The Incomparable Terry Pratchett

On 15 March 2015, Terry Pratchett died after a long and heroically public illness. This is still hard to take in. It seemed that his literary exultations – be it the Discworld series, his collaborations with other writers, his non-fiction or his sci-fi – were streaming from a near infinite source. There was never not a new Pratchett book, he was never not a presence for many of us readers of a certain age, and the knowledge that he had slipped away and would write no more was like being told Christmas had been cancelled. Some people struggle with such finality. Readers of fantasy fiction certainly do.

Pratchett’s writing life was hugely industrious; he famously referred to the onset of Alzheimer’s as a mere inconvenient 'embuggerance' to his work. Even death itself has only stemmed the flow, with The Long Utopia arriving on shelves in June this year. But the laws of physics apply even to metaphors, and the momentum has finally come to rest; this month The Shepherd’s Crown will be published and there will be no more Discworld novels. This will be book 41 in the series, which by anyone’s standards is a decent run, and yet we can’t help but feel that it’s not enough.

Pratchett was notable for his diversity, even when based in the same fantasy world. He occupies that special branch of post-war British comedy that utilises the absurdist and satirical to address questions more existential than the immediate material may suggest. This is in no small part why Pratchett and Douglas Adams are so often compared – one using fantasy as a lens, the other using science fiction. Even the opening introductions to their worlds are rather similar in their establishing-shot prose:

‘Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy...’ (Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.)

‘In a distant and second hand set of dimensions, on an astral plane that was never meant to fly…’ (Pratchett, The Colour of Magic.)

It seems a disservice to both to pigeonhole them simply as two sides of the same coin, yet Pratchett is often compared to other writers who use parody and amplification in their landscapes to address contemporary concerns. Vonnegut, Wodehouse, Adams. You can play this game all day. But why is Pratchett unique? Why does he stand out? In no uncertain terms, it is due to his scope. You would be hard pressed to find another writer who explored so many different and eclectic themes within the same fantastic landscape and lifetimes of recurring characters. Alright, Iain M Banks comes in a close second, but nothing on the size of Pratchett.

Not long after Pratchett took Death’s arm, his daughter Rhianna announced what readers had expected. She would not continue the Discworld series, nor would she authorise continuations by other creative types. The reaction was unusual for a fandom. Rather than foot stamping, the overwhelming response seemed to be of solemn and respectful agreement. A quiet sense of “yes, that’s for the best” prevailed. So why are readers OK with Discworld coming to an end with its creator, when other bodies of work, like Adams’ adventures of Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect, were picked up after years of agonising?

Part of it has to do with how Adams died; he was spirited away suddenly at a relatively young age, while Pratchett had been ill for quite some time and his own ending was anticipated – some of his books are dedicated to the idea of coming to terms with death and the inevitable passing away. But, arguably more pressingly, the Discworld, in its second-hand dimensions, had existed long before The Colour of Magic and will continue long after The Shepherd’s Crown.

With Discworld Pratchett created a timeless world that at the same time developed along with our own. What started out as a parody of clichés became a universal sounding board in which everything was up for debate and scrutiny, parody and exposure. The fantasy setting only allowed for a malleability of approach. The subjects addressed are titanic and innocuous, profound and mundane, as the inhabitants of the Disc try to find their place in a universe that doesn’t make all that much sense and where more often than not the one voice of reason is the leaden tones of Death himself (who is also rather confused by everybody else). The volumes are neat and accessible but never formulaic, clever but never obnoxious, true but never preachy, and eminently quotable.

If there isn’t one already, a volume of Pratchett truisms, quotes and utterances needs to be made; it would rival Confucius any day. The Discworld holds up a series of funhouse mirrors to our world and allows us a myriad of distorted, raucous reflections. And at the same time they are funny. Not Douglas Adams funny. Not PG Wodehouse funny. They’re Pratchett funny, with a unique dry wit that is always as hilarious as it is true.

Pratchett’s great victory as a writer, as a philosopher and as a person is that his works are a kaleidoscopic web of the most human thought, feeling and emotion expressed through magic, wizardry and absurdity. What he succeeded in doing was creating a point of view, like a latter-day and Socratic Aesop, presenting fables and parables for the things that concern our real world and are timeless in their application. They belong to the ages now. In that great pantheon of genre writers, Pratchett takes pride of place and will remain as relevant and as funny and as true, regardless of whether or not the stories are continued. The Discworld and its arena of thought hasn’t disappeared. Death is a pretty definitive end to anything, but what matter? There is always time for another last minute. And the turtle is still flying.