Terry Pratchett and the Little Things

I finished re-reading Terry Pratchett's "Jingo" this week, and what a pleasure it was.

With Pratchett, there's the story of course. An island rises out of the sea prompting a rivalry between two powers who are all to willing to go to war or to use the situation to usurp power. Pratchett skewers it all.

But also with Pratchett are the little things that hold the story together and give you a chuckle as the main story makes you think.

First, dismantling myths about others:

Then there's Nobby Nobbs, copper of undetermined species, who goes on a journey of discovery of his own. It's the little stuff that keeps me reading. And the big stuff that makes me think.

Little Bits

I'm re-reading Terry Pratchett's "Jingo," and with this little bit - in fact, with many little bits - I'm reminded that Pratchett's genius lies not only in his sharp satire but in the little moments like this that really set me to sniggering.

I hit on this bit while I was using the restroom at work, and I had to stifle the giggles.

Jabbar gave him an appraising look.

The sniggering stopped.

"Then it is true that you can see further than most," he said.

"So can this food," said Vimes. "My father told me never to eat anything that can wink back."

There was one of those little hanging-by-a-thread moments, which might suddenly rock one way or the other into a gale of laughter or sudden death.

Then Jabbar slapped Vimes on the back. The eyeball shot off his palm and into the shadows.

"Well done! Extremely good2 first time it have not worked in twenty year! Now sit down and have proper rice and sheep just like mother!"

And as I've read a lot of Pratchett, I have to remind myself that this kind of thing comes with much practice. He makes it look effortless, but in reading his earlier works it's clear it's something he had to work at.

That inspires me to keep on working my own craft.

On the Subject of . . . Wossname.

What we ought to do is this:

Remain horrified that it was done by an "other" that we knew already was *bad* and remain smug that it was not one of *us* and point fingers of blame everywhere but the root causes we *could* be doing something about.

That attitude has served us well since the last time something like this happened.

And the time before.

And the time before that.

And the time before that . . .

Raising Steam: Finally Finished

I finished reading Terry Pratchett's "Raising Steam" today, and can conclude though this isn't my favorite Pratchett novel, and though it's uneven in its Pratchettness, it certainly is a good story.

I won't spoil anything, but I will say I was capitvated by the last third of the novel above all else. There were some surprise callbacks to past events I should have seen coming but didn't, so even with the Embuggarence making writing a lot harder for him in the end, Pratchett can certainly out-novel me in every respect. Of course, he's had a lot more practice. And gumption.

What a legacy to draw on, over forty Discworld novels.

The last line of this novel in particular gives me hope for my own writing efforts:

"What little thing will change the world because the little tinkerers kept on tinkering?"

Thank you for the stories, Mr. Pratchett. I'll keep reading, and hopefully one day, have one written.

Raising Steam: A New Look

After a hiatus in which I read several other books, I'm back on Terry Pratchett's "Raising Steam."

My initial look at the book was pretty grim. It still feels as if the book were written in Plato's cave, but it's growing on me. I really try to give books a fair shake; there are only a few I've given up on (notably John Crowley's "Little, Big" and Mervyn Peake's "Gormenghast" novels (and I'm not sure I've given up on the latter, but it certainly has fallen to the bottom of my "to read" pile).

I picked "Raising Steam" back off the pile after finishing Catherine Gilbert Murdock's "The Book of Boy," which I thoroughly enjoyed. I decided after reading that excellent book that I wanted to get back to Pratchett's last book, and I'm glad I did.

The gauze is starting to come off the characters. There's a lot of gauze there yet, but they're starting to come through, and Pratchett -- like Dickens -- is to be read for the characters, because the characters make the story.

I know Alzheimers is an ugly disease; my mother-in-law passed away from Alzheimers complications earlier this year. It was hard to watch her personality deteriorate and fade, so watching it in "Raising Steam" brings back some pretty hard memories of our family's last few months with her. So I guess I have a little extra baggage coming into this novel.

Raising Steam, and an Impossible Task

So I'm trying to read Terry Pratchett's "Raising Steam."

I really want to like it. I know it came near the end of his life as he struggled with Alzheimers disease. I know how ugly that disease can be; we just lost my mother-in-law to the disease earlier this year.

I am going to finish the book. But it's going to be tough.

It feels as if it were written by a committee. A committee that really wanted to help Pratchett out, but probably shouldn't have.

He left enormous shoes to fill, so I don't envy this committee's job one bit. I mean, I can see a path forward on finishing the book once started, but the committee really needed to re-read "Going Postal" and "Making Money" to get a feel for a Moist von Lipwig novel. I'll keep reading with an open mind, but I have the general feeling that the committee knew the elements of Pratchett's style but just wans't able to use the tools correctly for final assembly. And really, they had an impossible task. Pratchett has a very distinct style that he honed over decades, so there's no reason at all to think someone else, or even a few someone elses, could pick it up and make it work on the first go.

I say this as a writer still struggling to find my own voice. It's tough, but for those who find it and write with the productivity Pratchett did, it becomes natural and innate and in many ways inimitable, particulary by those under pressure who were left to finish things when the master wasn't able to do so.

