.

Particularly galling to me were the jokes that relied on real-world things, like late-night prawn biryanis, which I felt damaged the suspension of disbelief even more than the overly flippant and obvious narration. I also found myself a little miffed when I noticed Pratchett steal a joke whole from Chesterton, only tell it worse. [Rincewind’s preference for tradition over democracy, on the grounds that tradition is a democracy where even the dead get a vote, which is taken from Chesterton’s Orthodoxy. In the original, it was of course a very serious political and sociological point, as well as being a witty paradox. In TLF it’s a throwaway line which doesn’t really seem in keeping either with the setting or with the character, has no broader thematic resonance, and isn’t particularly funny either]. In fact that seemed emblematic of a lot of Pratchett’s problems in this novel: it felt like he was putting on someone else’s voice. Pratchett’s thematic and stylistic debt to Chesterton has never been far below the surface of the Discworld (when reading The Man Who Was Thursday my mind instantly wandered, for instance, to Hogfather’s famous punchline about the sun – indeed, the broader themes of Hogfather in particular are extremely Chestertonian), and more broadly it’s clear Pratchett is following in the footsteps of a certain fin de siècle strain of flippant and satirical British humour (Wilde, Jerome, Chesterton, Saki, Wodehouse, et al). But in TLF, it feels as though Pratchett hasn’t yet found a voice he’s comfortable inhabiting. Perhaps, in fact, he’s putting on his own voice – I suspect that he was trying to capitalise on whatever had made TCOM so succesful. Unfortunately, in doing so he loses his authenticity – it feels artificial, which in turn feels unpleasant.

It isn’t a terrible book. It’s still broadly entertaining (particularly if you like puns), has some enjoyable characters (though sadly one of them gets killed off early on), and has a genuinely interesting (and in places even a little moving) character in the form of the aging Cohan the Barbarian. The finale is well-worked and satisfying. It’s short. And for the Discworld fan, it marks a move toward a more coherent world and a more epic scope (though most of the places featured here will still never be seen again). And among the bad jokes there are still the occasional gem of authentic wit.

But by and large, the impression I got from this book was that it wasn’t any funnier or more dramatic than the original, that it was considerably less original than the original, and that despite all this the author was trying far, far harder. The original was almost effortless; this one is laboured.

Adrenaline: 3/5. Bumps up to average on account of the manic pace and high stakes.

Emotion: 1/5. Didn’t care in the slightest. Nobody to care about, no time in which to care. Slight interest around Cohan, but too brief to register.

Thought: 3/5. The odd moment of cleverness keeps it average, but the sophistication has mostly been set aside for cheap laughs (which I mostly didn’t laugh at).

Beauty: 3/5. The odd beautiful remark is still here, but not only are there not many of them, but Pratchett’s continual coyness and self-reference drain them of any impact they may have had.

Craft: 3/5. The worst thing about the book is that it’s not very well written. At first I was going to give this a 2, but I accept that would be harsh – too many good bits. But the plotting is poor and loose, the humour is patchy, and the narrative voice is inconsistent.

Endearingness: 2/5. I didn’t like it. It’s Pratchett, so it would be hard to hate it, but I really didn’t like it much.

Originality: 2/5. Despite being less directly a parody, it’s less original, in my opinion, than the first book. No real surprises or innovations along the way, just a lot of reused ideas.

Overall: 4/7. Not Bad. I think that’s a fair assessment: it’s not actually bad. I probably sound more negative here than I should be, because I’m disappointed – it didn’t live up to what I was hoping for (though it more or less matches my original idea of what these early books were like).  In the final assessment, it’s a fairly enjoyable book, and actually in most of the describable details isn’t much worse than The Colour of Magic; the difference is, the earlier book was carried over its rough patches by its sparkling spirit, its confidence, its easy charm – this is self-conscious and lacking that creative edge.

 

[You may remember that my re-read follows on the heels of that of Nathan at www.fantasyreviewbarn.blogspot.co.uk and was prefigured (if you’ll forgive the theologically grandiose connotations of the word) by that of Adam three years ago at www.thewertzone.blogspot.com. Between the three of us we cover the entire spectrum of views on this book: as you can see, I thought it was worse than the first book; Adam, however, thought it was about the same as the first book, while Nathan bafflingly thought it was even better than the first book, an entire four stars out of five – for reasons that are more or less the exact opposite of my reasons. Huh.]

