Night Watch is one of Sir Terry’s most hopeless novels - and, by the same token, because of the same things, one of his most hopeful.
It’s a parody - and I use that word very loosely, because there’s really nothing funny about it - of Les Miserables. It’s about a failed revolution, and a barricade, and the people who fought and died there for nothing. Nothing changes. Politics with a capital P goes on, and even the most pure and noble of intentions only becomes food for the pit of snakes who pull the strings. The powerful remain powerful, the powerless, despite their solidarity, their desperation, their violence, their hope, remain powerless. Their little lives don’t count at all. Things continue exactly as they always have, minus a few faces in the crowd.
It is also, I think, where we see Sam Vimes at his lowest. Sure, Thud! does similar things in stripping him down, but that is under an outside influence, and he has his family to think of. He has something to fight for.
In Night Watch, though, all of that is taken away. Sam Vimes, eternal cynic, for once has Cassandraic knowledge that his cynicism is absolutely founded. He knows how this will end, and there’s no Corporal Carrot to make the world magically better around him, no Sybil and Young Sam to push through for, no city to protect. The absolute best that he can expect is to succeed, and lose that family, that future, forever. The absolute worst? He dies. Everyone he cares about here dies. And it’s all in vain.
Sam Vimes is an alcoholic. It’s something that we tend to bring up when we’re talking about how amazing he is, how much he’s overcome, but gloss over otherwise. Which is a little sad, because it’s fundamental.
Sam Vimes faced this exact dragon, years ago. Sam Vimes saw there was no way to slay it. He saw the ants eating at the heart of every hope, every effort. He saw the first man he really knew as a good and kind and just - but never passive, never weak - man die, horribly, slain for no reason but petty grudge and Politics. He saw John Keel’s garden wither and die in its bed. He saw the hope of a better, brighter Ankh-Morpork squelched, and the sacrifice of a good man wasted. He saw the world, in all of its rotting, miserable, pestilent despair, spoiling every good thing that dared show its face, its only ordering principle the slow decay of entropy.
Young Sam Vimes had no anchor. Young Sam Vimes had nothing left to turn to but the bottom of a bottle and the smelliest part of an Ankh-Morpork gutter.
Sam Vimes, as of the events of Night Watch, is back there. Not only physically temporally displaced. He has nothing. There is no reason for him to stand up, to take on the role of John Keel, to take responsibility for the barricade, to try to bring Carcer back to justice. To fight the doomed fight. There is nothing between him and finding a quiet seat at the Broken Drum, ordering himself a pint, and giving up. There is nothing between him and despair.
But he gets up anyway. He intervenes anyway. He tries to help anyway, even when he can’t believe it will make any difference. And it doesn’t, in the end.
Except that people lived who, save for the actions of John Keel, would have died. Except it quite literally meant the world to them.
And that’s where the hope is hiding, in this hopeless, bleak, despair of a book. There is no glory. There is no revolution. There is no good thing that cannot be corrupted. There is no point. Except.
The Disc turns on the ‘except’. Always has. Always will.
Category: gnu terry pratchett
marypsue:Night Watch is one of Sir Terry’s most hopeless novels – and, by the same token, because of…
Night Watch is one of Sir Terry’s most hopeless novels - and, by the same token, because of the same things, one of his most hopeful.
It’s a parody - and I use that word very loosely, because there’s really nothing funny about it - of Les Miserables. It’s about a failed revolution, and a barricade, and the people who fought and died there for nothing. Nothing changes. Politics with a capital P goes on, and even the most pure and noble of intentions only becomes food for the pit of snakes who pull the strings. The powerful remain powerful, the powerless, despite their solidarity, their desperation, their violence, their hope, remain powerless. Their little lives don’t count at all. Things continue exactly as they always have, minus a few faces in the crowd.
It is also, I think, where we see Sam Vimes at his lowest. Sure, Thud! does similar things in stripping him down, but that is under an outside influence, and he has his family to think of. He has something to fight for.