After all We Can Do

For we labor diligently to write, to persuade our children, and also our brethren, to believe in Christ, and to be reconciled to God; for we know that it is by grace that we are saved, after all we can do.

2 Nephi 25:23

One verse.

One verse from the Book of Mormon is all it took to reconcile the religion-oriented chiding present in Terry Pratchett's wonderful childrens' novel "Truckers" with the gospel of Christ.

To sum up: Gnomes from "Outside" find their way into the Arnold Bros. department store and find there a culture of other gnomes who worship the store (or at least Arnold Bros.) as their god. They bring with them The Thing, of which they have now knowlege, save that their ancestors said it was important.

The Thing (spoilers) turns out to be sort of a memory cube that tells the gnomes they came to Earth from outer space, and that their hardscrabble existence on Earth is due to some ancient error that severed their link with the mother ship, which is still in the solar system neighborhood.

It's a great story, to be sure. But they discover Arnold Bros. is to be demolished, thus ending the subsistence of the gnomes from both Inside and Outside. So they begin, with The Thing's help, to cook up a plan.

Then The Thing abandons them, thus:

If I'm understanding the implications here, The Thing represents not the god of Arnold Bros., but science and reason, since it is a thinking machine. The Thing "abandoning" them at this point is supposed to show that it's up to the gnomes to succeed, without intervening help, as they are more than clever animals.

Thus the citation from Nephi. God knows we are more than clever animals. We are to work out our own problems, seeking assistance not only from God, but from ourselves, our peers, our families, our friends, working as hard as we can to solve our problems and making decisions on what to do next.

We can ask God for assistance, but He is not going to tell us each step of the way what to do. That is left to us, our agency, and our faith that our decisions, based on our faith and hard work, will be the correct ones.

The Best Part: Interesting Times, by Terry Pratchett

"I am their lord," said Lord Hong. "They will die at my bidding, if necessary."

Cohen gave him a big, dangerous grin. "When do we start?" he said.

"Return to your . . . band," said Lord Hong. "And then I think we shall start . . . shortly." He glared at Truckle, who was unfolding his bit of paper. The barbarian's lips moved awkwardly and he ran a horny finger across the page.

"Misbegotten . . . wretch, so you are," he said.

"My word," said Mr. Saveloy, who'd created the look-up table.

Situation: Mr. Saveloy, a school teacher, joins a band of ancient barbarians led by Ghengiz Cohen to "civilize" the group so they can infiltrate an empire in Terry Pratchett's "Interesting Times." Part of that civilization education includes tempering the band's language, particularly their curses. Proof that even in apocalyptic times, a good technical writer can find useful employment.

Where's My Cow? Acting, Rather than Being Acted Upon.

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 hand 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 Watchman? 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 darkness out. I'm 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."

~Terry Pratchett, "Thud"

Yet again, Pratchett the Humanist lands squarely in the camp of those who believe in a supreme being.

Sam Vimes' internal Watchman is trained and set to act, not to be acted upon. And whether this Watchman is trained by Vimes alone or trained by Vimes with the assistance of, say, the Holy Ghost, there's no difference, unless you wish to split hairs about belief in a Christian god. He probably would do so.

But there is no difference.

The Book of Mormon prophet Nephi delivers a powerful sermon to his son Jacob about agency -- something Pratchett touches on as a major theme in Thud! The agency given to us by God is for us to use, whether to good or evil ends. It is part of the test. If we train ourselves to act with our agency in ways that keep the natural man in check, we defeat the Summoning Dark and with the help of the Holy Ghost, who will influence us for good but not remove our agency, we can become the Guarding Dark.

Yes, many will fail, whether they approach this from a humanist or Christian point of view. The common denominator is the frailty and weakness of man. If we will God to cause us to do nothing but good, we surrender our agency and become things that are acted upon, not things that act. Being a thing that acts is what makes us human, and certainly what makes Vimes Vimes. That he, and we, choose to act in ways that keep the darkness in is indeed a credit to our own inner training. I am glad to have the assistance of God in my Guarding Dark endeavors.

Vimes also strains to come up with no bad excuses to miss reading "Where's My Cow?" to Young Sam, for a person who would miss a reading with a bad excuse will certainly come up with more and better excuses to miss. Not even being trapped in the bowels of Koom Valley's plumbing could keep Sam from his appointment -- Sam acted. As must we all.

A Flight of Fancy with "The Shepherd's Crown"

Allow me a slight flight of fancy.

While the elves are the lurking menace in Terry Pratchett's last novel, "The Shepherd's Crown," and while they show up at the end, the real menace in the book is menace itself.

The elves eject their queen. The elves spoil the beer. The elves raid, the elves feint, almost always offscreen, out of sight of the eyes telling the story, but always in the back of the mind of those reading the story.

Much like the Alzheimer's that claimed Terry Pratchett's life shortly after this book was written.

