all i can think of is discworld

3

I have recently become utterly smitten with the Society of Gentlemen book series by KJ Charles. The book covers are so disappointing and bland and do not do these characters justice AT ALL so I needed to draw the boys myself.


If you like Regency-era stories about gentlemen who like other gentlemen then you should check this series out; it’s got some lovely romance and friendships and supporting-each-other-through-hardship and era politics and scandal and drama and pining.  Not to mention bi and demi and trans characters, and none of the conflicts revolve around anyone being ashamed of their sexuality. Oh, and they all have HAPPY ENDINGS! Also people actually communicate and it avoids so many stupid misunderstandings that are so common in love stories. 

(Basically everything I’ve ever wanted in historical romance and more) 

The Beast screamed inside Vimes. It screamed that no one would blame him for doing the hangman out of ten dollars and free breakfast. Yeah, and you could say a swift stab now was the merciful solution, because every hangman knew you could go the easy way or the hard way and there wasn’t one in the country that’d let something like Carcer go the easy way. The gods knew the man deserved it…

…but young Sam was watching him, across thirty years.

When we break down, it all breaks down. That’s just how it works. You can bend it, and if you make it hot enough you can bend it in a circle, but you can’t break it. When you break it, it all breaks down until there’s nothing unbroken. It starts here and now.

He lowered the sword.

—  Night Watch, Terry Pratchett

So I was just thinking about those posts you get in the Discworld tag about the way belief works on the Disc and how Vetinari and/or Vimes is so integral to the way Ankh-Morpork works that they might just sort of… not ever die.

You know, the ones like ‘Vimes is going to become a god of policemen and he’s going to hate it”.

Well. What if it happens to both of them? There are two parts to the city, after all. ‘Proud Ankh’ needs taking down a peg or two (or seven) by Sam Vimes, and if anyone can terrify ‘pestilent Morpork’ into being better then it’s Havelock Vetinari. And they can drive each other mad with stealth puns for centuries, if they want.

Also, this would potentially make them literally Law And Order, and that just seems very fitting in a way that would probably annoy them both.

im honestly still thinking about the way terry pratchett describes characters. 

i mean, swing’s jerky, unpredictable moving and talking is so well-described by the image of someone powered by springs, you can instantly see it and also you /feel/ how unnerving it is.  somehow by way of weird kind of silly imagery he communicates the sense of a thing, not just what’s literally physically happening, and honestly i suspect witchcraft

Night Watch

Ok, before the day ends I just have to say that I really, really, really love the first quote I posted today:

Lilac was common in the city. It was vigorous and hard to kill and had to be. The flower buds were noticeably swelling. He stood and stared, as a man might stare at an old battlefield…

I read that part yesterday, and it just struck me how much meaning is crammed into those few sentences. Vimes has just learned what he has to do in order to get back to the future, he’s thinking about everything that is to come, meanwhile the undercurrents of revolution are gaining traction in the streets. The lilac buds, like Vimes, like the revolutionaries, like Ankh-Morpork itself, are tough, resilient, difficult to kill, and on their way to becoming something much greater. 

It’s the same with this quote:

Moss had grown over the wooden markers of the other six [headstones], but it had been scraped off the central one, revealing the name: JOHN KEEL. And carved underneath, by someone who had taken some pains, was: How Do They Rise Up?

I thought as I was reading it: who are “they”? They are the angels in the song. They are John Keel and the other six watchmen. They are the Vimes who goes back to where it all began, and also the young Sam Vimes who became who he is thanks to Keel. They are the people of Ankh-Morpork. But I also think it’s about the various ways people talk about remembrance. What are the appropriate ways in which these men can be honoured in death? A bronze statue would be too much, but to put their bones in a crypt doesn’t do justice to their memories. How do they rise? How can we raise them up?

This book gives me so much to think about every single time I read it. It blows me away Every. Damn. Time.

