Previously in this series.
You are a wizard and practice magic. Even tourists who do not speak your language know how this will end: badly for you [urinating dog] [urinating dog] [urinating dog].
You are a wizard and do not practice magic, which means you’re in no danger at all of going Bursar.[1]
No matter what country you find yourself in, someone always offers you a cutthroat deal on very dubious-looking sausages in buns.
You think it’s perfectly reasonable to try and kill Father Christmas the Hogfather.
Sometimes people die. Then they campaign for the rights of the undead.
Because you could not stop for Death, he kindly stops for you. And then imparts some valuable advice about the nature of life itself before taking you out for a curry and introducing you to his family and his horse, Binky.[2] Death isn’t cruel after all — just terribly, terribly good at his job.
It is a dark and stormy night. “Bugger this for a lark,” you grumble. “I don’t see why we have to meet at night, and even less why we should meet in a storm. It’d be much more sensible to just lunch at the Ritz.”
You have a pet ptortoise.
You’ve sung every verse of “All the Little Angels,” which at first seems silly, but then gains significance until the very question “How do they rise up?” makes you unexpectedly weepy. Soldiers’ songs are alike that way: sentimental with naughty bits in, and sung by voices you hear only in your memory.
You are a member of the Seamstress’s Guild. You don’t know how to sew, but you’re being considered for a leadership role if you know what I mean.
Someone you know has taken an aphorism or a metaphor to its illogical conclusion.
You drink to forget. You’re so successful at it, you no longer remember what it is you wanted to forget in the first place.
You have a matter-of-fact way of explaining complex systems of institutionalized social inequality using household objects; i.e., socks and boots.
You’ve seen an old man of no discernible race calmly sweeping the street. You think you may have seen him before, but, then again, you could just be peering down the wrong leg of the Trousers of Time.[3]
You can tell magical creatures apart by their distinctive speech patterns.
You are a witch, and can turn anything into anything, particularly weaknesses into strengths, and selfishness into selflessness.
You can save the world because it is yours.
You ATEN’T DED.
You have a pet that has, at least once, turned into a human being.
You are a human being that has, at least once, turned into a pet.
You see little blue men. You haven’t been drinking. They are happy to change that for you.[4]
You are a recovering vampire who’s bandaged over your addiction to blood with another powerful, but less dangerous craving. You would literally kill for a cup of coffee.
You are a recovering vampire who knows that when you’re tempted to bite, you will be stronk! You know that at the mission, zere’s a nice cup of tea and a bun, bun, bun…
You or someone you know is an Igor. Or rather, you knew several someones who are now Igors.
You have exclaimed “Pull the other one then!” or “With bells on!”
You are a demon who did not so much fall as saunter vaguely downward.
You are an angel whose main goal in life is to never sell a single book.
It does not surprise you when animals can talk. It surprises you when they have something sensible to say.[5]
You know the difference between stories that want you to believe what you are told, and the ones that want to help you learn. There is nothing so powerful as a story — and nothing so human.
You may live in a ridiculous world full of lies, but you hold fast to the important lies of fairness, mercy, and human dignity. Even if you never find a single molecule of fairness, the fantasy of it is what unites the falling angel to the rising ape. It’s what makes us human.
—
[1] Unless you are, of course, a librarian, in which case you are probably an orangutan. Ook.
[2] I HAD A VERY PLEASANT TIME, Death later said. SQUEAK, added Death of Rats.
[3] Not to worry if you do; the History Monks are very good about repairing any accidental rips, and make sure to keep said Trousers nicely washed and pressed.
[4] “Crivens, ye buntie!” they cry, forcing some foul-tasting brew down your throat. “Dree your weird!” You do. Oh how you do.
[5] It’s even worse if that animal is a bird. Many a pleasant spring afternoon has been ruined by the manifold shrieks of, “Look at my lovely plumage!” “This is my tree!” and “Bugger off, I have a nicer tree and nicer plumage!”
Tags: books, elyse martin, how to tell what novel you’re in, sir terry pratchett 1948–2015
Beautiful. Thank you.
