Discworld series read-through

I read a few of the Discworld books at the Birkenhead Library when I was younger. 

Every now and again quotes from some of the books would show up on The Internet, in particular the Sam Vimes ‘Boots’ Theory of Socio-Economic Unfairness.

Those quotes reminded me that I had enjoyed reading those few Discworld books when I was younger, so I decided to read all of the books.

I think I started the read-through in 2023 but I can’t find the receipts. (I’m buying all the books, original artwork where possible.)

If I started the read-through at the beginning of 2023 then I guess I’m on track to finish in 2027. Each book only takes about 3-4 evenings of reading time to finish, but I’m buying them just when I have spare time/spare cash/spare brain power for reading.

So yes, The World’s Slowest Binge-Read™.

Partway through I started making bookmarks on passages and quotes that stood out, and here’s a collection of those.

(I forgot to do that for the first few books. I’ll slowly catch up with the other notes I made, and eventually I’ll catch up to the book I most recently read.)

The Colour of Magic

Didn’t make any bookmarks. The colour of magic is ‘octarine’.

The Light Fantastic

Didn’t make any bookmarks. It’s a Rincewind story, so there probably would have been some good quotes.

Equal Rites

Didn’t make any bookmarks. It’s a Witches story, and Granny Weatherwax (a fave character) usually has some great quotes … woops.

Mort

Didn’t make any bookmarks. It’s a Death story, and Death (a fave character) usually has some good quotes … woops again.

Sourcery

Long quote incoming, the main bit is highlighted.

‘He’s got a point,’ said Conina. ‘I’ve nothing against wizards, but it’s not as if they do much good. They’re just a bit of decoration, really. Up to now’.

Rincewind pulled off his hat. It was battered, stained, and covered with rock dust, bits of it had been sheared off, the point was dented and the star was shedding sequins like pollen, but the word ‘Wizzard’ was still just readable under the grime.

‘See this?’ he demanded, red in the face. ‘Do you see it? Do you? What does it tell you?’

‘That you can’t spell?’ said Nijel.

‘What? No! It says I’m a wizard, that’s what! Twenty years behind the staff, and proud of it! I’ve done my time, I have! I’ve pas— I’ve sat dozens of exams! If all the spells I’ve read were piled on top of one another, they’d … it’d … you’d have a lot of spells!’

‘Yes, but—‘ Conina began.

‘Yes?’

‘You’re not actually very good at them, are you?’

Rincewind glared at her. He tried to think of what to say next, and a small receptor area opened in his mind at the same time as an inspiration particle, its path bent and skewed by a trillion random events, screamed down through the atmosphere and burst silently at just the right spot.

‘Talent just defines what you do,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t define what you are. Deep down, I mean. When you know what you are, you can do anything.’

He thought a bit more and added, ‘That’s what makes sourcerers so powerful. The important thing is to know what you really are.’

There was a pause full of philosophy.

‘Rincewind?’ said Conina, kindly.

‘Hmm?’ said Rincewind, who was still wondering how the words got into his head.

‘You really are an idiot. Do you know that?’

Sourcery p205

Wyrd Sisters

A Witches story. Long quote incoming, the main bit is highlighted.

‘Mrs Vitoller,’ she said eventually, ‘may I make so bold as to ask if your union has been blessed with fruit?’

The couple looked blank.

‘She means—‘ Nanny Ogg began.

‘No, I see,’ said Mrs Vitoller, quietly. ‘No. we had a little girl once.’

A small cloud hung over the table. For a second or two Vitoller looked merely human-sized, and much older. He stared at the small pile of cash in front of him.

‘Only, you see, there is this child,’ said Granny, indicating the baby in Nanny Ogg’s arms. ‘And he needs a home.’

The Vitollers stared. Then the man sighed.

‘It is no life for a child,’ he said. ‘Always moving. Always a new town. And no room for schooling. They say that’s very important these days.’ But his eyes didn’t look away.

[…snipped a bit …]

Vitoller played abstractly with the coins in front of him. His wife reached out across the table and touched his hand, and there was a moment of unspoken communication. Granny looked away. She had grown expert at reading faces, but there were times when she preferred not to.

‘Money is, alas, tight—’ Vitoller began.

‘But it will stretch,’ said his wife firmly.

‘Yes, I think it will. We should be happy to take care of him.’

Granny nodded and fished in the deepest recesses of her cloak. At last she produced a small leather bag, which she tipped out on to the table. There was a lot of silver, and even a few tiny gold coins.

