For me, Pratchett will suffice

I started writing this post in March but it took me some time to find the words to say what I wanted to. 

March is the time I remember Terry Pratchett (specifically, because I am always thinking of him when I read his books or see a hat!), who walked away with DEATH the same month, a couple of years ago. 

When the melancholy struck, I wanted to read Pratchett and about Pratchett. That’s how I came upon a Guardian article that dismissed Pratchett’s prose as being “very ordinary”. The writer, Jonathan Jones, went on to say, “A middlebrow cult of the popular is holding literature to ransom. Thus, if you judge by the emotional outpourings over their deaths, the greatest writers of recent times were Pratchett and Ray Bradbury. There was far less of an internet splurge when Gabriel García Márquez died in 2014 and Günter Grass this spring. Yet they were true titans of the novel. Their books, like all great books, can change your life, your beliefs, your perceptions. Everyone reads trash sometimes, but why are we now pretending, as a culture, that it is the same thing as literature? The two are utterly different.” 

Jones argues that actual literature requires more effort but is hence more rewarding. I will not deny this but while my reading of “literature” has been limited, I have read enough of Pratchett to bristle at his being dismissed as “trash”.

I do not get paid to read (unfortunately) nor can I frequently afford to read to the exclusion of all else because mundane demands intrude. Some time ago, I started on Gunter Grass’ Tin Drum and gave up after a few pages. At the time, I could not make the effort needed to read between the lines and around it and into it. Yes, I probably read a lot less literature than I should to counter Mr Jones’ claim, let alone question it. But as a reader, one who reads whenever she can make time, I am happy to say that I have read a fair bit of the “trash” that Mr Pratchett penned. I read it with joy, laughing loud and long, drawing curious gazes when I did it unabashedly in public, perusing his “ordinary prose”:

“The truth isn’t easily pinned to a page. In the bathtub of history, the truth is harder to hold on than the soap and much more difficult to find.” (Sourcery)

Self-publishing and the rags to riches stories of some writers have made writing an attractive pursuit for many and there will always be a debate to determine what qualifies as literature. I doubt Pratchett made any claims to literary greatness. His self-effacing sense of humour, evident in his books, is definitely more likely to have resulted in a hearty laugh at both Mr Jones’ criticism and at my stumbling efforts to rebut it. But it pains me to see him classified as rubbish. While lacking the greatness that litterateurs might admire, Pratchett’s writing, his universality of subject matter, and his wisdom elevate him from the ordinary.

Pratchett made it easy for me to recognise my world in his books. He made me laugh at myself and those around me, reminding me that life is sometimes too burdensome and that the creases in my forehead need some rest. Yet, he is far from stupid. His jugglery of words reminds one of the court jester of yore who dressed up truths in laughs. Like Issac Asimov says, “That, of course, is the great secret of the successful fool — that he is no fool at all.” Pratchett took on the role of the newspaper cartoonist, who presented realities, often difficult, in a distilled, palatable form. Pratchett has discussed history, music, theatre, religion, movies, industrial development, banking systems, coming of age, philosophy, life and death, terrorism, law enforcement, and more. In every Discworld novel are multiple little nuggets of profound wisdom that I cherish and enjoy and recall with pleasure:

“Rumour is information distilled so finely that it can filter through anything. It does not need doors or windows — sometimes it doesn’t even need people. It can exist free and wild, running from ear to ear without ever touching lips.” (Feet of Clay)

“‘Is it true that your life passes before your eyes before you die?’

YES.

‘Ghastly thought, really.’  Rincewind shuddered.  ‘Oh, gods, I’ve just had another one.  Suppose I am just about to die and this is my whole life passing in front of my eyes?’

I THINK PERHAPS YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND.  PEOPLE’S WHOLE LIVES DO PASS IN FRONT OF THEIR EYES BEFORE THEY DIE.  THE PROCESS IS CALLED ‘LIVING’.” (Last Continent)

And an editor’s favourite:

“‘Multiple exclamation marks,’ he went on, shaking his head, ‘are a sure sign of a diseased mind.’” (Eric)

Mr Jones, I can only graze in the hallowed meadows of “literature” when I have the time and effort to spare. Meanwhile, I am happy burrowing in the “trash”. My porcine joy, shared with the spirit of a laughing man in a hat, will keep me going even as the world around me disintegrates into a not-so-good place.