Lords and Ladies by Terry Pratchett

This book tells the story of myths invading Lancre, a small kingdom deep in the mountains. On the one hand, elves invade from a parallel dimension. On the other hand, Magrat embodies a fictional myth to defy the actions of the elves. On yet another hand, Shakespeare is being spoofed throughout.

In fact, the mere act of opening the box will determine the state of the cat, although in this case there were three determinate states the cat could be in: these being Alive, Dead, and Bloody Furious.

On the first hand, the theme is on the book cover. The elves are a kind of aristocracy—expectantly entitled, cruel but beautiful, and more powerful than normal people. Myth isn’t necessarily bad, it’s attractive. But when people subordinate themselves to myths of the past, they forget their own present and others’ futures. On the other side of myths being bad, having the aristocracy around to organize and lead some fighting can help: Magrat forgets too much of her earlier self while becoming a queen, but then is able to help when she remembers because she is a queen. Well, almost a queen.

Nanny Ogg looked under her bed in case there was a man there. Well, you never knew your luck.

But I think the more important theme lies in the myth-becoming-real. It allows Pratchett to play out how people typically deal with myth in their day to day life, or don’t as the case may be. For instance, Granny resists the myths because she can see the damage they have caused and will cause if allowed to reign again. However, at one point or another, all the people who can resist the myths are too tied up with their personal paramours to care or even notice—myths and shifts in cultural psychology are subtle things that are often missed. Yet, like the first-level analogy shows, myths are something to balance with reality, to banish when they’re dangerous and encourage when they’re beneficial. I think this is the main point of the novel.

Personal’s not the same as important. People just think it is.

On the third level, Shakespeare is both kind of silly (this book spoofs Midsummer Night’s Dream) and really important simultaneously. Quite like myths. He helps explain humans and their craziness, as well as making them laugh at the same time. I wonder if this book is Pratchett’s tribute to that most famous writer. So many parallels can be drawn between the two.

Verence would rather cut his own leg off than put a witch in prison, since it'd save trouble in the long run and probably be less painful.

Pratchett here combines all these aspects of examining myths into every facet, nook, and cranny of his book. The resolve argues that what we can do today is better than what we could have done back in mythic times, trying to drag people’s focus to the here and now instead of there and then. The whole well-focused affair comes off much like the strengths of Small Gods did: brilliantly.

It wasn't that Nanny Ogg sang badly. It was just that she could hit notes which, when amplified by a tin bath half full of water, ceased to be sound and became some sort of invasive presence.

Yet, where Small Gods kept the slapstick down and the philosophy more on the surface, here Pratchett subsumes the philosophy under the slapstick patina, as is typical of his other Witch tales so far. Pratfalls and Shakespearean parody run the show from start to finish, translated into the Discworld universe successfully. But the underlying philosophy is always there and always guiding the twists and turns in the plot.

Don't try the paranormal until you know what's normal.

That’s all I can say, I think. It’s somewhat more slapstick than Small Gods, but as deeply interesting philosophically or sociologically. And it’s a strong, strong novel that needs to not be ignored in the Pratchett cannon. Some Shakespearean love helps, I’m sure—but less than with Wyrd Sisters, his other Shakespearean tale.

You can’t say ‘if this didn’t happen then that would have happened’ because you don’t know everything that might have happened. You might think something’d be good, but for all you know it could have turned out horrible. You can’t say ‘If only I’d…’ because you could be wishing for anything. The point is, you’ll never know. You’ve gone past. So there’s no use thinking about it.

Small Gods by Terry Pratchett

Pratchett deftly handles faith and atheism, religion and politics, myth and reality, philosophy and theology, humanism and higher powers. He claims he has received letters from believers and non-believers praising him for this book, and I can see why. It’s a masterclass of even-handedness. Sure, Pratchett comes down on the side of atheistic humanism personally, but lets the book come down on a faith-based finish, as seems appropriate in this fantasy setting. And I think that balancing act indicates what makes this novel so great.