‘This should take care of—’ she groped – ‘nappies and such like. Clothes and things. Whatever.’

‘A hundred times over, I should think,’ said Vitoller weakly. ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’

‘If I’d had to buy you, you wouldn’t be worth the price.’

Wyrd Sisters p54–55

Pyramids

No marks in this one. Wouldn’t say it’s my favourite, so far.

Guards! Guards!

No marks in this book, which is strange because I do like a good Sgt. Vimes socio-economic-commentary rant, and the antics of the various scallywags of the City Watch (Corporal Nobbs, Carrot, Sergeant Colon, etc.) are always humorous as well.

Eric

No marks in this, not even a crease or hint of a dog-ear. (Couldn’t find a copy with original artwork either.)

Moving Pictures

The bookmarks return. Not really a favourite, but Gaspode the dog was funny.

‘Didn’t you want to be anything?’ said Ginger, putting a whole sentence-worth of disdain in a mere three letters.

‘Not really,’ said Victor. ‘Everything looks interesting until you do it. Then you find it’s just another job. I bet even people like Cohen the Barbarian get up in the morning thinking “Oh, no, not another day of crushing the jewelled thrones of the world beneath my sandalled feet.”’

‘Is that what he does?’ said Ginger, interested despite herself.

‘According to the stories, yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Search me. It’s just a job I guess.’

Moving Pictures, p171

It was dawning on the wizards that they were outside the university, at night and without permission, for the first time in decades. A certain suppressed excitement crackled from man to man. Any watcher trained in body language would have been prepared to bet that, after the click, someone was going to suggest that they might as well go somewhere and have a few drinks, and then someone else would fancy a meal, and there was always room for a few more drinks, and then it would be 5 a.m. and the city guards would be respectfully knocking on the University gates and asking if the Archchancellor would care to step down to the cells to identify some alleged wizards who were singing an obscene song in six-part harmony, and perhaps he would also care to bring some money to pay for all the damage. Because inside every old person is a young person wondering what happened.

Moving Pictures, p310-311

General theme here? “It really do be like that sometimes.”

Reaper Man

Intellectually, Ridcully maintained his position for two reasons. One was that he never, ever, ever changed his mind about anything. The other was that it took him several minutes to understand any new idea put to him, and this is a very valuable trait as a leader, because anything that someone is still trying to explain to you after two minutes is probably important and anything they give up on after a mere minute or so is almost certainly something they shouldn’t have been bothering you with in the first place.

Reaper Man p45

In Reaper Man, Death becomes a human (named Bill Door) for a while, to try it out, and it gets a bit existential.

Bill Door hadn’t been aware of it coming. But there it was, a grey figure floating in the darkness of the barn.

[… snipped a bit …]

It told him, Bill Door, there has been a mistake. […] It told him, Return. You have work to do. There has been a mistake.

The figure faded.

Bill Door nodded. Of course there had been a mistake. Anyone could see there had been a mistake. He’d known all along there had been a mistake.

He tossed the overalls in a corner and took up his robe of absolute blackness.

Well, it had been an experience. And, he had to admit, one that he didn’t want to relive. He felt as though a huge weight had been removed.

Was that what it was really like to be alive? The feeling of darkness dragging you forward?

How could they live with it? And yet they did, and even seemed to find enjoyment in it, when surely the only sensible course would be to despair. Amazing. To feel you were a tiny living thing, sandwiched between two cliffs of darkness. How could they stand to be alive?

Obviously it was something you had to be born to.

Death saddled his horse and rode out and up over the fields.

Reaper Man p155–156

Witches Abroad

This is a Witches story and as such contains Granny Weatherwax common-sense bangers. (Does Granny Weatherwax represent Pratchett’s opinions on common-sense wisdom?)

‘I’m staying here’, she [Lily] said. ‘Mrs Gogol may have come up with a new trick, but that doesn’t mean she has won.’

‘No. Things have come to an end, see,’ said Granny. ‘That’s how it works when you turn the world into stories. You should never have done that. You shouldn’t turn the world into stories. You shouldn’t treat people like they was characters, like they was things. But if you do, then you’ve got to know when the story ends.’

Witches Abroad p342

Small Gods

I’m not sure exactly why I highlighted this next one but I think it was because of the very slow and extended build up towards Brutha’s realisation that the Book does not have all the answers. (Not all of the build up is included here.)

‘But is all this true?’ said Brutha.

Didactylos shrugged. ‘Could be. Could be. We are here and it is now. The way I see it is, after that, everything tends towards guesswork.’