A letter to Terry Pratchett

alright, how to do this. Since i was 12 my favorite author has always been Terry Pratchett. His Tiffany Aching series shaped who i am today, and i hold his writing above all other writing. i always fantasized about meeting him and telling him how much his writing meant to me and how grateful i was. And then he died the day before my 17th birthday. and god, i wept. i completely broke down. it took me a while to recover, and even longer to find the words, but i wrote him this letter, and i thought i’d put it by the terry pratchett memorial next time i came to london (i live in denmark), but by the time i came the memorial had been painted over. and so this letter has been sitting in my documents folder for a long time, and i feel like that iis wrong. i need to put it out there somewhere in the world - even if its just for closure. i watched the BBC documentary ‘back in black’ recently and i got the idea to publish the letter here, so i may live to regret this but here it comes; my badly written, far too long letter to a man who will never read it:


Dear Sir Terry Pratchett,

I don’t really know why I’m writing this letter. As things are, you’ll never read it, and even if you could, I don’t know if I’d dare give it to you. Or if I’d even dare approach you. You see (and you’ll probably disagree/dislike me for this/get miffed about this), you rank frighteningly high on my list of natural forces, my hierarchy of deities. You probably wouldn’t like that, rather a rising ape than a fallen angel, but that is how it is. I believe in a god, but you are closer to him in my accounts than you will ever be to me. Maybe that’s wrong, don’t put your heroes on pedestals and whatnot, but I don’t think I can stop it now. It’s just how it is. So I don’t really know why I’m writing this letter, or if anyone will ever read it, but I think I needed to do it. Get out all the things I will never get a chance to tell you. Very human, isn’t it?

Keep reading

“I ought to read them their rights, sir,” said Carrot.
“What are you talking about?” said Vimes.
“The men out there, sir.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right. Do it, then.”
Oh gods, I arrested an entire battlefield, Vimes thought. And you can’t do that.
But I’ve done it. And we’ve only got six cells back at the Yard, and we keep the coal in one of them.
You can’t do it.
Was this the army that invaded your country, ma’am? No, officer, they were taller than that…
How about this one? I’m not sure–get them to march up and down a bit…
Carrot’s voice could be heard outside, slightly muffled:
Now… can you all hear me? You gentlemen in the back there? Anyone who can’t hear me, please raise… all right, has anyone got a megaphone? Some cardboard I could roll up? In that case I’ll shout…”
“What now?” said the Prince.
“I’m taking you back to Ankh-Morpork–”
“I don’t think so. That would be an act of war.”
“You are making a mockery of the whole business, Vimes!” said Lord Rust.
“So long as I’m doing something right, then.”

– a quintessential Vimes move | Terry Pratchett, Jingo

elijahwoodnot  asked:

🎥🚀 (yoooooo)

-my abSOLUTE FAV book to movie adaptation?? It’s a close race but?? I gotta say that the 2005 Pride and Prejudice movie is about as good as it gets. That. *clenches fist* Damn movie. It’s a masterpiece. Literally So Extra and it’s EXACTLY WHAT JANE AUSTEN WOULD HAVE WANTED. ((honorable mentions include Treasure Planet -because what book to movie adaptation WOULDN’T get better with space??- and ANY of the discworld movies because I have a soft spot for them in general))

- OK ok OK so like SCI FI IS MY JAM (you know this), and right now literally all I can think of are the most recent ones I’ve read??? SO… I’M JUST GONNA PUt DOWN WHAT I’M READING RN, IF THAT’S OK?? 

K so first I’m reading David Gerrold’s (who wrote the Star Trek episode “Trouble With Tribbles” #funfact) Star Wolf series, and it’s like… if spaceship battles were more like submarine battles?? With the added benefit of an underdog crew of a nameless starship that takes all the shit from Starfleet the space navy and has to basically redeem themselves for stupid mistakes that their previous captain made. The MC is a bit of a Cliche Manpain Man Who Lost His Perfect Wife And Two Sons to “”The War”” and is now out for //Revenge//… But the rest of the characters really pick up the slack, and the world is cool, and the AI computer system on the ship is AMAZE and Sassy (I look forward to reading the spinoff book that goes into how the AI gained sentience and became what it is today…. I just haven’t,,, gotten there yet..)

