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Important distinction.
Tag: terry pratchett
Susan: “Alright, I’m not stupid. You’re saying that humans need fantasies to make life bearable.”
Death: NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE.
Susan: “With tooth fairies? Hogfather?”
Death: YES. AS PRACTICE, YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES.
Susan: “So we can believe the big ones?”
Death: YES. JUSTICE, MERCY, DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING.
Susan: “They’re not the same at all!”
Death: YOU THINK SO? THEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET… YOU TRY TO ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD. AS IF THERE IS SOME… SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED.
Susan: “But people have got to believe that, or what’s the point?”
Death: YOU NEED TO BELIEVE IN THINGS THAT AREN’T TRUE. HOW ELSE CAN THEY BECOME?
– Terry Pratchett, “Hogfather”
Yet another reason I’m sad Terry Pratchett is dead is because I just know that the Discworld novel he would have written in response to recent developments in Britain and the world would be fucking scathing.
“A small but growing number of people believe we should magically summon a new world turtle and place Ankh-Morpork on its back in order to leave the Disc entirely, sir.”
“Intriguing.”
“It can’t be done, sir. Especially not the…” Drumknott consulted his paperwork. “…bit where, and I quote, Obviously we’ll leave all the foreigners behind. They seem divided on the precise definition of foreigner but it seems to include anyone who doesn’t look like them, and most people who do look like them but speak funny.”
“Ah, we’ve reached that part, where we define foreigner so we know who to give the boot to,” Vetinari sighed.
“It’s obviously not really plausible, sir, we’d lose a lot of good trade routes if there were no longer any external portions of the Disc attached to us, and having consulted with the alchemists there’s a strong sense among them that we would shortly run out of air to breathe should we leave the Disc’s protective weather systems.”
“Ah, but they can vote on it, you see,” Vetinari said. “They can campaign for it. And just knowing we ought to do it…”
He pulled a report across his desk, one in the crabbed, unmistakable schoolboy handwriting of Sir Samuel. “Crime is up, Drumknott.”
“I wasn’t aware we’d increased the Thieves’ Guild allotments this month, sir.”
“We haven’t. Nor the Assassins’ Guild. Unfortunately the crimes on the rise are of the go-back-where-you-came-from variety and there is, as of yet, no Bigots’ guild.”
“Do you think creating one would stop them, sir?”
“Not in this case, no,” Vetinari murmured. “I suspect we shall have to leave it up to human decency and the efforts of the Watch.”
Drumknott gave him the most horrified look he’d seen since the first time he suggested promoting Sir Samuel.
“Not really, sir?”
“Of course not. Good lord, Drumknott. I shall have some errands for you today, however, and you’d best fetch the Commander. And Mr. De Worde. Get De Worde here first, then bring in Sir Samuel when he’s had just enough time to get nervous in the waiting room. If Sir Samuel is at home, do bring her Ladyship along, otherwise I’ll see her at the dinner tomorrow night. Ah yes, and I believe I shall pay a visit to Mr. Von Lipwig tomorrow afternoon; please notify him of the impending surprise inspection of the mint.”
“But sir, what will you – “
“That will be all, Drumknott,” Vetinari said.
In the crevices of Vetinari’s mind, gears began to turn. Disorder, of course, was a natural aspect of any city, but unpleasantness of this sort led to much too much and the wrong kind of disorder. After all, at one time Ankh-Morpork had simply been a swampy plain; trace a family back far enough and everyone was an immigrant. The kind of thinking that led to one saying they were taking their city and leaving sooner or later led to metaphorical shoving matches over who looked a little too igneous to be allowed, or whose mother sent funny food with them to school, or who exactly was allowed to wear what kind of cloth on their head.
And the whole thing, as he knew from personal experience, could very well lead to unpleasantly large dragons.
Perhaps it was time to set some spinning tops in motion.
And the whole thing, as he knew from personal experience, could very well lead to unpleasantly large dragons.
Determination not Destiny.
I’ve been thinking about this all weekend. But do you know what I really love about the Discworld characters? None of them are the chosen ones destined to save the world. They choose.
I’ve been reading a lot of other fantasy at the moment and while it’s been a lot of fun, inevitably there’s a prophecy or a reason for why The Hero must save the world, an alignment of stars which makes them good and traps them into their fate of do or die. Oh they might wriggle and complain on the hook of destiny, but it’s ultimately still a hook.
And then there’s Pratchett, where no one is chosen, not really. And even if somehow the gods or fate deign to try, they do it on their terms. They barter with the Lord of Death, they twist the arms of Gods, they patrol the streets at night, they cheat with hard boiled sweets and iron horse shoes that can go anywhere.
They choose to stand on the precipice between the dark and the light, because someone has to. And it might as well be them, because there’s no guarantee that someone else will.
And they do it for selfish reasons too, like love or spite. Fuck the stars, fuck fate. Sam Vimes has a book to read to his child by 6pm and come literal hell or high water, that book will be read.
And the world shines a little brighter for it.
The Doctor Is Out 