Wintersmith by Terry Pratchett
Every once in a while, I dabble down the Discworld path. I’ve never felt compelled to churn through the whole series like I do with others. The time to read one always seems to come upon me and then I read a few. And then maybe get to more later.
I never know what I’m going to get, because Discworld is pretty much six or seven different series that are interconnected. Rincewind and the Wizards. The Night Watch. Tiffany Aching and The Witches. Death and his daughter. Moist von Lipwig. Each novel kind of pushes forward one of their stories while pushing forward the whole of Discworld. It’s very Monty Python. They all kind of have lovely morals and messages without forcing the message. Pratchett has a topic he wants to get into, and so just sort of envelopes it in one of his humorous characters.
Now that Pratchett has died, and his daughter has declared that his final book will be the end of the series for good, I have an end point. It’s going to end on a Tiffany Aching story. Which is my least favorite series — in the sense that I find all the Discworld to be pleasant, so this just happens to be the one I like ultimately the least. It’s not bad, and the Nac Mac Feegles — the wee blue folk who drink and fight and drink and fight — are my favorite stuff. But Tiffany Aching was meant to be the Young Adult wing of the Discworld, and it very much has that feel to it. It’s a part of Discworld, but it’s just not my favorite to visit upon.
I almost always give Discworld books three to four stars. Because I like them but never love them. There’s always great parts, but the whole book is never great to me. It’s just something that should be read. If you are a fan of reading, and dry British absurdity, then you have to read them. And you’ll enjoy them.