Making Money by Terry Pratchett
Ah, Moist von Lipwig. He’s such a strange character. As I read the later novels of Terry Pratchett, I kind of pine for the earlier ones. I miss Rincewind, and the elderly Barbarians, and Death. Well, Death’s kind of in every novel, to be fair. But Tiffany Aching feels like a poor version of the Witches, and the new stuff just is entertaining but less so for me, I guess. I don’t know.
I like Moist von Lipwig though, because it gives a chance for Vetinari to shine, and I dig the fuck out of Vetinari. If ever there was some kind of eternal world-spanning pit-fight, I’d love to see Vetinari versus Tyrion Lannister in a battle of wits. Moist has his moments, but he also is written (effectively) as if he hates to be in the story. And yet, there are some masterful exchanges.
After dominating the postal trade, Moist is now thrust into the banking trade. Against his will as always, and with the looming threat of death over his head. It’s always a fun commentary on modern commerce. The Bloom County rut of the Discworld. There are secrets and shell games and thrilling changes that every resists. This story blossomed liked an accordion where it stretched out and wheezed and then all kind of came crashing together cacophonously in the end.
I always like the Discworld books, but I’ve never become fanatical about them like others. As I edge towards the end of the adventure though, I guess I feel wistful for what might have been. It’s like after the Dark Tower ended and then Stephen King retired. And then he didn’t. And then he wrote an eighth book. I’ve said I’d like to see Joe Hill take on his version. Or hell, even a five book series where each of the King progeny takes a whack at it: Owen, Joe, Tabitha, Stephen, and Kelly Braffet, Owen’s wife. But we get no more Discworld.
Though how great would it be for a 41st book to appear all in caps?