Hogfather, by Terry Pratchett

This is getting to be a habit. A new Pratchett comes out, I read it, I get nostalgic for the old days, I worry about whether the old days were only ever in my memory, and so I go and read something else by him. Only this time I cut right to the chase. I’m struggling with a painful (in a good way) book, the nights are drawing in and it’s getting cold… so I read Hogfather.

Hallelujah!

I wasn’t wrong after all. This is the real Pratchett. And boy, he’s good.

Hogfather, for anyone who doesn’t know, is a Discworld novel about Christmas. Santa Claus (or his Discworld equivalent, the Hogfather) is under attack by the dull, life-hating Auditors of Reality, through their chosen tool, the mad, childish assassin Mr Teatime (it’s pronounced teh-ah-tem-eh. He’s very clear on that point). With the Hogfather out of action, somebody needs to step in, and that task falls to the ever-helpful (and always eager to explore alternative careers) Death, he of the scythe and the CAPITAL LETTERS VOICE. And his un-elflike assistant, Albert.

Let’s start with the bad. This is a mess of a novel. There are essentially four different storylines: Death delivering presents and learning about the true meaning of Hogswatch (Christmas); Death’s grand-daughter (don’t ask), Susan, trying to put things right; Teatime and his merry band of criminals having fun in a strange location; and the Faculty of Unseen University, trying to deal with some of the peculiar household gods that are popping into existence as a metaphysical result of the whole affair. The first three storylines intersect only briefly, while the fourth touches on them barely more than tangentially. The four storylines can only go together by explictly bending the laws of time and space, and as a result of shoving them all together we miss the most important bit – we see hardly any of Teatime’s actual assassination plot (no, hearing about it in hindsight doesn’t count).

Right. Got that out of the way.

In defence of the book, I’ll say this first and foremost: it’s hilarious. The Faculty subplot in particular, irrelevent though it may have been, had me uncontrollably laughing out loud on half a dozen occasions (which is impressive, given the short length of the book), fully justifying its otherwise unjustifiable inclusion. Runner up prize would have to go to the brilliant double-act of Quoth the Raven and the Death of Rats, but there are laughs on almost every page.

It is also very dark, and really very creepy. One of the central theses of the book is that childhood is not a comforting time, but instead is much like adult life written in larger letters, and this sort of high-contrast long-shadowed aesthetic is obeyed by the book itself, which contrasts the humour with quite a lot of killing, a frightening psychopathic serial killer as a villain (and a bunch of murderers as, paradoxically, the ones we sympathise with compared to him), and a number of nightmares come to life. And if this all sounds a bit silly – well, it is, but it’s also a serious essay about the meaning of life (particularly, about the role of symbols and convention in constructing meaning). This puts it a bit at risk of being twee, but I think he stays just on the right side of preaching. What’s more, the central themes (childhood and symbolism) are only the most important and consistent of the dozens of observations on life, the universe and everything, which range from funny to intelligent to both. This, frankly, was a surprise to me – I’d remembered that Pratchett’s musings had been more interesting in the past, but I’d forgotten just how much more numerous and varied they were.

I don’t really know what else to say. There’s not a lot to analyse here, because it’s a short book, and it flagrantly ignores any attempt at structure (while nonetheless feeling quite complete and self-contained and right). And it’s very good.

Oh, and he’s extremely erudite. There were some very clever in-jokes, referencing both his own work and the real world. He’s the kind of author who benefits from annotations.

I suppose I might wish it were longer. And I think the ending could have been better – as it is, it’s a bit of an anticlimax.

Nonetheless: I’m not sure that Hogfather is the best book Pratchett’s written, but even if it had been the only book he had written, it would make him an author worth keeping an eye on. Never again will I doubt the heights he has achieved or suspect his reputation in my mind as being the result of nostalgia. No, he really was this good.