You meet yourself many years ago and are amazed at how you were then, but realize that you couldn’t be you now, without having been who you were then.
You know the difference between stories that want you to believe what you are told, and the ones that want to help you learn. There is nothing so powerful as a story — and nothing so human.
You may live in a ridiculous world full of lies, but you hold fast to the important lies of fairness, mercy, and human dignity. Even if you never find a single molecule of fairness, the fantasy of it is what unites the falling angel to the rising ape. It’s what makes us human.
no I’m not crying you’re crying, shut up
P.S. This is lovely, thank you for writing it.*
*And for including the footnotes.
Thank YOU for reading it! And thanks for the footnotes should go to the great Nicole Soojung Callahan, for figuring out how to get them to work on WordPress.
It’s…kind of springtime! My allergies are acting up!
(I pretty much lost it at ATEN’T DEAD.)
I lost it at “All the Little Angels” because that’s exactly what happens every time I read Night Watch.
Yes. I also have allergies and they are really acting up too; my eyes water and I find myself shouting ‘How dare you die you selfish bastard?’. There seems to be a lot of it about in the past week.
this room is rather dusty, you know
It’s the bright sunlight making my eyes tear, that’s all.
I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve actively teared up right now.
Unless you are, of course, a librarian, in which case you are probably an orangutan.
Well, I do have red hair …
(I have always been very fond of orangutans and books. After I got into Discworld, it was clearly only a matter of time before I became a librarian.)
You’ve sung every verse of “All the Little Angels,” which at first seems silly, but then gains significance until the very question “How do they rise up?” makes you unexpectedly weepy.
I had just this unexpectedly-weepy experience last week.
*wails*
You’re hippy-dippy and somewhat awkward about…most things…but you have an inner warrior queen inside you.
<3 Magrat
She is all our representatives.
“It was a cottage of questioning witches, research witches. Eye of what newt? What species of ravined salt-sea shark? It’s all very well a potion calling for Love-in-idleness, but which of the thirty-seven common plants called by that name in various parts of the continent was actually meant?
The reason that Granny Weatherwax was a better witch than Magrat was that she knew that in witchcraft it didn’t matter a damn which one it was, or even if it was a piece of grass.
The reason that Magrat was a better doctor than Granny was that she thought it did.”
I wish I were Granny Weatherwax. I’m pretty sure I’m Magrat, though. Silver jewelry and all.
I feel you. I’m kinda hoping I can age into being Granny Weatherwax….seems like a good life goal.
I am one of life’s Granny Weatherwaxes, and have thus carefully made sure to age a bit into being more of a Nanny Ogg.
I have a friend from grad school who was Nanny Ogg by age 30. I really wonder where she’s going to go from there.
And now I’m ever so slightly weepy again
I may have cried on my toddler while he was having his milk when I heard the news.
*sniffle*
You know every verse to The Hedgehog Song, a skill which you are more than willing to show off, especially when intoxicated.
‘And a giraffe, if you stand on a stool,
Buuutt…’
with a snail if you slow to a craaawwllll, BUT!
A fish is refreshing, although a bit wet
And a cat or a dog can be more than a pet…
I can’t. Of all author deaths I have experienced thus far, this one hit me the hardest.
Excellent tribute. Well done on the footnotes. I think I shall need a sausage inna bun for lunch.
This is the only one that has any emotional impact on me. I’ve reread some of the books so many times that I make references to specific quotes in conversation with my husband, who has never read any of them.
You know all the verses of “A Wizards Staff has a Knob on the End” You have written most of them yourself. Well not written, so much as sung at length and so loudly that the verses have imprinted themselves on the minds of those drinking with you.
*sniffle*
Thank you for this lovely tribute. The Pratchetesque footnotes were a very nice touch. You might well bring new readers to Terry Pratchett with this piece; you have brought a smile of recognition and a welling-up of tears to this reader.
‘nk you..
Footnotes are my favorite. As are the fantasies that make us human.
And those wee little blue buggers.
(I may started rereading Wee Free Men this weekend…)
You carefully avoid falling in the river, but it’s not drowning you’re afraid of.
