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Discworld #16-20
Soul Music / Interesting Times / Maskerade / Feet Of Clay / Hogfather
Please Note That The Following Individual Books As Per Original ISBN and Cover Image In this Listing shall be Dispatched
Terry Pratchett Discworld Novels Series 4 - 5 Books Collection
Soul Music:
Being sixteen is always difficult, but it's even more so when there's a Death in the family. Susan hasn't exactly had a normal upbringing, with a skeletal grandfather who rides a white horse and wields a scythe. When Death decides he needs a well-earned break, he leaves Susan to take over the family business.
Interesting Times:
This is the worst thing you can wish on a citizen of Discworld. Especially for the magically challenged Rincewind, who has already had far too much excitement in his life. Unfortunately, the unlucky wizard always seems to end up in the middle of, well, absolutely everything.
Maskerade:
The Opera House in Ankh-Morpork is home to music, theatrics and a harmless masked Ghost who lurks behind the scenes. But now a set of mysterious backstage murders may just stop the show. Agnes Nitt has left her rural home of Lancre in the hopes of launching a successful singing career in the big city.
Feet Of Clay:
Commander Sam Vimes of the City Watch is used to trouble. There's always trouble in Ankh-Morpork. But this is people are being brutally murdered and there's no evidence of anything alive having been at the crime scene. At the same time, the most powerful man in the city has been poisoned and is clinging on to life by a thread.
Hogfather:
'Twas the night before Hogswatch and all through the house . . . something was missing. Superstition makes things work in the Discworld and undermining it can have consequences. When Death realizes that belief in the Hogfather is dangerously low, he decides to take on the job.
Terry Pratchett Discworld Novels Series 4 - 5 Books Collection
Soul Music:
Being sixteen is always difficult, but it's even more so when there's a Death in the family. Susan hasn't exactly had a normal upbringing, with a skeletal grandfather who rides a white horse and wields a scythe. When Death decides he needs a well-earned break, he leaves Susan to take over the family business.
Interesting Times:
This is the worst thing you can wish on a citizen of Discworld. Especially for the magically challenged Rincewind, who has already had far too much excitement in his life. Unfortunately, the unlucky wizard always seems to end up in the middle of, well, absolutely everything.
Maskerade:
The Opera House in Ankh-Morpork is home to music, theatrics and a harmless masked Ghost who lurks behind the scenes. But now a set of mysterious backstage murders may just stop the show. Agnes Nitt has left her rural home of Lancre in the hopes of launching a successful singing career in the big city.
Feet Of Clay:
Commander Sam Vimes of the City Watch is used to trouble. There's always trouble in Ankh-Morpork. But this is people are being brutally murdered and there's no evidence of anything alive having been at the crime scene. At the same time, the most powerful man in the city has been poisoned and is clinging on to life by a thread.
Hogfather:
'Twas the night before Hogswatch and all through the house . . . something was missing. Superstition makes things work in the Discworld and undermining it can have consequences. When Death realizes that belief in the Hogfather is dangerously low, he decides to take on the job.
Paperback
Published September 29, 2023
8 people want to read
About the author
Terry Pratchett
680 books46.2k followersSir Terence David John Pratchett was an English author, humorist, and satirist, best known for the Discworld series of 41 comic fantasy novels published between 1983–2015, and for the apocalyptic comedy novel Good Omens (1990), which he co-wrote with Neil Gaiman.
Pratchett's first novel, The Carpet People, was published in 1971. The first Discworld novel, The Colour of Magic, was published in 1983, after which Pratchett wrote an average of two books a year. The final Discworld novel, The Shepherd's Crown, was published in August 2015, five months after his death.
With more than 100 million books sold worldwide in 43 languages, Pratchett was the UK's best-selling author of the 1990s. He was appointed an Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) in 1998 and was knighted for services to literature in the 2009 New Year Honours. In 2001 he won the annual Carnegie Medal for The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents, the first Discworld book marketed for children. He received the World Fantasy Award for Life Achievement in 2010.
In December 2007 Pratchett announced that he had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's disease. He later made a substantial public donation to the Alzheimer's Research Trust (now Alzheimer's Research UK, ARUK), filmed three television programmes chronicling his experiences with the condition for the BBC, and became a patron of ARUK. Pratchett died on 12 March 2015, at the age of 66.
Pratchett's first novel, The Carpet People, was published in 1971. The first Discworld novel, The Colour of Magic, was published in 1983, after which Pratchett wrote an average of two books a year. The final Discworld novel, The Shepherd's Crown, was published in August 2015, five months after his death.
With more than 100 million books sold worldwide in 43 languages, Pratchett was the UK's best-selling author of the 1990s. He was appointed an Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) in 1998 and was knighted for services to literature in the 2009 New Year Honours. In 2001 he won the annual Carnegie Medal for The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents, the first Discworld book marketed for children. He received the World Fantasy Award for Life Achievement in 2010.
In December 2007 Pratchett announced that he had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's disease. He later made a substantial public donation to the Alzheimer's Research Trust (now Alzheimer's Research UK, ARUK), filmed three television programmes chronicling his experiences with the condition for the BBC, and became a patron of ARUK. Pratchett died on 12 March 2015, at the age of 66.