His philosophy was a mixture of three famous schools—the Cynics, the Stoics and the Epicureans—and summed up all three of them in his famous phrase, 'You can't trust any bugger further than you can throw him, and there's nothing you can do about it, so let's have a drink.'

The book is funny in two ways: it has some of the slapstick humor of earlier Pratchett fare, but starts to use a situational humor that seems to occupy much of Pratchett’s later works. For instance, a prophecy tells that the time of the eighth prophet is at hand, but the eighth prophet ends up being an illiterate novice gardener. This is inconceivable to the church hierarchy, particularly those glory-seeking members who believed themselves to be likely eighth prophets. Pratchett supplies this funny situation with some slapstick between Vorbis and Brutha and Om, the god of the religion, but the point of the situation illuminates human desire more than slapstick pratfalls. I hope Pratchett continues this strong technique because it allows him to reach a satisfying depth of analysis.

Fear is a strange soil. It grows obedience like corn, which grow in straight lines to make weeding easier. But sometimes it grows the potatoes of defiance, which flourish underground.

For anybody who contemplates the big questions in life, this study of belief and perception is more directly philosophical than much of Pratchett’s earlier fare. Through showing positives and negatives to both sides of every argument Pratchett brings out, his even-handed treatment goes a long way towards making this book palatable to both sides of each argument. And with something as contentious as religion tends to be, this treatment is perfectly readable by all. I’ve often said that the inherent strength of science fiction and fantasy lies in being able to freely discuss a contentious issue without offending either side—merely by couching it in the guise of some fictional analogy. The example I often give deals with religion: to write a book about the dangers of religious fanaticism and use Christianity or Islam as the religion in question will alienate potential audience members, at the least. To be able to make up a fake religion and take some parallels from actual religions, then discuss it negates the potentially off-putting nature of challenging beliefs people hold dear. Pratchett does exactly that here: he embodies this example and pulls it off sensationally.

The Ephebians believed that every man should have the vote (provided that he wasn't poor, foreign, nor disqualified by reason of being mad, frivolous, or a woman). Every five years someone was elected to be Tyrant, provided he could prove that he was honest, intelligent, sensible, and trustworthy. Immediately after he was elected, of course, it was obvious to everyone that he was a criminal madman and totally out of touch with the view of the ordinary philosopher in the street looking for a towel. And then five years later they elected another one just like him, and really it was amazing how intelligent people kept on making the same mistakes.

And he does throw everything in here: humanist secular philosophers, religious inquisitional fundamentalists, deep belief simpletons, political influences and reactions, religious war-mongering, people who only associate with echo-chamber believers of their own religion, anti-theists, and inter-religious relations. However, instead of trying to chew more than he can handle, Pratchett sets this whole varied work in the field of a religious pilgrimage of sorts, allowing him to expand and contract his focus to handle all of the variety he has adopted. For instance, the humanism Brutha encounters in Ephebe (think, Athens) is dealt with by Brutha later, while wandering in the desert. In other words, the array of influences Brutha sees and takes on in Ephebe is then dealt with in his own time in the desert. This pacing of putting many influences into the boys head, then letting him sort through them slowly allows the novel a clear direction, keeping it from getting lost in the weeds or twisted off into culdesacs of discussions. It’s an effective tactic and one that seems particularly Dostoevsky-esque.

Humans! They lived in a world where the grass continued to be green and the sun rose every day and flowers regularly turned into fruit, and what impressed them? Weeping statues. And wine made out of water! A mere quantum-mechanistic tunnel effect, that'd happen anyway if you were prepared to wait zillions of years. As if the turning of sunlight into wine, by means of vines and grapes and time and enzymes, wasn't a thousand times more impressive and happened all the time.

I believe that this is one of the best Discworld novels. The jokes are more dense than later works, but less so than earlier works, and this novel rides the line between early and late Pratchett while making some of the underlying philosophy he is known for more explicit. It’s a great place to start for anybody interested in reading Pratchett.

Time is a drug. Too much of it kills you.