And maybe that's a stretch. Maybe I'm reading too much into this. But I feel like it's a possibility. Pratchett may indeed have written more of this book as it is claimed. But maybe just the presence of the "menace" of the elves -- which we know in a foregone conclusion will be defeated -- represents what Pratchett felt about the Alzheimer's destroying his brain. Maybe he wrote the rote happy ending to this novel of menace knowing such a happy ending wouldn't come in his own life. Pratchett is certainly a clever enough writer to pull this off. Or maybe I'm just reading too much into what happens in the book, paralleling what was happening in his own life at the time.

But it's possible.

And I wonder, what is he thinking now?

Yes, he was an avowed atheist. But even atheists go to heaven when they die. That is my belief. And I wish him no disrespect by writing this. But surely a fantasist of his caliber might welcome the real presence of other realms, other planes of existence, similar to what he wrote of in his novels.

I'm glad the rumored ending, as reported by Neil Gaiman, didn't come to pass. That's too neat of an ending, too rote. Because Esme Weatherwax, of all the characters Pratchett created, would certainly know that death, even an anticipated one, does not arrive on "one's own terms." Whether it comes after a long life of peace and loveliness or after a shorter life of violence and woe, it comes. The roteness of happy endings might have left Pratchett and others cynical about the thought of life after death, but I find weariness in the thought that this life is all there is, whether happy or sad. After we live, we live again on our own terms, but not before. Life after this, that is the flight of fancy we prepare for.
 

Going Postal -- Or Avoiding Sounding Brass

Once again I'm probably going to make secular humanist Terry Pratchett a bit upset.

But as I read his book "Going Postal," I can't help but to see its themes on hope and restoration as a parallel to the faith and redemption in the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Bear with me a moment.

Take, for example, these passages from pages 276-77 of my American edition:

Handing all that gold over to a copper had been a difficult thing to do, but there really was no choice. He'd got them by the short and curlies, anyway. No one was going to stand up and say the gods didn't do this sort of thing. True, they'd never done it so far, but you could never tell, with gods. Certainly there were queues outside the three temples, once the Times had put out its afternoon edition.

This had presented the priesthoods with a philosophical problem. They were officially against people laying up treasures on earth, but they had to admit, it was always good to get bums on pews, feet in sacred groves, hands rattling drawers, and fingers being trailed in the baby-alligator pool. They settled, therefore, for a kind of twinkle-eyed denial that it could happen again, while hinting that, well, you never know, ineffable are the ways of gods, eh? Besides, petitioners were standing in line with their letter asking for a big bag of cash were open to suggestion that those most likely to recieveth were the ones who had already givedeth, and got the message once you tapped them on the head with the collecting plate a few times.

Even Miss Extremelia Mume, whose small, multipurpose temple over a bookmakers' office in Cable Street handled the wordly affairs of several dozen minor gods, was doing good business among those prepared to back an outside chance. She'd hung a banner over the door. It read IT COULD BE YOU.

It couldn't happen. It shouldn't happen. But, you never know . . . this time it might.

Moist recognized that hope, It was how he'd made his living. You know that the man running the Find the Lady game was going to win, you knew that people in distress didn't sell diamond rings for a fraction of their value, you knew that life generally handed you the sticky end of the stick, and you knew that the gods didn't pick some everyday undeserving tit out of the population and hand them a fortune.

Except, that this time, you might be wrong, right? It might just happen, yes?

OF course, Pratchett and his ilk feel they've got the greed behind this kind of "religion" right. And for the most part they do. I've heard the sermons of the so-called prosperity gospels, even seen a bit of it in my own church.

But what the mockers and scoffers miss is that, at the fundament of it all, there is that sincere hope.

But it's hope combined with works. And here is where I get in trouble with most mainstream Christians, who tend to believe that faith is all that's needed.

Not so.

Many seem to forget this admonition of James (emphasis mine):

What does it profit, my brethren, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can faith save him? If a brother or sister is naked and destitute of daily food, and one of you says to them, “Depart in peace, be warmed and filled,” but you do not give them the things which are needed for the body, what does it profit? Thus also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.

And note this does not refer to works by God, or miracles, or mysterious bags of wonga falling form the sky or being dug up by charlatan postmen with winged hats.

The main word in that passage is you.

If we do not works, if we do not act in ways that could be the answers to prayers or if we do not act in godly ways, it is our faith that is dead. Not the faith of those who ask and receive not -- and receive not because some secular humanists tells them their hope in God is vain because he doe snot exist. It is because the fellow-believers in God do not act in God's name.

We have to have works, or this happens:

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.

Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

This, from the first letter to the Corinthians.

Good works turn faith into action, and that is what many Christians miss, and their critics rightly pick up on.

Moist von Lipwig, who prayed to the gods to pull the wool over everyone's eyes, had the works -- he knew where the money was buried. Literally.

And those who saw him had hope. Hope in a charlatan, yes. But hope in a man whose works came in time for redemption.

So again, Mr. Pratchett. Thank you for teaching me how to be a better Christian, even if I had to pray to Anoia in order to become such.

Deconstructing Terry Pratchett: Maskerade

In my next life, I want to be Terry Pratchett. Until then, the best I can do is read and re-read the books he’s written, and marvel at them.

