If you ask someone to recommend a funny author, odds are good they’ll say Terry Pratchett (Kurt Vonnegut comes up just as frequently, but he didn’t write Discworld, the subject of today’s post). Mention Pratchett, and you get the kind of intellectual cachet that says you read for pleasure and laugh at the right kind of jokes. Clever jokes. Maybe I had the wrong impression of Pratchett coming into this, but my takeaway wasn’t oh, he’s clever or this guy’s really funny. It was oh right, the ’80s were super sexist.
Here is a popular writer—an acclaimed author whose literary achievements got him knighted by the actual Queen of England—who could not include a female character without disrobing her, flipping the gravity, and laughing at how her tits dangle. This is not a feminist tale. It doesn’t pass the Bechdel test (which I can only assume was created in 1985 as a direct response to Pratchett’s 1983 release of this book). It’s blissfully free of such burdens as women having dignity, or agency, or—I don’t know—clothes. In this book, you’ll find such inspiring examples as whimsical man treats himself to a day at the “whore pits” and society ruled by women compared to insects. Forgive me for this shrill aside, but it’s difficult to focus on a story when these minor details keep reminding me how casually hostile this man’s worldview is to women. He clearly struggles to imagine women as sentient beings. Otherwise, he’d be able to describe their actions and intentions, like he does for the men, without getting bogged down in objectifying descriptions of their bodies.
And sure, you can say that’s just how it was back then. Fine. But I say it’s evidence his “creative genius” was quite limited. If he were truly imaginative, he might have thought to give those women at least as much personality as that sentient treasure chest he’s got running around. Okay, enough about sexism. Let’s talk story.
Lately, I’ve been trying to expand my horizons with books from before I was born. What this means in practice is I spend a lot of time yelling at old library books for being so damn boring. The problem with Discworld is that the main character, a hapless Wizard named Rincewind, doesn’t have any goals. He’s just stumbling around trying to survive the events of the day as the gods gamble with his fate. This works for the first quarter of the book, when the promise of a ticking time bomb keeps the plot moving by sheer brute force. But after? Rincewind is set adrift without any particular plans or aspirations or even enemies to avoid. There’s the comic-relief personification of Death, but he’s only after Rincewind in a part-time capacity. Not nearly a big enough threat to give this book the tension or purpose it so desperately needs. Call me old-fashioned, but I like books that give me reason to suspect something will happen.
So, is there anything good about Colour of Magic? I will admit, even with my frumpy feminist leanings, I thought it was pretty funny. Pratchett has a way with words and conjures up some fairly absurd images in his scenes. But, there are other books and authors who can give you humor and an epic plotline and compelling characters. Books have gotten a lot more exciting since the ‘80s. I think it’s because the competition’s a lot steeper now: at least twice as many authors are vying for the same 24 hours (maximum) a person can read in a day. My point is that Pratchett is fine. I laughed a few times, so good for him, but that’s not enough to distinguish him as anything special in today’s ecosystem. I think Pratchett needs to be downgraded from his position as a default humorist (Don’t say it’s unfair for me to judge him on a single book. Discworld is what he’s known for). I think the current generation of writers, who have spent decades now marinating in online meme culture, have cultivated the art of the joke to a new level, and you can do a lot better than Pratchett just by scrolling tumblr.
So, by all means, give Discworld a try. But if you want something really funny, pick an author who’s still alive. I recommend Tamsyn Muir (who packs more laughter into a single page than Adam Sandler’s put into his entire career), but Samantha Irby and even the fresh-faced Julia Armfield have made me laugh at least as much as Pratchett. I think it’s time for his crown to pass to a more worthy successor. These ladies might not have been knighted by the Queen of England, but I think they deserve it.
6.5/10
Ruthie's Reliquary of Terrible Reviews 