And then there is Jer Keene’s (aka @deadcatwithaflamethrower) Ashlesha, which is Super Gay and vaguely sci-fi/modern fantasy and which I’m ALSO currently reading and I’m loving every single second of it, and I HIGHLY HIGHLY recommend it if you like watching two idiots fall in love, make questionable decisions, do a lot of NDA talk, and also run away from the government (and do a lot of kissing). The main character Rex is… I worry about that boy. He gets shot at a LOT. But his family is charmingly ride or die and his boyfriend POSSIBLY EVEN MORE SO, so it makes for fast-paced reading and some wonderfully  relatable family dynamics (and other less relatable dynamics -and on a related note I’m terrified of the amount of apparent knowledge that the author possesses about how many bodies one can safely bury on one’s own property but I digress~~)

[[[oh my lawd this got out of hand I’m ~so sorry~ I just really like books]]]

Okay but Muggleborn students whose first letter home reads “Dear Mum and Dad GRANNY WEATHERWAX IS THE HEADMISTRESS”

It becomes Tradition, as Discworld memes tend to do, with someone in the Common Room mentioning “Headmistress Weatherwax”, and then it becomes an in-joke with the people who were there even if they didn’t recognise the reference, and it spreads and grows, and the older Muggleborns tell the first-years who do know Discworld that Headmistress McGonagall actually knew Sir Terry, and was the inspiration for Granny, and you think it’s coincidence that Granny is so good at Borrowing and McGonagall can turn into a cat? and the Witches books get passed around, and we know how good Potterverse wizards are at critical thinking, and the upshot is that within a couple of weeks it is Established Fact that McGonagall is actually Granny Weatherwax.

And one day McGonagall stands at the podium at dinner time, and casts a baleful eye around the room, and says “I can’t be having with this.”

And the kids who started the rumour in the first place swiftly reevaluate all their life choices.

eliasraine  asked:

Which do you think is the better berserker scene in Discworld canon, Sam Vimes howling "THAT!!! IS!! NOT!!! MY!!!! COW!!!!" in Thud! or Dorfl's methodical rampage through Ankh-Morpork following his being given free will?

You…you want me to pick between Sam Vimes’ love for his son, and Dorfl’s emancipation from being a Thing into a Person?

*narrows eyes*

What kind of monster are you…

(Some minor spoilers ahead)

In all honesty I don’t think I can choose. Sam Vimes and his love for his family, his utter devotion to Young Sam, is one of the most pure and wonderful things I’ve ever read.

From a man who has nothing, literally nothing to lose and doesn’t care, to a man who suddenly has everything, and is so certain he doesn’t deserve it he lives in terror every day of losing it. He’s not a violent man either despite what some people think, oh he’ll fight to survive and he’ll fight dirty to do it, but he’s not intrinsically a violent man.

Until he sees the dwarf assassin going into his son’s nursery. And then Vimes finds a prayer in his soul, deep and dark and terrible like some old god of vengeance, a promise that makes hell fire look like a candle:

“I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you

He doesn’t have to, of course. The Summoning Dark does the work for him, and indeed perhaps that promise came from the Darkness, and not himself. Sam Vimes might well want to kill the dwarf that stands of his son’s cradle with an axe raised. But Sam Vimes is Sam Vimes, and Sam Vimes will always find a way to bring evil into the light. We see that in the cavern when the Darkness tries to take over him fully, and the only thing Sam Vimes can do is reach for the last part of him that lives in the light. And that’s reading “Where’s My Cow” to his son every night. This cynical, jaded man who lives in fear of his own demons, his rage, his alcoholism, his inability to trust anyone, his want to lash out at a world that lets the innocent get hurt while the guilty thrive, his depression—even calls it The Beast—worries that he’s not a good man because that’s what good men do. And when the ultimate darkness tries to claim him, making his body swing an axe like a berserker, Sam Vimes goes to the place that reads his son a bedtime story every night. And stops it before the axe can fall.

And there’s something so incredibly visceral about that. But the exact same can also be said for Dorfl.