Today, I finished re-reading, for I don’t know how many times, his novel “Maskerade,” which on the surface appears to be a parody of “The Phantom of the Opera.” Mostly it parodies the musical. But it also parodies the book. And it parodies opera. And operatic tropes and so many other damn things re-reading it is like peeling an onion: You never quite get to the end of it and end up with fingers that smell good for days afterward.

On this reading, I learned this*:

When Greebo**, anticipating chasing the Opera Ghost, throws his bowl of fish eggs out of the box, Pratchett writes its falling resulted in someone in the stalls having a “Fortean experience.” Finally looked that up, and it let me here.

And I should have suspected it was something like this, as Pratchett spends a little time in this same book with the Almanack, where rains of curry and fish and other whatnots are predicted in a book most people use in the privy because the pages are nice and thin.

And I also connected the dot between the highly operatic discovery by Mrs. Angeline Lawsey that her long-lost lover, and father to son Henry – was indeed the famous Enrico Basilica, swearing off the stage and opera to re-become Henry Slugg of Ankh-Morpork at the end of the book, right after Mr. Salzella criticizes the loopy logic of operas that often brings long-lost lovers back together.

And DAMMIT if the character of Walter Plinge isn’t modeled after a character played by Michael Crawford. Just how much stuff did Pratchett have crammed into that glorious head of his?



So it’s parody wrapped in parody, smothered in secret sauce. And dripping with irony and the seemingly inexhaustible knowledge of trivia from the author’s head.

He writes what he knows, apparently.

I could do that.

And he’s following the advice of another excellent writer:



So the rules are, or appear to be:

1. Put a lot of stuff in your head.
2. Figure out some way to get all the stuff in your head to connect and eventually come out when needed. Some kind of journaling or note-taking is probably involved.
3. Write your brains out.

Part of me is happy that Mr. Pratchett blessed us with his work.

Another part of me is upset that this amount of writing talent couldn’t be shared with other writers. Notably me.

But I could get there, the voices say, if I’d actually write, not write about another person’s writing.

That seems grossly unfair. And also accurately operatic.

*Ironically, it came as I was reading about the hapless Henry Lawsey, who has to pause his own reading about the opera to look up words in his dictionary.

**Not going to explain all the characters. Look them up. Or better yet, read the book.

Steal the River

The above is a Terry Pratchett novel in utero. Below, a very feeble attempt at a start. . .


“They are digging,” he said.

“No!” whispered the other.

“For the past four months, yes. I have seen it.”

The second picked up his cup, drained it. “They are fools.”

“Fools, yes. But they are digging nonetheless.”

“Bruno, you’re –”

“A liar. Yes, I know. I am. But I tell you, I have seen it.”

“Where do they dig?”

“I cannot tell you that. It is a secret.”

“A secret? A thousand men moving all that dirt and rock!” he shouted.

“Yes, a secret, even here,” he said quietly, reaching up, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and pulling him back down into his seat.

“They cannot possibly hide it. All that dirt!”

“You think they plan to do this without a plan for the dirt? Lucca will have more hills to hide its ugly women! The dirt is the least of their problems! They need men. Men to dig and men to haul and men to hold the water back until the idiots in Pisa look out their windows and see nothing but mud!”

“You’re shouting,” the other said. “I thought it was a secret.”

“Oh, it is,” he said, tapping the side of his nose.

“Everyone in the bar heard your shouting.”

“Bah,” he said. “That’s bar shouting. Two drunken fools at a table talking as other drunken fools drink or play darts or eat questionable sausage or run off suddenly to puke. Bar shouting.”

“Yours too. But let us test a few of them. You! Old man!”

The old man sitting at the table next to them – the old man who had up until that point quietly sipped his wine and whittled on a bit of a stick – smiled blindly in their direction.

“You, old man. You have heard our conversation?”

“I heard about digging,” he said slowly. “And dirt that’s moving. And water that’s holding back. And about the idiots in Pisa. I have a grandson in Pisa.”

“You’ve heard of Luchesi?”

The old man coughed up some wine, dribbling some down his chin.

“You know Luchesi?” he repeated.

The old man nodded. “The one who –“

“—cuts off –”

“Yes. I know him.”

“He wants this digging kept a secret.”

The chattering in the bar – lowered with each sentence and outburst of the two men at the table so they could hear the secrets – died, but for one word, a name, whispered and written on bits of paper passed back and forth and in the spilled wine on the further tables.

“You know of any digging?”

“No,” the old man said.

“Not even for the idiots in Pisa to crap in?”

“No, nothing,” he said.

“No hole for that grandson of yours?”

“No, please.”

He reached across the table and patted his companion on the shoulder. “See?” he said to the other.

“It’s a secret.”

“Ah, but threats? The name of Luchesi? Now you go into the realm of rumors.”

“Rumors,” he said. “As long as the name of Luchesi is in those rumors, I do not fear them. Pisa can send spies. They can send diggers for all I care. You think we’ve not let the idiot diggers from Pisa go back home? And paid?”

“But –”

“But always with the name of Luchesi. And you know what happens if you say the name Luchesi too often.”