Adrenaline: 4/5. The short scenes, quick cutting, high stakes, creepy darkness and sheer exuberant energy of the writing made it a gripping read. No, perhaps, thrilling – it’s too disordered for that, without a big enough climax. But gripping.

Emotion: 2/5. A possible complaint is that it’s not a very emotional book. I was never really upset, or really elated. I like the characters, but I don’t feel for them all that much.

Thought: 4/5. Not a great philosophical essay, but it’s got sophisticated ethical themes, and a whole host of astute observations that at the least encourage the reader to see the world in a new way, and sometimes are actually thought-provoking as well. Add to that the unpredictable (and somewhat metaphysical) plot, and this may be fun but it’s certainly not brainless fun.

Beauty: 4/5. Pratchett may not construct sentences that make you gasp out loud at their beauty, but he’s a consistently elegant and graceful prose stylist, and in Hogfather that prose is turned to the service of stunning  images and an elegaic humanism.

Craft: 4/5. It’s able to make me laugh out loud, ponder a little about the human condition, and yearn for somebody to get a poker through the heart, often all in the same page. The prose is great, and the fact the plot is able to fit together at all is a testament to Pratchett’s feel for balance and form. On the other hand, the plot IS still a mess, and some scenes aren’t as good as they might have been, particularly the ending. There are also a handful of scenes that should have been cut entirely.

Endearingness: 5/5. How can you ask? It’s really funny. Plus, childhood! There’s not an objectionable moment to be found.

Originality: 2/5. OK, nothing about stealing Christmas is all that unique, though this is certainly a unique take on the idea.

Overall: 5/7. Very Good. I’m a little torn on whether this is Good  or Very Good, but I think I’ll opt for the latter. It’s at the low end of Very Good, admittedly, but I think it qualifies. And now I want to go and re-read all those other classic Pratchetts…

Snuff, by Terry Pratchett

I expected to hate this book even before I began reading it. In my opinion, Pratchett’s best was in the early nineties, and I don’t think there’s been a really good Discworld book (outside the YA series, which I haven’t yet read) since Night Watch in 2002. In particular, I thoroughly disliked the last Watch book, 2005’s Thud!, and the thought of another entirely Vimes-centric novel, with heavy re-use of the Summoning Dark idea, did not fill me with delight.

And yet I bought it in hardback the moment it came out. Alack my indefatigable optimism.

As I started reading Snuff, I was horrified, and not in a good way. I rapidly downgraded my estimation of modern Pratchett from ‘tired, repetitive, unmagical, mostly pointless’ to ‘can no longer write’. Pratchett’s prose has always been the soul of his novels, and within pages it became evident that the soul had been ripped out. Exchanges had become ponderous, stilted, out of character – and dull. It’s not something you want to see from a favourite author, particularly not when the spectre of mental decay looms so unspeakably large in the shadows.

But actually, I really enjoyed this book.

The writing is never at the summit of what Pratchett has been capable of, but the first twenty, thirty, fifty pages are not representative of the quality of prose in the bulk of the book. I don’t know why they’re so bad – let’s say for the sake of charity that they represent the rust being shaken off as the machine gets going after long disuse. Because there is something brought to life here that I haven’t seen in Pratchett’s books for quite some time. I’m not sure what, but it’s there.

For the most part, Snuff doesn’t undo the flaws of recent Discworld books, but instead sidesteps them. It is still tired at heart, and repetitious – much of the levity feels forced and familiar, the central ‘theme’ of the novel (Vimes’ struggle with his own dark side) has been around since at least Men at Arms and possibly Guards! Guards!, and dominated both Night Watch (where it was welcome but overdone) and Thud! (where it felt like a reheated re-serving of Night Watch without the style and panache), while the once-wonderful world of Ankh-Morpork feels increasingly static and quotidian – unmagical. But all that matters rather less this time around, because we have something we haven’t had for quite a while – a jolly good story.

This is the great virtue of Snuff : it’s a book worth writing, not just because (as I feel has been the case with some Pratchett) it expounds a moral point or furthers his worldbuilding plans for the Discworld, but because it’s a jolly good story.