Feet of Clay is one of my favorite works of literature of all time. I want to be buried with a copy of it, I want the quote “Words In The Heart Cannot Be Taken” engraved on my tombstone. Every time I read it, which is multiple times a year, I am rendered in awe by the anger, the downright burning rage that the world is so cruel and dark that children die because of politics and that people can be treated like property just because we say so and then we hate them for it because it’s easier to hate them instead of ourselves for being the monsters that wrought the chains…and yet…and yet there’s something so innocent about the golems. The way they take a piece of themselves, and try to make something pure and good and just, and imbue it with all their hopes and dreams, the things they dare not do themselves but think perhaps if they make something new that isn’t already worn down by the world, maybe, just maybe they might one day be free…except that’s now how it works. You cannot ask someone else to burn just so you can be warm, you cannot put the weight of the world onto a single pair of shoulders and be surprised when their back breaks. But the golems didn’t know this because all they had were stories in their heads, where good people triumph and the bad are punished…so of course it didn’t work in the real world, of course the Golem King goes mad, the weight of all that hope like a terrible maw of despair in his head…guide us, deliver us, set us free, lead us to…goodness, kindness…their absolute horror and grief when they realize what has happened is overwhelming in a quiet stricken way.

CLAY OF MY CLAY, SORROW

And then there’s Dorfl. Dorfl who tries to take the blame, Dorfl who is passive and huge and lumbering and terrifying to behold…Dorfl who is silent because Things should not speak so his tongue was never made. And people blame him for that too.

Dorfl who is given his freedom, and suddenly the words in his head change and he looks around the world and sees the injustice of it all and his immediate rage is like an inferno blazing a trail through the darkness…

Dorfl who takes action because words are no longer enough. Dorfl who frees animals and breaks mills and becomes angry and upset when the other golems don’t immediately join him because they don’t know, they don’t know what it’s like to see the world in color yet, and even the sunrise can look like fire if you’ve only ever seen hell before…

Dorfl who is willing to die to stop a human being from being murdered because he can…Dorfl who has the words ripped out of his head and tossed aside like a broken toy…Dorfl who rises up because he has to, Dorfl who lays in the dust of his own rubble. Dorfl whose dying words—words he will never speak because he was never given a voice but he knows them to be true because he’s here, he’s still alive in defiance of the universe, even as the light fades from his eyes— WORDS IN THE HEART CANNOT BE TAKEN

Dorfl who emerges from the fire—remade with a tongue and a voice that echoes like thunder and stands defiant even to the gods. Dorfl who chooses to be kind…to fight on the side of justice because he can.

Dorfl who knows if you want change you have to not only break the wheel yourself, but also remake it.

Dorfl who frees the golems one by one and brings them blinking into this new world and gives them voices so that they might finally be heard.

Dorfl man…just…Dorfl.

‘Sir Charles,’ said Geoffrey.  ‘Do you mind if I ask whether you like having the name of Lavatory?’

For a moment the hubbub of noise from conversations around them fell silent as the whole room listened.  Every eye was watching Sir Charles, whose face was at first blank and then all smiles.

‘What an excellent question!’ he cried.  ‘To tell you the truth, young man, as you may expect, I was teased a lot when I went to school, but as they say, that which does not kill you makes you stronger.  And so, as soon as I could, with the help of my late father, I set to work to make the lavatory the marble marvel of the age and a boon and blessing to all mankind.  I can truly say that I have ended up flushed with pride, now knowing that the name is associated with satisfaction and ease.’  To his surprise, Geoffrey saw a small tear form in the corner of Sir Charles’s eye as he continued:  ‘There are times of an evening when I go down to the workshops, all silent, and look at the work that’s going on on this year’s model, with the seat warmer and the patented straining bars, and I can’t help thinking that I’ve done my best for mankind.  I wonder how many men with hands cleaner than mine can say that.’

–Felicity Beedle (as told to Terry Pratchett), “The World of Poo”
Illustration by Peter Dennis
(Up to this point I’d been disappointed by the lack of puns.  Thank you, Sir Charles, for filling this void.)

Honestly I can’t stress enough how much you should all read Discworld. Like it’s a big looming thing that looms, but once you break it down it doesn’t seem big. And, while reading things in order is a good idea, it’s okay if you can’t. I read both the Watch and Witches backwards, and the Wizards all over the place. I think the Moist books were the only ones I read in order, and that only cause I lucked out and found both of them in the same place and had the option.