In Night Watch, though, all of that is taken away. Sam Vimes, eternal cynic, for once has Cassandraic knowledge that his cynicism is absolutely founded. He knows how this will end, and there’s no Corporal Carrot to make the world magically better around him, no Sybil and Young Sam to push through for, no city to protect. The absolute best that he can expect is to succeed, and lose that family, that future, forever. The absolute worst? He dies. Everyone he cares about here dies. And it’s all in vain.
Sam Vimes is an alcoholic. It’s something that we tend to bring up when we’re talking about how amazing he is, how much he’s overcome, but gloss over otherwise. Which is a little sad, because it’s fundamental.
Sam Vimes faced this exact dragon, years ago. Sam Vimes saw there was no way to slay it. He saw the ants eating at the heart of every hope, every effort. He saw the first man he really knew as a good and kind and just - but never passive, never weak - man die, horribly, slain for no reason but petty grudge and Politics. He saw John Keel’s garden wither and die in its bed. He saw the hope of a better, brighter Ankh-Morpork squelched, and the sacrifice of a good man wasted. He saw the world, in all of its rotting, miserable, pestilent despair, spoiling every good thing that dared show its face, its only ordering principle the slow decay of entropy.
Young Sam Vimes had no anchor. Young Sam Vimes had nothing left to turn to but the bottom of a bottle and the smelliest part of an Ankh-Morpork gutter.
Sam Vimes, as of the events of Night Watch, is back there. Not only physically temporally displaced. He has nothing. There is no reason for him to stand up, to take on the role of John Keel, to take responsibility for the barricade, to try to bring Carcer back to justice. To fight the doomed fight. There is nothing between him and finding a quiet seat at the Broken Drum, ordering himself a pint, and giving up. There is nothing between him and despair.
But he gets up anyway. He intervenes anyway. He tries to help anyway, even when he can’t believe it will make any difference. And it doesn’t, in the end.
Except that people lived who, save for the actions of John Keel, would have died. Except it quite literally meant the world to them.
And that’s where the hope is hiding, in this hopeless, bleak, despair of a book. There is no glory. There is no revolution. There is no good thing that cannot be corrupted. There is no point. Except.
The Disc turns on the ‘except’. Always has. Always will.
butleroftoast:And on that thought, I have a lot to say about the theme of identity throughout the…
And on that thought, I have a lot to say about the theme of identity throughout the Discworld in general. In every book, even the earlier, less dark ones, there’s a constant theme of being true to yourself and doing what you think is right, no matter what other people tell you, no matter what the world throws at you, no matter how life tries to wear you down.
It might be Rincewind just knowing he’s a wizard. It might be Granny Weatherwax standing in a world of mirrors and thinking it’s a trick question when she’s asked to identify which one is real, because obviously it’s her. It might be Vimes knowing he won’t let good men die even if history says that’s what happens, because it can never be what Sam Vimes says happens.
But the lesson is always the same: whoever you are inside, whatever you believe yourself to be, that is you, and nobody gets to steal that from you. Words in the heart cannot be taken.
serialephemera:Thematically speaking, the most important thing Terry Pratchett taught me was the…
Thematically speaking, the most important thing Terry Pratchett taught me was the concept of militant decency. The idea that you can look at the world and its flaws and its injustices and its cruelties and get deeply, intensely angry, and that you can turn that into energy for doing the right thing and making the world a better place. He taught me that the anger itself is not the part I should be fighting. Nobody in my life ever said that before.
Long live the glorious 25th of May!
For the longest time I doubted that any book series would ever be as important to me as Tolkien’s legendarium. Then I discovered the Discworld in my high school library. At first I didn’t love it. Rincewind’s and Twoflower’s adventures in The Colour of Magic and The Light Fantastic were funny and entertaining but didn’t threaten to overthrow any of my established favourites. I liked them enough to keep reading though and after a few more books I was addicted, picking up gaps in my collection at charity shops and market stalls and Waterstones whenever I could.
The humour is great, yes. Pratchett’s puns and his dry wit are exactly my cup of tea. But there’s so much more to them than that. They’re wonderfully written. I have never once been bored or found myself wanting to skip pages when reading a Discworld book. His characters are some of the most complex and memorable I’ve come across. And, as a lot of other people have pointed out (including Neil Gaiman), there’s this very constructive sense of anger throughout that I’ve not seen anywhere see. It’s not hectoring or nihilistic at all, however. Through Discworld Pratchett looks at and calls out the ugliness in our own world but says that we, as human beings, are capable of doing better. It’s hopeful without being naïve.
