Terry Pratchett wrote. There was practically no stopping the man. His career spans over seventy books, 41 of which were the Discworld novels that made him famous.

Let that sink in for a moment. You and I probably have to fight hard to reach ten thousand words. This man wrote, if not a library, then a substantial shelf (or two) in a library. You can watch his career develop from the very early “The Carpet People” which was first published in 1968, through parody (Strata and Dark Side of the Sun both mercilessly rib Larry Niven) and satire to the more thoughtful novels of the later Discworld series.

In a recent interview, Neil Gaiman – who collaborated with Pratchett on the novel Good Omens – noted that Sir Terry’s great triumph was to demonstrate that you can be funny and serious at the same time. The literary establishment has long resisted the idea that a book can be funny and still be about serious things, even though the likes of Joseph Heller and Kurt Vonnegut have shown otherwise, and has resisted even more fiercely the notion that a book can be serious and have wizards in it. Even JK Rowling once tried to pretend that the Harry Potter books weren’t really fantasy (something that Sir Terry tore her off a strip for even considering).

Sir Terry used the Discworld as a sandbox where he could play with ideas and circumstances from the modern world. His books deal with the difficulties of modern policing, Keynsian economics, social reform, the reality of revolutions, organised religion, the power of narrative and good old fashioned rock’n’roll. Their brilliance and popularity lie in the fact that they are also books about characters who live on a flat earth that is being carried through space on the back of four elephants who are standing on a turtle. There are wizards, there are gods and there are monsters. More than that, there are jokes. Some leap off the page and you get them right away and cause all sorts of trouble for people using public transport. It’s an unwritten rule of using the Tube in London that you don’t talk to other travelers, or make eye contact, or anything. Reading a Discworld novel, therefore, is an occupation fraught with peril because you *will* laugh out loud at something and then you will want to explain it and share the joke. If you’re lucky, you’ll get away with just being glared at.

Some jokes, though, you won’t understand until later. Not later as in “there’s an explanation later in the book”, later as in “so I was visiting the Sistine Chapel and a guide explained an aspect of Renaissance painting techniques, and suddenly the line from “The Last Hero” made perfect sense!”. Speaking from personal experience, this has happened to me several times. It’s like he scattered literary idea bombs throughout his work to reward you if you could be bothered to go and read the things he’d read. But never once does one of these scattered gems impede your ability to understand or enjoy a book.

He wrote stand alone novels, and stand alone series for that matter, all of which reward the reader as much as any other part of the Pratchett canon. My favourite is “Nation”, which explores ideas about identity and family, scientific inquiry and religious dogma, whilst at the same time being a coming of age tale and an alternate history at the same time. No one could accuse Sir Terry’s books of not giving value for money.

I read Pratchett books for the obvious reasons: he’s funny, he’s witty (which isn’t the same thing at all), he’s a highly intelligent man using his gifts to ask all kinds of interesting questions and he’s a master craftsman. The more I read, and the more I write, the greater my appreciation for how good Sir Terry was at creating a story. He makes it look effortless. It’s only when you try to do the same thing that you realise how much skill has gone into the construction of each book. Part of the joy in having so many books by the same author is that you can see this craftsmanship develop over time. If you compare “The Light Fantastic” to “Monsterous Regiment”, for example, you’ll see how far that process came. One of my favourite things to do with a Pratchett book is to try to work out how he went about putting the novel together on the basis that if I can work that out, I might be able to do it too. I’ve got a long way to go.

Why should you read his work?

It’s simple. They’re all good books. He’s a very good storyteller telling very good stories. I recommend you pick up a copy of “Mort”, or “Monsterous Regiment”, both of which are good jumping on points. What else can you really say about a writer? I really liked his work. I think you will too.

The Brew: as the books cover a spectrum of subjects, so they pair well with a spectrum of drinks. There are Discworld based ales on the market, and those seem appropriate, but I’m going to go with a good quality brandy. Rather than a specific name, I’m going with a price point. I’m going to pay enough for the bottle that I’m really not sure I should be buying it this side of payday. It’s in the manner of a memento mori – something I will enjoy and savour, but which I’m aware there is a finite amount of. I’ll raise the first glass to Sir Terry Pratchett.

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Born in England, David Webb tried to identify his ancestral roots by having his DNA tested. The lab results came back accompanied by a note reading simply “oh dear.”

He lives somewhere in the middle of England, where his tendency for sarcasm and his crippling addiction to tea pass without comment by the general population. He likes reading and writing, history, science fiction and things that are silly, neatly combining all of these by venerating (as all Brits surely do) Doctor Who.

He recently acquired a Bowler hat and is not afraid to wear it in public. You can find more of his writing here.