Snuff is a mystery-thriller. Vimes arrives at his wife’s (now his) country mansion for a relaxing holiday, only to find that Something Is Wrong. He’s not sure what, and he’s not sure what he can do about it, but there’s clearly Something Wrong, and he’s determined to Get To the Bottom Of It – as much as his wife will let him, of course, and in between dealing with his son’s newfound obsession with animal poo. The story that plays out is a slow-at-first but constantly accelerating tale of detection as Vimes must get to the bottom of the mystery, unravel the conspiracy that maintains it, and finally Put Things Right, culminating in a thrilling action scene.

In this, at least, the old Pratchett is back. The old Pratchett constructed tightly-plotted, tense, exciting, clever novels, and in this Snuff stands in sharp contrast to recent Discworld entries, which have felt at times as though the plot has been an afterthought to give the characters something to do.

This is also old-school Pratchett in its erudition. Like the great Discworld novels before it, this one will send the hardcore fans scurrying to compile the references, but this time it all feels less accidental, more purposeful. In many ways, this is a book of homage, with Pratchett’s debts to earlier authors proudly paraded – Jane Austen, Agatha Christie, and PG Wodehouse are particularly prominent, among others – as well as several quiet nods to his own previous work (most noticeably, the Zoons get a passing reference, 36-odd books after their previous appearance).

Another plus point for the novel is that the world –and the cast – seems far fresher, more lively, more vital, than in some recent books. This is largely possible through the familiar mechanism of putting Vimes in a new location: this time, the strangest and most fantastical location imaginable, the English countryside. Blending the grimy world of Ankh-Morpork with a hint of the unfamiliar, and isolating Vimes to solve the crime (almost) on his own, Snuff’s approach is strongly reminiscent of that of Night Watch, no bad thing at all (if only Pratchett would swallow his own sense of a progressing timeline and give us more prequels in the A-M of twenty or fifty years ago!). The far-less-succesful subplot set in the city re-iterates what a good idea it is to avoid setting anything in Ankh-Morpork again.

And yet – there are also things quite wrong with this book. Again we see an obsessive need to moralise and preach – Pratchett has always been politically and ethically vocal, but in the earlier works it was more subtle, more about how individuals should comport themselves and less about declaiming programmes of political policy. Here, Pratchett re-adresses issues of English class and multiculturalism raised in Unseen Academicals – more subtly and to better effect largely because there’s enough plot here to get in the way of the more shouty elements of the subtext. Which is a good thing, since fifty pages in I was really doubting whether I wanted to read a fantasy book about the plight of the Roma and the Irish Travellers. Don’t get me wrong, I almost always agree with Pratchett’s political views, I just don’t think his books should focus on them. It’s not what he does best. The political agenda is also made uncomfortable by the occasional reminders that Pratchett – for all that his heart is in the right place – has a positively archaic attitude at times when it comes to patronising minorities. His cameo impersonations of Vietnamese are cringe-inducingly racist, and the fat and jolly black woman called ‘Precious’ isn’t much better. Pratchett, of course, is not a racist – quite the contrary – but he’s clearly from a generation in which even non-racist people could acceptably make their eyes go slitty and put on a silly Chinese accent in public, in a way that is quite alien to modern sensitivities.

A bigger problem is that the characterisation is lavished solely on one character: Sir Samuel Vimes. Unfortunately, we already know Sam Vimes inside and out, so it feels like a lot of wasted effort. Meanwhile every background character is a silhouette – at best devoid of depth, and frequently painfully controlled by the dictates of the plot. [I find the continual idiot-meets-Vimes-and-in-moments-they-discover-hidden-potential characterisation frustrating to say the least]. I don’t understand the obsession with Vimes. Yes, he’s a good character – but we’ve seen everything he has to show. He’s limitless in abilities, adamant in will, and unimpeachable in virtue (which makes the continual ‘inner darkness’ theme feel weak – we know he won’t succumb, because he’s Vimes, and Vimes never loses… on which note, I’d like to see, if we must see more of Vimes, more of the decade-as-a-drunk Vimes, and how he got there), and we know him already. The Watch is full of interesting characters. Of course, having an annoying weakness for unconventional romance, I’ve wanted to see more Carrot + Angua since Men at Arms, but it’s not as though there aren’t other options as well (and more can easily be introduced if necessary).