Night Watch (which is where the glorious 25th of May comes from, in case anyone reading this isn’t aware) is one of the darker Discworld novels. It’s set earlier in the timeline than most of them, in an Ankh-Morpork under the rule of a sadistic tyrant, and while there are points of familiarity to me it felt like a very different place to the city I’d come to love. There’s a rebellion, which fails. There’s a group of men who aren’t heroes but they try to do the right thing, no matter how pointless it seems. And that’s important, the trying. The narrative values innocence and kindness and camaraderie, and that will always be meaningful to me than any ‘realistic’ or edgy, grimdark piece of fiction.
I don’t know, none of this is very original and other people have said the same things a lot more eloquently, but today I just felt compelled to try and say and something about what these books mean to me. GNU Terry Pratchett.
boffo-novelty-and-joke-shop: noirandchocolate: Things Terry Pratchett Did Made fun of…
Things Terry Pratchett Did
Made fun of the “unnecessarily naked/scantily clad woman,” “sacrificial virgin,” and “sexy heroine” tropes in his first two novels. The first was described as being the most powerful of her clan of dragon-riders and the nakedness was properly treated as unnecessary in a clear parody. The second turned out to be one of the more level-headed (while not well-educated) members of the party after her initial introduction, and also had a spine and knew (and got) what she wanted. The third was described as wearing sensible clothes, was pretty but not sexualized at all, and was practical and smart.
Wrote an entire novel to critique the unequal treatment of “men’s magic” versus “women’s magic” in the fantasy genre. Portrayed witches as just as if not more capable than wizards (when it comes to actually helping people, in particular), and also generally having more common sense than them. Nevertheless created a little girl character with wizard powers, and had her decide neither wizard nor witch magic was sufficient and develop a new kind of magic all her own.
Included sex workers in his worldbuilding. Made jokes about them the same way he did every other kind of person of any profession, but was also highly respectful and never critical of these jobs. Described the head of the ‘Seamstresses’ Guild as one of the most influential people in the biggest city in the world. Never showed or described in detail any sexual violence, including against these workers. In fact, made sure to say that anyone in the city who harmed a sex worker would be dealt with painfully, embarrassingly, and/or lethally by two fearsome elderly ladies. Even his more ditzy stripper character quickly smartened up and learned some true self-respect–not by quitting her job but by realizing she didn’t have to take any shit from men.
Included strong female friendships aplenty. Included female enemies who were enemies over things other than men. In general constantly passed the Bechdel Test and not only that, left it in the dust and had way more meaningful and realistic representation.
Five words: Dwarf Women Are All Trans. More words: And there’s no way to know if some of them were trans in the way we Earth humans would understand it, too, and he clearly didn’t think that sort of genitalia-based gender labeling mattered. Did not turn his trans dwarfs into a joke, but treated them simply as people–including a scientist/forensics officer in a police department, a prominent fashion designer, and the literal King of all dwarfs (who subsequently came out as Queen). Portrayed transmisogynists as unequivocally wrong, and had protagonist characters stand up for and protect their trans colleagues and friends. See also: had genderfluid characters in two of his books and at least one trans man, as well as confirming canonically that there are gay wizards, one of whom is really good at football.
One of his mainest of main characters was a blunt, bad-tempered, prideful old woman who is also good to her core. Didn’t gloss over her unfriendliness or excuse it, but made her complex and interesting and overall likeable despite all that. Also had a very amiable old lady character who also had a temper and would throw hands with anyone who’d mess with her family or best friend. In general, steel-souled old ladies, wow. Also steel-souled young girls.
Said he was incapable of writing a weak, wilting female character, and honestly I can’t think of a single one in any of his books.
Please feel free to add to this list with other Things Terry Pratchett Did because I definitely didn’t say them all!
I will forever be grateful for the sentence “Lady Ramkin’s bosom rose and fell like an empire.“