Today, we have something a bit different. To mark the untimely passing of one of fantasy’s bests, Sir Terry Pratchett, I want to talk about the importance of his books to me, and more widely, while still giving this book cover a gentle ribbing for being so hideous.
Even though, as a kid in the 90s, Pratchett books were everywhere, it wasn’t until I was an adult that I gave them the time of day. The ever-insightful Michael Grogan bought me my first, the first Discworld novel, The Colour of Magic, and I loved it. Immediately, I gloried in Pratchett’s wry and clever humour and was genuinely astounded to see how much of his work had cyclically reflected and influenced perceptions of how magic and belief operate in the real world. The man truly was a myth-weaver.
But I haaaated the cover art. Ugh, so daggy! I know that Josh Kirby’s iconic illustrations of Pratchett’s stories are rich, detailed, and colourful but they are also chaotic, caricature-ridden, amateurish, and just plain uggers. I didn’t want to be caught out with one of these garish-looking books in public, I disliked the imagery so much. Then one day, my eminently cool friend Claire wanted to borrow a book to read at the beach, and seized upon The Light Fantastic. I had this moment of realisation that showing your Pratchett ‘colours’, as it were, was a signification. It was showing the world that you’re part of this club of readers of excellent fantasy fiction. It says, yeah, that’s right, remember these books? Still excellent! I’m rofling at all the intelligent puns I missed as a kid because I’m a big smart grown up now with an intact sense of whimsy! YEAH! And I thought, shit yes, I want to be in that club. None of this an-adult-version-of-Harry-Potter-for-me-please bullshit. Read it, own it (unless its 50 Shades of Grey, keep your porn-reading off from my bus commute, thanks).
I was lucky enough to live with the wonderful Mel, who has an impressive book collection, so my exposure to Pratchett wondrousness only grew. Master raconteur Ryan Wittingslow created my very own audiobook by reading the best books aloud to me (and his Granny Weatherwax impression really can’t be beat). And one day, my kids will inherit a collection of these books, and I’ll do the best Granny voice I can muster, and they will love the stories, and learn to appreciate the crappy art that has come to signify the magnificent adventures that lie within the pages.