Actually, that’s a point that hadn’t occurred to me before. A big reason Discworld is becoming stale, I think, is that the same characters are being re-used, rather than new characters introduced. At a quick count, in the first 18 novels, there are around-about 14 main characters (as in, that are the central character of the book, one per book (except I counted one each for the two storylines in Reaper Man) who were either introduced for the first time or that moved from supporting to lead status. In the remaining 16 novels, there have been, at a rough count, 4? I suppose you could say 5, if you count both the leads in Unseen Academicals. There’s nothing that demands, per se, that new leading characters be produced (most of my favourite Discworld novels do not introduce new leads) – but I think it’s a good illustration of the tendency away from the novel and exciting toward the repetitious and familiar. We’ve been reading about Vimes since 1989. I love Vimes, and I can see why it’s hard for both author and readers to let go – but he has nothing new to offer. [The only exception is his son – ten years from now, when his son is old enough to be a character in his own right, I think Vimes would become interesting again].  A simple fact: Vimes has been in all of the last seven non-YA novels. 11 of the last 16. Since 1994, we have never had more than two books in a row without Vimes in them. Enough with the Vimes!

It’s also not funny. There were a most a handful of ‘ha!’ moments, and the only brief chuckle was from a footnote that seemed to be a direct authorial insert. He doesn’t remember how to use footnotes, either. He puts them in because it’s expected of him, but they seem superfluous, lacking that manic distract-you-from-the-story quality. At least one of them was an ordinary paragraph just put into a footnote for no reason, with the next paragraph after the asterisk following on grammatically and semantically from the footnote, not the preceding main text. There’s nothing wrong with not being funny, of course, but it feels like one of Pratchett’s greatest weapons has been blunted. If there hadn’t been a great story attached, I’d wonder what the point of the book was, since it isn’t funny and it isn’t that insightful either, though lots of words are devoted to appearing insightful and funny.

The plot, meanwhile, while good, is not entirely satisfying in the end, all being wrapped up far too nicely and off-handedly. The balance of the book is also somewhat thrown off by the fact that the climax occurs fifty pages early than it should do.

These quibbles, I hope, demonstrate that I continue to have serious concerns about the direction of Pratchett’s work. However, even a nostalgic reader like myself must concede that there is an admirable vitality about the work that may not bring it to the level of his greatest books, but at least raises it above the level of his recent novels (again, I haven’t read the Aching books). It also shows concrete directions that Pratchett can take to re-enliven the series: make sure there is a good story, and take us (and the characters) out of our comfort zone.

So, in conclusion: it’s a step up from recent fare, and I’m glad I bought the book at once, and read it instantly. I’ll almost certainly do the same for his next book (unless, perhaps, it’s Raising Taxes). If I seem critical, it is to some extent because I hold Pratchett to a higher standard than I would an author with whose earlier and better work I was not familiar. This book is fun, exciting, enjoyable, and a step in the right direction. It is not, however, devoid of flaws, which remind us why a change in direction is needed.

–

Adrenaline: 5/5. Not perfect (the end is anticlimactic and the beginning is poor), but I read it within 24 hours, and would have read it in one sitting had obligations not intervened. It’s a slow and steady build-up to an explosive climax, which is the best scene I’ve read in Pratchett since… a long time ago.

Emotion: 2/5. I found it hard to care: about Vimes because I know him so well already and knew he was in no danger (the idea of bringing his son along was a great touch though, and certainly should be explored further if Pterry really must return to the character), and about anyone else, because… there was nobody else to care about.

Thought: 3/5. Meh. Nothing very deep or complicated. But the mystery element kept the synapses active.

Beauty: 3/5. Meh.

Craft: 4/5. Good plotting and construction, and mostly OK prose with some good bits. Let down by some bad bits (particularly the beginning), the lack of punch in the ending, and the fact that it seemed a little cardboardy around the edges.

Endearingness: 3/5. I enjoyed it, it was fun, I would read it again. The lack of novelty and the lack of emotion mean it wouldn’t leap to the top of the pile.