I started reading Small Gods last night and was very heartwarmed by the thought of how many other folks are hanging out with me in Discworld right now <3
Yes! I am rereading Reaper Man, and I feel like I’m at a big party.
I’ve been going through the Tiffany books and welling like an environmental disaster.
What a lovely thought! I am going to have to invest in some kindle Pratchett as all my books are in storage *sobs*
I have ebook versions, if you want I could email them to you?
That is so lovely of you!
Your drink of choice is made from apples. Well, mainly apples.
I’ve been drinking cider all week in remembrance.
You’ve sung every verse of “All the Little Angels,” which at first seems silly, but then gains significance until the very question “How do they rise up?” makes you unexpectedly weepy.
Seriously.
I wish I could find more words to say. I’m just so sad, and angry. And wanting to know how some of the stories end….
You have a very strange, all-consuming hobby or occupation, while completely unaware of your warm, humble heart. You simply take for granted that you doing your part in caring about magic computers/books/pins/semaphores/golems is just what the world needs. Strangely enough, it probably is.
You have been personally stared down by the leader of the city.
You have travelled to the city.
You have never travelled to the city.
You have turned a very illogical, unreasonable situation into a ridiculously sensible compromise.
You know that the secret to success is to hit a probability of exactly 1:1,000,000.
You can read the writing on the wall.
You have been operated by a surgeon who had his grandfather’s hands.
When drunk at night, you talk to the city. The city talks back. It’s like a woman. Maybe.
You are an early adopter of every new fad, but are never surprised when the trend turns out to be demons.
You wouldn’t dream of using the words “monkey” or “rock” within city limits.
You carry a card that shows you have paid your yearly extortion fee.
You fly on a broomstick and have unknowingly impacted the evolution and behavior of migratory bird species.
You always leave money for the chickens you eat.
You are tired of everyone complimenting your beautiful, thick hair.
You used to be afraid of the bogeyman until your babysitter told you about throwing the covers over it instead.
You’ve learned that all that it takes to be a man is a pair of well-placed socks.
You know how to match your lipstick to your chainmail.
You watch the watchmen.
You have a strong opinion about kings – what they are, what they should be, how to spot them and who the true secret heir is.
You are trying very hard to become a better or different person. Very slowly, you are succeeding.
One time, a story used your life to make itself happen.
You have been personally stared down by the leader of the city.
Alternatively:
You have personally stared down the leader of the city/kingdom.
You are a four legged mammal with an unusual gift for higher order thinking, which may or may not be permanent. Alternately, you are not a talking dog.
You are made of sapient pearwood, irritated to have just spent the past five minutes being underground for a century.
You have exclaimed “Pull the other one then!” or “With bells on!”
You may also be in a P.G. Wodehouse novel. It’s a very strange Venn diagram.
I really want some sort of foodstuff onna stick now.
This was perfect, all the way down to the footnotes. Thank you.
Oh.
I never read Pratchett, but everything that I’ve seen since his death makes me realise that needs to be remedies ASAP. Guess I’m gonna learn about Discworld this week.
Yep, same.
It took me a long time to read Pratchett because I HATE THE PRATCHETT BOOK COVERS SO, SO MUCH. They made it so clear that they were books I would hate. I was really sorry to find out that Josh Kirby had lied to me for years.
I don’t like the Kirby covers much either, but after he stopped doing them, Paul Kidby took over and was much much better. For one thing his people look like people.
One of the fifty or so books I would include in the canon (the Almanacs, the Mappe, Nanny Ogg’s Cookbook*) is Kidby’s Pratchett Portfolio http://wiki.lspace.org/mediawiki/The_Pratchett_Po…
which is excellent.
*Strawberry Wobbler is a hilarious use for those champagne flutes you bought at the Goodwill in a moment of aspirational panic.
You are in for a treat! I think one of the reasons people mourn his passing so much (besides the fact that he was a genuinely wonderful writer and a thoughtful and funny individual) is because they liked they sort of people they were when they were reading his books. (Or at least, that’s part of the case with me.) Sir Pterry seemed to think that we were all clever and wonderful just for being human.
because they liked they sort of people they were when they were reading his books.