“Yes,” he said. “He appears.”

“And not in the best of moods.”

A waiter walked to the table and deposited another bottle of wine. He slipped the waiter a coin with a nod.

“And all they know is, we dig. And they do not dig channels. They dig wells. They dig pits. They dig graves – some of those are filled in, yes – or they dig cesspits. No big channels. No hole within sight of another. They are not stupid, those planning the dig. One knows the hole one digs. Nothing more. And they feed them the dirt for breakfast.”

Humanists, Meet Humanists

This, folks, is why you read a book more than once.

And why sometimes you have to remind yourself that reading out of good books doesn’t necessarily meaning reading books off someone’s “good books” list.

This is from Terry Pratchett’s “Unseen Academicals,” in which again this famous Humanist again proves that Humanism isn’t all that far from the teachings of one Jesus Christ, it’s just that some of Christ’s followers are a bit on the wonky side.

Here’s what I mean, reproduced in two pictures from the book, rather than via typing all those words:

The important bit:

Glenda blinked, trying to get the slide slightly less than three seconds out of her memory. “And that’s true, is it?” But it had to be true. There was something about the way the image was sticking to the back of her brain that declared the truth of it.

“I want to see it again.”

“You what!” Said Hix.

“There’s more to it,” said Glenda. “It’s only part of a picture.”

“It took us hours work work that out,” said Hix severely. “How did you spot it the very first go?”

“Because I knew it had to be there,” said Glenda.

And Glenda watches the bit of preserved memory again, of an Orc attacking someone. But she sees more than the teeth and the claws.

“There!” She pointed at the frozen image. “That’s men on horseback, isn’t it? And they’ve got whips. I know it’s blurry, but you can tell they’ve got whips.”

“Well yes, of course,” said Hix. “It’s quite hard to get anything to run into a hail of arrows unless you give it some encouragement.”

Greater evil behind the lesser evil. Greater evil driving others to use as weapons. We see it daily. Not necessarily in the form of tooth and claws and whips forcing others into the hail of arrows. But we see it in politics, in society, where if you’re not supportive of one thing you must be a hater.

It’s as Paul wrote to the Corinthinas, in 1 Corinthians 13:

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.

And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.

And though I bestow all my good to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.

In Unseen Academicals, through the eyes of Lord Vetinari, this story is told:

 This is the sounding brass and tinkling cymbal. From a tyrant. An amusing tyrant, yes, but a tyrant who has had people killed and gotten away with it because of that moral superiority.

There is no superior morality without charity. Not even the Humanists can claim to be superior without it. And there is enough evil done both by purported Humanists and purported followers of Jesus Christ for me to think that any braggadocial claim of moral superiority is sounding brass and tinkling cymbal.

Because, to continue from the King James:

Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, it not puffed up.

Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;

I don’t see any of that in the so-called moral superiority. What I see is superiority wielded as a weapon, just as racism is wielded, just as jingoism is wielded. Help is offered not because one is charitable, but in an effort to make one’s enemies look uncharitable.

Good books hold mirrors up to the reader. Good books help us hear the echoes of our own sounding brass, of our own tinkling cymbals.

And here’s something interesting, also from Unseen Academicals: A refutation of the Humanist “If God Were There, He’d Stop All This” argument. Page 315:

[After being asked if wizards could to something to convince the Ankh-Morpork populace that there’s nothing to fear from Mr. Nutt, an Orc.]

“Yes,” said Ponder. “We can do practically anything, but we can’t change people’s minds. We can’t magic them sensible. Believe me, if it were possible to do that, we would have done it a long time ago. We can stop people fighting by magic and then what do we do? We have to go on using magic to stop them fighting. We have to go on using magic to stop them being stupid. And where does all that end? So we make certain it doesn’t begin. That’s why the university is here. That’s what we do. We have to sit around not doing things because of the hundreds of times in the past it’s been proved that once you get beyond the abracadabra, hey presto, changing-the-pigeons-into-ping-pong-balls style of magic you start getting more problems than you’ve solved. It was bad enough finding ping-pong balls nesting in the attics.”

“Ping-pong balls nestin;?” said Trev.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Ponder glumly.

Humanists don't believe in God because they believe they are morally superior to Him. Yet we see here the wizards of Discworld recognizing that the behavior Humanists would expect in a god isn't the kind of behavior that wins awards.

Someone's gonna be upset.

1984, Brave New World, Feet of Clay

I’ve written a lot on this blog about the two pillars of 20th century dystopian fiction: Aldous Huxley’s “Brave New World” and George Orwell’s “1984.”

After reading George Packer’s piece in the July 2019 issue of The Atlantic, I’m prepared to argue there’s a third book that should be added as a pillar: “Feet of Clay,” by Terry Pratchett.

I agree it’s a tenuous argument at best, despite Pratchett’s well-deserved reputation as a modern satirist.

Let’s start with Packer’s article, wherein he reviews Dorian Lynskey’s “The Ministry of Truth: The Biography of George Orwell’s 1984.”