‘You mean you don’t know it’s true?’ said Brutha.

‘I think it might be,’ said Didactylos. ‘I could be wrong. Not being certain is what being a philosopher is all about.’

‘Talk about gods,’ said Om.

‘Gods,’ said Brutha weakly.

His mind was on fire. These people made all these books about things, and they weren’t sure. But he’d been sure, and Brother Nhumrod had been sure, and Deacon Vorbis had a sureness you could bend horseshoes around. Sureness was a rock.

Now he knew why, when Vorbis spoke about Ephebe, his face was grey with hatred and his voice was tense as a wire. If there was no truth, what was there left? And these bumbling old men spent their time kicking away the pillars of the world, and they’d nothing to replace them with but uncertainty. And they were proud of this?

Urn was standing on a small ladder, fishing among the shelves of scrolls. Didactylos sat opposite Brutha, his blind gaze still apparently fixed on him.

‘You don’t like it, do you?’ said the philosopher.

Small Gods p197

‘Don’t you fear death? You’re a human!’

Brutha considered this.

[…snipped a bit…]

‘Well … sometimes … when I’m on catacomb duty … it’s the kind of place where you can’t help … I mean, all the skulls and things … and the Book says …’

‘There you are,’ said Om, a note of bitter triumph in his voice. ‘You don’t know. That’s what stops everyone going mad, the uncertainty of it, the feeling that it might work out all right after all. But it’s different for gods. We do know. You know that story about the sparrow flying through a room?’

‘No.’

‘Everyone knows it.’

‘Not me.’

‘About life being like a sparrow flying through a room? Nothing but darkness outside? And it flies through the room and there’s just a moment of warmth and light?’

‘There are windows open?’ said Brutha.

‘Can’t you imagine what it’s like to be that sparrow, and know about the darkness? To know that afterwards there’ll be nothing to remember, ever, except that one moment of the light?’

‘No.’

‘No. Of course you can’t. But that’s what it’s like, being a god. And this place … it’s a morgue.’

Brutha looked around at the ancient, shadowy temple.

‘Well … do you know what it’s like, being human?’

Om’s head darted into his shell for a moment, the nearest he was capable of to a shrug.

‘Compared to a god? Easy. Get born. Obey a few rules. Do what you’re told. Die. Forget.’

Brutha stared at him.

‘Is something wrong?’

Small Gods p290

What the gods said was heard by each combatant in his own language, and according to his own understanding. It boiled down to:
I. This is Not a Game.
II. Here and Now, You are Alive.

And then it was over.

Small Gods p390

Lords and Ladies

I read this one out of order (maybe first?) after spotting it at a bookstore. It might have been the thing that set me off on the read-through, actually. It’s a Witches story, with a Ridcully cameo.

Just two passages marked, right near the end. (Both Granny Weatherwax.)

Circle time was ending. Besides, she knew now why her mind had felt so unravelled, and that was a help. She couldn’t hear the ghostly thoughts all the other Esme Weatherwaxes any more.

Perhaps some lived in a world ruled by elves. Or had died long ago. Or were living what they thought were happy lives. Granny Weatherwax seldom wished for anything, because wishing was soppy, but she felt a tiny regret that she’d never be able to meet them.

Perhaps some were going to die, now, here on this path. Everything you did meant that a million copies of you did something else. Some were going to die. She’d sensed their future deaths … the deaths of Esme Weatherwax. And couldn’t save them, because chance did not work like that.

On a million hillsides the girl ran, on a million bridges the girl chose, on a million paths the woman stood …

All different, all one.

All she could do for all of them was be herself, here and now, as hard as she could.

She stuck out a hand.

A few yards away the unicorn hit an invisible wall. Its legs flailed as it tried to stop, its body contorted in pain, and it slid the rest of the way to Granny’s feet on its back.

Lords and Ladies p372

Listen to me, Jason Ogg,’ said Granny, hauling on the hair as the creature skittered around in a circle, ‘you can shoe anything anyone brings you. And there’s a price for that, ain’t there?’

Jason gave Nanny Ogg a panic-stricken look. She had the grace to look embarrassed.

‘She never told me about it,’ said Granny, with her usual ability to read Nanny’s expression through the back of her own head.

She leaned closer to Jason, almost hanging from the plunging beast. ‘The price for being able to shoe anything, anything that anyone brings you … is having to shoe anything anyone brings you. The price for being the best is always … having to be the best. And you pays it, same as me.’

Lords and Ladies p375

(More to be added at a later date as The World’s Slowest Live-Blog™ continues.)