Think I might have initially read the Tiffany Aching books backwards as well, now I think of it.

anonymous asked:

"oh man I don’t think there’s a single person alive who can get all the Soul Music pop culture references" We'll see about that! I had a professor who taught a pair of classes on the history of pop music, and I convinced him he needed to read Soul Music when he had some time. (He'd previously enjoyed Good Omens.)

oh my gosh I hope he does and I hope he understands every single one (there are approximately three hundred billion) that’s a perfect Discworld starter choice! I hope you can follow up with him to see if he enjoyed it!

‘It’s like that in the Watch, too,’ said Angua.  'You can be any sex you like provided you act male.  There’s no men and women in the Watch, just a bunch of lads.  You’ll soon learn the language.  Basically it’s how much beer you supped last night, how strong the curry was you had afterwards, and where you were sick.  Just think egotesticle.  You’ll soon get the hang of it.  And you’ll have to be prepared for sexually explicit jokes in the Watch House.’

Cheery blushed.

'Mind you, that seems to have ended now,’ said Angua.

'Why?  Did you complain?’

'No, after I joined in it all seemed to stop,’ said Angua.  'And, you know, they didn’t laugh?  Not even when I did the hand gestures too?  I thought that was unfair.  Mind you, some of them were quite small gestures.’
—  Terry Pratchett, “Feet of Clay”
We have raised the battle cry of There Must Be More Than This

—Judith Wright, Australian poet, environmentalist, critic, and advocate of aboriginal land rights


Tiffany Aching’s fairy tales are full of fair-haired princesses and gentle milkmaids and goose girls who are artistically dirty, disheveled in a way that does not obscure their loveliness. None of them look like Tiffany. 

.

I don’t give a Zlobenian fart what you’ve got stuffed down your trousers, soldier! Sergeant Polly Perks bellows at the quaking private. Perks’ gaze lingers over the line of new recruits, before flashing a grin at the vampire beside her, who looks thoroughly dishabille despite the corporal’s braid and a lacy collar. 

Girl or boy, Polly says, you are all my little lads, and I will look after you.    

.

Sybil Ramkin has always taken up more room than is allowed. She lives in perpetual embarrassment of how wood flooring creaks underfoot, the accidental bump of her hips, how just her presence blocks the doorway. She learns to move almost apologetically, a skittery, jumpy attitude that Mistress Trunbull always says gave her the vapors.

Yet when the famous swamp dragon breeder, Madame Leopold, comes to give all the girls a tutorial, Sybil is chosen for the demonstration. She reaches for the dragon gingerly, afraid she might upset it—

I told you to pick the thing up, not tickle its sides, Madame Leopold says, and Sybil flushes. When she tightens her grip, the dragon makes a squeaking noise and wriggles out of her hands without much effort.

Oh, that won’t do. Let the old girl know you’re here! Madame Leopold orders, and Sybil finds herself bringing all her strength to bear, scooping the dragon up and swinging it beneath one arm. Madame Leopold nods approvingly.

It feels like being given permission to breathe. (Sybil did not even know how starved for air she was.)

.

Yes, Conina said patiently, I understand that it’s standard-issue heroine armor. But where is the rest of it?

.

Esk’s hands tremble on the scissors, and for a minute Esk is worried it won’t come out right, they’ll be left with a long and ragged mop of hair. Esk wants it short, wants it gone, like the dresses burned in the courtyard, like the rig they’d bought in Dolly Sisters to keep their breasts flattened against the chest.

Esk walks to the lecture hall with only slightly messy hair, and minor injuries. Simon’s eyes go wide when they slide into the seat beside him, 

It’s still Esk, Esk tells him. I’m just—I’m a wizard.

Simon smiles slowly. Yeah, all right, Esk.

.

If the collar doesn’t fit, find a bigger collar, Angua von Uberwald whispers to herself as the carriage rattles over another pothole on the road to Ankh-Morpork. 

.