Originality: 2/5. To be fair, it doesn’t set out to be original – it’s almost an homage, both to Discworld itself and to mystery novels.

Overall: 5/7. Good. Not as good as I’d dared to hope, but a lot better than I’d feared. Promising.

 

Johnny and the Bomb, by Terry Pratchett

Johnny and the Bomb  is the concluding volume of a trilogy begun by Only You Can Save Mankind and continued by Johnny and the Dead – but to be honest, that doesn’t matter much. There are no continuing plot elements, only recurring characters, which get about as much definition in this volume as they did in preceding instalments (ie very little).

If you don’t remember my views on the first two books, here’s a quick summary: OYCSM is, in my opinion, an imaginative, funny, surprisingly mordant novella that deals with an off-the-wall and curious SF concept against the background of a realistic, well-characterised satirical portrayal of the 1990s, and is let down only by its overly simplistic, almost lazy plot resolution, and its general not-quite-under-controlness; Dead, on the other hand, is a more polished but also more lifeless novella, using the same trope (genre concept in 1990s small-town Britain with a cast of teenagers), without the accuracy or complexity of characterisation, without the darker undertow, without the same bite to the comedy, without the inherent interest and sophistication of the central conceit, and without much of the joie de vivre. Tastes may, of course, vary. But assuming my views on the first two novels aren’t wholly idiosyncratic: where does the third volume fall on this spectrum?

Somewhere in between. There is an exciting, enjoyable pace to this, and the conceit is a little less plain. On the other hand, it doesn’t really make any sense. The fact that it doesn’t make any sense is mostly covered up by the manic pace and the intentional confusion, but the fact does remain. Characterisation is rather better than in the second book, but not as good as in the first (although more realistic in terms of age-suitability). The writing is, throughout, excellent, particular in the earlier parts, where I found myself laughing out loud several times.  Sometimes I feel that Pratchett’s dialogue is what Aaron Sorkin wishes he could write. The humour is also pleasantly uncomfortable at times, thanks to the racial component, which Pratchett deals with extremely well, neither condoning racism nor preaching too overtly. [The less prominent attempts to deal with sexism came off rather less convincingly]. However, where OYCSM was based in reality and used the genre elements for counterpoint, Bomb is an all-out SF adventure romp, which makes it all feel rather safer.

Adrenaline: 3/5. Not an awful lot happens, but it happens very quickly, and I was quite carried away by it – although the air of safety, lack of real investment, and underlying nonsensical silliness prevented it from being thrilling.

Emotion: 1/5. Never actually cared about any of it. The characters are too cardboard and the peril too remote.

Thought: 2/5. The fact that it makes no sense, and the pace, forced my brain to keep active working out what was going on.

Beauty: 3/5. Funny, elegant prose, a clever idea… it’s all very pretty, I suppose. Lightweight, but pretty.

Craft: 4/5. As I’ve said before, Pratchett is a true master, when he wants to be. This feels a little slipshod, a little light, not quite satisfactory at the end, and generally not quite an inspired or diligent effort – but there’s almost nothing that’s actually wrong about it, nothing inept. I think the plot holes are a bit too big to give a perfect score.

Endearingness: 3/5. I found it likeable and enjoyable, but not a must-reread, because it was all a little too light.

Originality: 2/5. Large parts feel too familiar – the conceit has been pretty much worked over in the genre, and the execution is a bit too Prachettian, a bit too reheated. No surprise, I suppose – by this time, Pratchett had written The Carpet People, The Dark Side of the Sun, Strata, Truckers, Diggers, Wings, Good Omens, the first two Johnny Maxwell novels, and the first 18-20 Discworld novels. If sometimes he seems to be re-using characters and ideas, we should bear in mind just how many books he’s had to fill. [Tangent: has any modern author had a more stunning three years than Pratchett’s 1990-1993? Beginning with Moving Pictures, we got Reaper Man, Witches Abroad, Small Gods, Lords and Ladies, Men at Arms, Only You Can Save Mankind, the entire Bromeliad trilogy, and Good Omens! Eleven novels in a row and it’s hard to pick a bad one – a record that many authors would be pleased with for a lifetime, let alone three years work.

Overall: 4/7. Not Bad.