Orwell’s lasting power comes, Lynskey argues, not form idiot interpretations of the novel but through its basic message: “The moral,” as Lynskey quotes Orwell, “to be drawn from this dangerous nightmare situation is a simple one: Don’t let it happen. It depends on you.”

Enter Sir Samuel Vimes. Descendant of “Stoneface” Vimes, who executed the last rightful king of Ankh-Morpork. No matter the king was mad. No matter he had a horse as privy councilor. No matter he tortured opponents, critics, and probably even loyalists who got up his nose. That he was king, and that Stoneface Vimes killed him means, as far as Dragon King of Arms, that Vimes is an unperson, and the unperson who is Cecil Wormsborough St. John “Nobby” Nobbs, as a descendant of the Earl of Ankh, ought to rise to the throne. Toe be, of course, a puppet of the snobbier remnants of Ankh-Morpork nobility who think they ought to be in charge but they don’t quite have the genealogy to pull it off.

And let’s not forget the golems, fighting for justice, but getting it, as it turns out, very wrong.

The schemers aim to use fakery and imagery to promote their puppet and become de facto rulers of the city, most powerful in the Discworld – putting the “right” people in place. And since Lord Vetinari, current ruler of Ankh-Morpork is a self-described “benevolent tyrant,” the people won’t really care who’s in charge, as long as the economy keeps purring along.

Back to Packer’s article:

As Lynskey points out, Orwell didn’t forsee ‘that the common man and woman would embrace doublethink as enthusiastically as the intellectuals, and without the need for terror or torture, would choose to believe that two plus two was whatever they wanted it to be.’

Or what the state, the party, the charismatics, say it should be.

And more, lest you think this is only aimed in one right-leaning direction:

Progressive doublethink – which has grown worse in reaction to the right-wing kind – creates a more insidious unreality because it operates in the name of all that is good. Its key word is justice – a word no one should want to live without. But today the demand for justice forces you to accept contradictions that are the essence of doublethink.

Want an example? Packer says:

Many people on the left now share an unacknowledged but common assumption that a good work of art is made of good politics and that good politics is a matter of identity. The progressive view of a book or play depends on its political stance, and its stance – even its subject matter – is scrutinized in light of the group affiliation of the artist: personal identity plus political position equals aesthetic value. This confusion of categories guides judgments all across the worlds of media, the arts, and education, from movie reviews to grant committees. Some people who register the assumption as doublethink might be privately troubles, but they don’t say so publicly. Then self-censorship turns into self-deception, until the recognition itself disappears – a lie you accept becomes a lie you forget. In this way, intelligent people do the work of eliminating their own unorthodoxy without the Thought Police.

This willing constriction of intellectual freedom will do lasting damage. It corrupts the ability to think clearly, and it undermines both culture and progress. Good art doesn’t come from wokeness, and social problems starved of debate can’t find real solutions. “Nothing is gained by teaching a parrot a new word,” Orwell wrote in 1946. “What is needed is the right to print what one believes to be true, without having to fear bullying or blackmail from any side.” Not much has changed since the 1940s. The will to power still passes through hatred on the right and virtue on the left.

Sir Samuel Vimes, in Pratchett’s novel, knows both hatred and virtue. He sees them in himself, and hates both of them. He stands as the man in the middle who is still able to see clearly, doubts his convictions, doubts his doubts, and still manages to fix things, or at least make them as fixable as Ankh-Morpork will allow them to be fixed. No free elections under Lord Vetinari, but under Lord Vetinari it’s the bad guys who end up in prison. Or summarily executed. Because, you know, tyrant.

So in this way “Feet of Clay” isn’t dystopian. It’s a satire of the real, very imperfect world where we live, wherein there are people like Sir Samuel Vimes who know that two plus two can only equal four.

More on this as I continue to read this wonderful, and increasingly timeless, story.

The Best Part, 2019-2

"Monstrous Regiment," by Terry Pratchett

Jackrum softened his voice a little when he saw their expressions. “Lads, this is war, understand? He was a soldier, there were soldiers, you are soldiers . . . more or less. No soldier will see grub or good boots go to waste. Bury ‘em decent and say what prayers you can remember, and hope they’ve gotne where there’s no fighting.” He raised his voice back to the normal bellow. “Perks, round up the others! Igor, cover the fire, try to make it look like we were never here! We are moving out in number ten minutes! Can make a few miles before full daylight! That’s right, eh, Lieutenant?”

Blouse was still transfixed, but seemed to wake up now.

“What? Oh. Yes. Right. Yes, indeed. Er . . . yes. Carry on, Sergeant.”

The fire gleamed off Jackrum’s triumphal face. In the red glow, his little dark eyes were like holes in space, his grinning mouth the gateway to a Hell, his bulk some monster from the Abyss.

He let it happen, Pollly knew. He obeyed orders. He didn’t’ do anything wrong. But he would have sent Maladict and Jade to help us, instead of Wazzer and Igorina, who aren’t quick with weapons. He sent the others away. He had the bow ready. He played a game with us as pieces, and won . . .

Poor old soldier! her father and his friends had sung while frost formed on the window panes. Poor old soldier! If ever I ‘list for a solider again . . . the Devil shall be my sergeant!