Lower your gaze, Tears of the Mushroom’s elders chide her. It is not for a goblin to stare so

They do not like it when she asks why. They do not like how Mrs. Beedle teaches her the humans’ tongue, teaches her to play the harp. Such unnecessary noise, they say. Why must you do these things?

To hang, she answers. We must hang. 

(Tears of the Mushroom turns her face up to the sky, and sings.)

.

Cheery was armored against their disgust long ago; the whispers and badly-hidden sneers no longer surprise her. Still, she won’t deny how it aches when the dwarf courting her shows no interest in bringing her home to meet his parents; when she has to explain again, no, it’s ‘she’, it’s ‘her’. 

But sometimes dwarves new to the city look at her like she is an answer to a question they were afraid of asking out loud, and every time Cheery squares her shoulders, and goes on.

.

One fair morning, Esme Weatherwax puts on her best dress, brushes her hat clean, and goes walking. She has made it only so far as the little copse of trees by the Gower farm when, a man in a long black robe falls into step beside her. His great scythe makes a faint scraping noise where it drags in the dust.

They make their way in companionable silence, up the highest hill in Lancre—the one where you could see clear to the Sto Plains. Esme takes a little while to catch her breath, but when she straightens, she can see all of Lancre laid out. All the sleepy farms, the faint glitter of the new clacks towers. The sound of the train whistle is faint so high up.

I’m ready now, she informs Death with a little sniff. Will there be more, do you think?

OH, Death says, MUCH MORE, I IMAGINE.

“We’ve got to stop this, Ned. This is the only chance. It stops here or not at all. Can you imagine him loose now he’s pally with Snapcase?”

“Yes. I can,” said Ned. “Just as well I wasn’t planning anything this evening, eh? But you can tell me one thing, sarge. How do you know all this?”

Vimes hesitated. But at a time like this, what difference did it make?

“I’m from this city,” said Vimes. “But, oh, there was a hole in time, something like that. You want to know? I travelled here in time, Ned, and that’s the truth.”

Ned Coates looked him up and down. Blood covered Vimes’ armour, and his hands, and half his face, and he was holding a bloody sword in his hand.

“From how far back?” he said.

Night Watch, Terry Pratchett

peridotswallow  asked:

I started with The Colour of Magic. I was a bit too young at the time to realise the difference of quality between it and later books. I can't say I've read all of them yet but I've diped into every series. I esspecially love the Tiffany Aching books. For a while I didn't really get on with the later Watch books but I think I'm finally mature enough to appreciate them.

I remember being disappointed by some of the later watch books when I was younger too, but now they’re some of my favorites. It’s nice that you’ve read some of each series but still have more to go – you’ve met everyone, but you still have more to go

  • 9: 30 a.m.
  • Vimes: Motherfucking Victor Tugelbend Jesus Christ fuck dude motherfuckin newspaper moving picture bullshit Jesus can you fucking believe this shit
  • Angua: I have no idea what we're talking about right now.
  • 10: 15 a.m.
  • Vimes: God damn created newspapers then fucking lawyers and shit right fucking Engraver's Guild god damn rowing the boat fuck yo shit I can't even fucking believe this shit have you seen this shit fuck I just watched this shit fuck Victor Tugelbend man
  • Angua: Mister Vimes, you're scaring me.
  • 11: 15 a.m.
  • Vimes: Motherfucking Spider-man Spider-man you put in the time fuck put in the time motherfucking built shit with this bare hands fucking father shit Victor Tugelbend I'm very tired
  • Angua: No problem, sir. I'll just do most of the talking at the Watch Committee meeting today.
  • Immediate response. I'm talkin' like 5 seconds later.
  • Vimes: No man I'll just talk about the newspaper moving picture all day shit man you have to be so interested in the shit I have to say about the newspaper moving picture fuck dude I just watched it a year and a half ago fuck Victor Tugelbend man he fucked over Spider-man crazy Engraver's Guild rowing Trent Resin Or did the soundtrack fuck this guy who invented the newspaper I don't like dying I can't think of who the fuck invented the newspaper All I can think is who played the guy who invented the newspaper who the fuck invented the newspaper
  • 1: 15 p.m.
  • Vimes: WILLIAM DE WORDE.