Oh, I love this–you’ve captured it perfectly, all right.
Have fun, and don’t start from the beginning. Discworld books are really good at functioning independently of the series, and it’s best to skip the Very Obviously A Product Of Their Time ones. I started with Going Postal, which doesn’t have as much lore or scores of old characters to keep track of. Things get explained very well and the main character is just utter Pratchett.
Thank you in advance! This is very helpful – I’ve been seeing a lot of quotations floating around and I seem to connect to the Death stuff, so I was kind of planning on just starting there. Wherever there is, Death-wise. You know.
The Death-and-family books start with “Mort.” I love that group of books and highly recommend that starting point. Death does appear in every single Discworld book (I think), even if only for a scene.
I would like to second this. Going Postal is the first Pratchett I read, and still one of my favorites. Mrs. Jay’s favorite is Night Watch, though perhaps you should start that series with Guards, Guards
Ook. This was lovely
Only famous person death that made me cry.
I miss him. This was timely. Thank you.
Re-reading my battered copy of Small Gods.
THIS POST
Your main antagonist is: a) the anthropomorphic personification of an abstract concept, b) the nonanthropomorphic representation of an abstract concept, or c) sheer human stupidity.
Was there ever a representation of the abstract concept of sheer human stupidity, though, anthropomorphic or not?
Nah, it was just thoroughly described through an infinite supply of specific examples.
You have been propositioned by Nanny Ogg.
Thanks for writing this.
Oh, waily waily!
I started reading Pratchett young, and his thoughts embroidered into the lining of my way of thinking. I’m not sure any other author or series has that kind of claim on me, not as deeply as the Discworld does. I’d never realized before, but the Discworld books started getting published juuust before I was born, so I’ve never lived in a world without them.
I miss them and I miss him and I am glad he went peacefully and I’m glad he finished things out with dignity and I need to go read maybe Wyrd Sisters again again.
Your cat is simultaneously in three states: A) Alive B) Dead C) Bloody Furious.
You have just thrown up a small, hilarious paper umbrella. And a sparkler.
You’re a lifetime in your own legend.
You’re not here to keep the dark out. You’re here to keep it in.
You cried all day. Oh, wait, no, that was me, in this world.
You married one of Nanny Ogg’s sons and realized your mistake too late.
You’re an oblivious genius who shares a similar name to one of Earth’s greatest oblivious geniuses.
You are human. At least you have a certificate saying so.
Thank you. This was a perfect tribute.
I keep thinking about Death showing up at Pratchett’s bedside holding an armful of books for him to sign, and then I start tearing up all over again.
My face just did that complicated thing it does when it’s not sure whether it’s about to start crying. What a perfect image.
I’ve only been reading him since my late 20s, which is a damn shame because there is SO MUCH that I think would have been extremely helpful much earlier, but everything I’ve seen posted this week has made me cry.
Wailey. And Ook.
Buggrit!
*steals Binky and rides off to have scumble with PTerry*
Your baked goods double as weapons!
I forgot about the rock cakes. At least this makes me feel better about my bad baking.
My first show in a proper theatre was as Magrat in Wyrd Sisters. I have never missed my (in storage) Pratchett book collection more than in this last week. I just keep thinking of all the wonderful things I learned from his books, and I am thankful I can revisit them. I also love the community of readers that I feel like I am a part of.
maybe everyone experiences the death of a beloved public figure this way, but for me, I never hold the knowledge of it in my mind for long periods. I’ll meditate on it for a few minutes and then move on, forget it’s happened. but their ghosts keep getting evoked over and over as other people remember them out loud. “oh, right,” the weary mind says, “he died last week, didn’t he?” had it with Robin Williams and I’m having it over Terry now.
You stare suspiciously at shopping trolleys in case they’re about to evolve into something dangerous.
You like watching moving pictures while munching on banged grains.
You understand, solemnly, that EVERYTHING MUST GO.
You hear a dog talking. But you know that can’t be right, because dogs cannot talk.