In the firelight, the grin of Sergeant Jackrum was a crescent of blood, his coat the color of a battlefield sky.

“You are my little lads,” he roared. “Aid I will look after you.”

One of John Steinbeck’s rules of writing goes like this:

Sometimes I want a book to break loose with a bunch of hooptedoodle . . . Spin up some pretty words maybe or sing a little song with language. That’s nice.

Another rule follows right after:

But I wish it was set aside so I don’t have to read it. I don’t want hooptedoodle to get mixed up with the story.

Here, Terry Pratchett breaks the second part of the rule. He throws his hooptedoodle in with the story. But just enough. Just enough hooptedoodle to help us see, for a moment, Private Perk’s Sergeant jackrum turn into the Devil from her father’s old song. The hooptedoodle slows the action down, but just for a moment. Just for that delicious moment when Perks realizes while Jackrum may play the fool from time to time, he is, at the fundament, no fool at all – and is in fact, devilish.

This represents the perfect balance of story and hooptedoodle. We slow down just long enough, at the end of the scene, to sweep ourselves deeper into Jackrum as a character.

So I need to do this with my characters as well. This is why you read lots of books, folks. So you see how others do it. And so you see how long it took them for it to become natural.

Pratchett's "Pyramids." Almost Passable

I am at heart a big Terry Pratchett fan. But as with any author, there’s going to be work of varying quality. Pyramids is probably the least entertaining Discworld book I’ve read. And I’ve read a lot.

The book brings the funny, but in random, discrete packets. It’s a “chuckle occasionally” novel, where Pratchett was clearly still trying to find his feet as a satirist. Or something.

Because though this is the 9th Discworld novel, I still get the feeling Pratchett is trying to be a “serious” fantasy novelist, attacking the Big Questions (in this case, the folly of religious faith). But he’d also been noted as a guy who could occasionally get a laugh out of the reader, so there’s that element sneaking in too.

With the funny trying to compete with the serious this early in his career, neither come out well.
The concept of camels being good at the higher maths, funny. Sorta. And the mocking of the Greek philosophers felt good. But every time Pratchett shows religion as a creaky thing worthy of replacing in favor of – I’m not quite sure – all I see are the tired old saws from every man-about-town who’s got a religious bone to pick.

Maybe because I belong to a faith that isn’t as staid or, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just because I’m a person of faith. Are there things wrong with religion and with those who adhere to them? Yes. Just as there are things wrong with scientists and those who adhere to science. Zealots of whatever strip tend to take things too far.

On that end, Pratchett really doesn’t say anything new. He gets better at it as his career progresses (although it’s amusing to see him take humanist stances that mirror my own religious beliefs; that would probably irritate him to no end.

Anyway. I’m pleased to have read some earlier Pratchett, if only to help me appreciate the latter Pratchett all the more.

Men at Arms -- A Protean Watch Novel

As I wrote earlier, one of the many reasons to enjoy reading Terry Pratchett’s books is because Pratchett is a writer’s writer. When he’s not dismantling writerly tropes, he’s experimenting with different lenses through which to tell his stories.

“Men at Arms” is probably the most ur-writer book of Pratchett’s that I’ve read.

It is – depending on which source you consult – the second or third “Night Watch” story, which evolved into Sam Vimes novels.

While it’s interesting to see Pratchett play with the idea of Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson as the Watch’s main character, with the putative Sir Samuel Vimes as more of a sidebar character.

We see other characters, such as Angua von Uberwald, Gaspode the Wonder Dog, Fred Colon, and Nobby Nobbs emerge fully-formed, taking on the roles they’ll have (with the exception of Gaspode) through the Night Watch series: Angua as the not-so-closeted werewolf always fighting the Human/Dog dichotomy within (which, ironically, Gaspode is the one to point out); and Fred and Nobby, the Watch’s Laurel and Hardy constants. We get to see Pratchett used these various characters to various ends in the books, but we see them fully formed.

Then there’s Sir Samuel, who evolves from that sidebar character to become the Conscience of the World. Or Vetinar’s Terrier, whichever you wish to think of him. Though he is oft an object that is acted upon – as Vetinari does, and as does the Summoning Dark in Thud!, Vimes shows us he is also Someone Who Acts, often despite of those who wish to use him as a tool to their own ends. And let’s not forget the little bugger inside Vimes whom is the Watchman who Watches the Watchmen.

Vimes is, to my mind, Pratchett’s most fully-formed character, though you wouldn’t suspect that of him as you read the first few Night Watch novels.

I could wonder what made Vimes suddenly leap to the fore in the Night Watch novels, but I suspect it’s this: Vimes was more fun to write. Captain Carrot is a great character, but he’s designed to be a great simple character. Vimes could feign simplicity, but underneath he was mightily complex and conflicted. Probably that conflict is what makes Vimes fun to write.

Maybe this is a blinding flash of the obvious. But it’s a good thing for a putative writer to see.

Playing with those Metaphors

Presented here, with as little comment as possible, a lesson on using metaphors in writing, by Terry Pratchett; from pages 188-89, “Men at Arms.”

“[G]ive me some more coffee. Black as midnight on a moonless night.”

Harga looked surprised. That wasn’t like Vimes.

“How black’s that, then?”

“Oh, pretty damn black, I should think.”

“Not necessarily.”

“What?”

“You get more stars on a moonless night. Stands to reason. They show up more. It can be quite bright on a moonless night.”

Vimes sighed.

“An overcast moonless night?” he said.

Harga looked carefully at his coffee pot.

“Cumulus or cirro-nimbus?”

“I’m sorry? What did you say?”

“You gets city lights reflected off cumulus, because it’s low lying, see. Mind you, you can get high-altitude scatter off the ice crystals in – “

“A moonless night,” said Vimes, in a hollow voice, “that is as black as that coffee.”

“Right!”

“And a doughnut.” Vimes grabbed Harga’s stained vest and pulled him until they were nose to nose. “A doughnut as doughnutty as a doughnut made of flour, water, one large egg, sugar, a pinch of yeast, cinnamon to taste and a jam, jelly, or rat filling depending on national or species preference, OK? Not as doughnutty as something in any way metaphorical. Just a doughnut. One doughnut.”

“A doughnut.”

“Yes.”

“You only had to say.”

Harga brushed off his vest, gave Vimes a hurt look, and went back into the kitchen.

Pratchett is at heart a writer’s writer, who often explores odd little tropes of writing with enough exaggeration to point out how most of the rest of us are mucking things up.

I know I do it, and when I see something like this in my own writing I want to kill myself.*

And I see it a lot in others. Last year, I read a professionally-edited and nationally-published book wherein all of the characters blushed to show embarrassment. All of them. Even the dark-skinned characters. Which led me to wonder – when dark-skinned people blush, is it noticeable? If you can’t answer that as a writer, you probably shouldn’t use blushes as your go-to for your characters to express embarrassment.

And maybe it is noticeable. Maybe I’m the moron here. My own writing shows me clearly I can and often am wrong.**

*See? I’m doing it RIGHT NOW!

**AND AGAIN!

Ninny Thinking, Part II

I have just finished reading Terry Pratchett’s novel “The Last Continent,” a satirical look at all things Australian.

Except, perhaps, Australia’s indigenous population.

Here’s something from the book:

He’d seen something like this out in the red country, although he’d not been certain that it was art in the way Ankh-Morpork understood it. It was more like a map, a history book and a menu all rolled together. Back home, people tied a knot in their handkerchief to remind them of things. Out in the hot country there weren’t any handkerchiefs, so people tied a knot in their thoughts.

They didn’t paint very many pictures of a strong of sausages.

“’s called Sausage and Chips Dreaming,” said Dibbler.

“I don’t think I’ve seen one like that,” said Rincewind. “Not with the sauce bottle in it as well.”

“So what?” said Dibbler. “Still native. Genuine picture of traditional city tucker, done by a native. A fair go, that’s all I ask.”

“Ah, suddenly I think I understand. The native in this case, perhaps, being you?” said Rincewind.

“Yep. Authentic. You arguing?”

“Oh, come on.”

“What? I was born over there in Treacle Street, Bludgeree, and so was my dad. And my granddad. And his dad. I didn’t just step off the driftwood like some people I might mention.” His ratty little face darkened. “Coming over here, taking our jobs . . .  What about the little man, eh? All I’m askin’ for is a fair go.”

For a moment, Rincewind contemplated handing himself over to the Watch.

“Nice to hear someone siding with the rights of the indigenous population,’ he muttered, checking the street again.

“Indigenous? What do they know about a day’s work? Hah, they can go back to where they came from too,” said Dibbler. “They don’t want to work.”

“Good thing for you, though, I can see that.“ said Rincewind. “Otherwise they’d be taking your job, right?”

“The way I see it, I’m more indigenous than them,” said Fair Go, pointing an indignant thumb at himself. “I earned my indigenuity, I did.”

This is, of course, satire. To his audience, Pratchett doesn’t have to say this kind of attitude is malformed, as they know it. Nevertheless . . . there are no indigenous characters in the book, save for the god who carries the entire universe around in a sack on his back.

I have to wonder if Pratchett chose this deliberately – avoiding that indigenuity for the sake of avoiding the argument completely.

This wouldn’t fly as well in America, land of sensitivity readers. Someone would surely complain about the lack of indigenuity, or the story of FourEcks being told through the eyes of, ahem, Whitey. Because it is, no bones about it. And not even a fantasy novel of a satirical nature would likely escape the SR sphere of influence.

I’m not sayi8ng it should, or that Pratchett should be wound around that particular axle. I am saying there are others who would happily wind him up and churn him around a bit for the insensitivity. Why, there are humanized kangaroos and crocodiles and sheep which get more play in this story than the indigenous human population.

Again, not saying the story isn’t delightful just the way it is. I love Pratchett. Nevertheless . . . an author with far less clout than Pratchett might find a fight on his hands, were he or she to try publishing this now in the United States.

Still, no worries, right?