Sniff. Mllleneum hand and shrimp. Bugrit.
I keep forgetting and then remembering and getting all sniffly. This was lovely.
Also that last tag hurt unexpectedly much
There is no duck on your head.
I hope he saw a cartoonist from Australia called Leunig as they had very similar senses of humor. His cartoons usually feature a man with one curl of hair on his head. He has a duck, which is sometimes on his head, and a teapot, and lives in a sort of rural idyll.
Why, oh why did you include “All the Little Angels?” Now I have to keep telling the library denizens/ customers my eyes are just *watering*, guys.
I just had “Lord, what can the harvest hope for, if not for the care of the reaper man?” shoot through my head. I think it JUST HIT ME.
My husband has been teary all week.
A lovely tribute. RIP, sir.
You get judged on your choice of taxi:
“When you know you’ve got enemies at large, never, never get in the first cab. Even things what live under rocks know it.” -Making Money
This was the best. Elyse, YOU are the best for writing this.
You find yourself shouting Truth! Justice! Freedom! And a hard-boiled egg!
Even with Death, you can have a perfect moment. Your death has left us poorer, but you have given us so many perfect moments.
Thanks. And now I’m tearing up. Again.
Burrgrit. Millenium hand and shrimp.
You know that the Truth shall make you fret.
I think Pterry would tell us there are always more stories, and we can change them and make them our own.
I do wish the last book were a Vimes or a Moist, though!
Your middle initial stands for “Someone who has a cool and interesting middle name.”
You’re a maiden, a mother or… the other one.
You know that the natural size of a coven of witches is one.
You are strongly suspicious of anyone who talks about The People, and doubt they have met any actual people.
You know that the symptoms of madness are dribbling, talking to trees, and deciding that Ankh-Morpork needs a king.
You believe that sin starts with treating people as things. (This is true.)
THERE IS NO JUSTICE.THERE IS JUST YOU.
(I have never missed an author as much as I miss Pratchett. His books basically built me.)
“You have exclaimed “Pull the other one then!” or “With bells on!””
I have actually done this, and am likely to again. Also, this was perfect. Thank you.
I haven't been able to forget this general rule, especially with work emails.
Thanks! Also, you hear a lot of susurration in your day to day life. I'm going to have to go back and read them all again, you know. He was such a wonderful writer.
On book three reread with Tiffany and the Nac Mac Feegle. SQUEAK.
I am so glad I am not the only one who has literally been weeping on and off, and strangely enough, I too, have picked up Small Gods again which was never one of my favorites, but it was pure instinct. Terry Pratchett was the only person I ever wrote a fan latter to.
You know that million to one chances happen 9 times out of 10
You know that a leopard can change his shorts
You understand the principle of one man, one vote
The specific shade of black that you are wearing says a lot about you as a person.
You are an aristocrat with no understanding of how the world works, and whenever you speak, you insert syllables in impractical places.
You are, against your will, an aristocrat with a very grittily detailed understanding of how the world works, and you somehow manage to remain blisteringly, passive-aggressively cheerful throughout long, insufferable dinners with the sort of aristocrat mentioned above.
Despite living in a world entirely unlike our own, you have managed to hit upon some fundamental truth of human experience in our society.
A thing happened, and you were there. It didn’t happen quite the way that people say it happened, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that people say it happened. Or, what matters is that you were there.
You believe in something. If nothing else, you believe in belief.
You are surrounded by people who seem like caricatures when first introduced, but who nonetheless reveal themselves to be fully developed people with fully developed stories.
Even the first sort of aristocrat.
You don’t frequently make puns, but when you do, they’re beautifully crafted and your entire existence has been leading up to them.
You DO frequently make punes, or plays on words. You’re Death. No one laughs. This makes you a little bit sad.
People think that time is a straight line of cause to effect, but really, it’s more like a pair of trousers.
You solve a lot of crimes, and always manage to have an epiphany about human nature on the way.
You’re not crying. I’m crying.
…Wait, no, I mixed that last one up. Hang on.
You are likely to make (and explain) a pune, or play on words.