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June 27, 2025
16. Soul Music ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Soul Music – When Music Composes Destiny
Soul Music is among Terry Pratchett’s most inventive, emotionally resonant, and multilayered works—combining his unparalleled wit with a moving exploration of memory, loss, and—naturally—the power of music.
In the sixteenth novel of the Discworld series, Pratchett brings rock 'n' roll to the Disc. And yes, I’m not quite sure why you’d be reading this review if you were unaware of the first fifteen books, but should that be the case, dear reader, know that this is the fever dream of a flat earther (or rather, its ultimate satire): a fantastical disc-shaped world (yes, the water flows off the edge) balanced on the backs of four gargantuan elephants (there is, cosmologically speaking, a significant fifth—but that’s for another volume), who themselves stand upon the shell of a vastly larger turtle travelling through space.
Despite its overtly comic nature, the Disc astutely mirrors our own world—distorted through a lens of satire and sorcery.
Imp y Celyn—“Buddy” to some—is a young bard from Llamedos (and yes, we’ve started…), which is itself an anagram of "sod 'em all", and a nod to Dylan Thomas’s Under Milk Wood, specifically to the town of Llareggub (anagram of “bugger ‘em all”). When reading Pratchett, references will strike like machine-gun fire—you must come armed and alert.
This young bard is literally overtaken by the Music With Rocks In—a quasi-sentient force that emerges on the Disc and uses Buddy as its conduit to revolutionise sound, aesthetics, and culture. Music is not merely the subject of the novel—it is a character with volition. In one of the book’s most telling episodes, Buddy’s band is thrust onto a stage against their will, propelled by an invisible force that refuses to halt—even when they themselves attempt to back away. Music pushes them, quite literally, toward glory—or ruin. This is a clear commentary on the perils of ascent into the pantheon of rock and pop (and, naturally, the charts).
Through the rise of the Band with Rocks In, Pratchett delivers a razor-sharp satire on the history of rock—from the Beatles to Woodstock—while simultaneously offering a commentary on the power of music to move minds, hearts, and indeed reality itself. His parodies of musical genres and their zealous adherents offer him a canvas on which to unfurl his unflagging inventiveness. The wizards of the Unseen University—more accustomed to grimoires, cauldrons, and spells—succumb to riffs and ballads with near-terrifying glee, while CMOT Dibbler, perennial peddler and now band manager, utters such indelible gems as:
“If you can’t sell T-shirts, what’s the point of art?”
—a remark as ludicrous as it is alarmingly accurate when it comes to the entertainment industry.
Meanwhile, Susan Sto Helit—granddaughter of Death, as we’ve come to know him in Mort and Reaper Man (despite his… ahem, intrinsic reproductive limitations)—makes her debut as a compelling heroine: deeply human, quietly incisive, and caught between the world of the living and the obligation to assume her grandfather’s mantle. Her arc is tender and multifaceted, as she struggles to comprehend her identity, balance logic with the inexplicable, and accept that some things—like death, or music—simply are. Her relationship with Buddy is subtly romantic, full of interiority, a note of human warmth amid the chaos of the Music.
Pratchett, known for his razor wit and relentless wordplay, is in full form here. From song titles that cleverly parody pop culture, to the unforgettable quip from Archchancellor Ridcully:
“I don’t know what this beat thing is, but it seems you’ve got one!”
—Soul Music hits all the right notes—comic and poignant alike.
Soul Music shines as a beacon within Pratchett’s already dazzling oeuvre, for its ability to bind satire to soul. Here, music is not a decorative motif but a fundamental mechanism, an irresistible force coursing through the world—yet made meaningful only when it encounters the human element: a child with an instrument and a song.
Witty, moving, intelligent, and richly enjoyable, Soul Music ranks among the finest of the Discworld novels, and perhaps offers one of Pratchett’s most poignant reflections on the human condition and our cultural hunger for meaning through sound. If you love music, you will adore this book. If you love Pratchett, you already do. It is eminently rereadable—perhaps with a guitar beside you or an old vinyl spinning softly in the background.
And as a cherry on top: the book was adapted into an animated series in 1997, featuring a similarly offbeat aesthetic. It lacks today’s 3D graphics and high-resolution CGI—you’ll be lucky to find it in anything above grimy 576p on some dodgy torrent—but it is PRATCHETT TO THE BONE in tone and spirit, never letting the visuals overshadow the tale.
17. Interesting Times ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Terry Pratchett, in Interesting Times, returns once again to the Discworld to deliver yet another devilishly clever satire, wrapped—as ever—in a cloak of fantasy and political reflection. It is the 17th book in the series and the fifth to centre on the most reluctant, inadvertently wandering, and... pathetically salvific wizard: Rincewind. Incapable of casting even a single spell, yet highly adept at surviving (primarily by running away), Rincewind is the ideal antihero in a world that scoffs at conventions.
The plot transports Rincewind to a comically distorted version of the Far East, the distant Agatean Empire, following the intervention of two deities: Lady Luck and The Lady, who decide to engage in yet another game of chess, using ordinary mortals as their pawns. Rincewind ends up there entirely against his will ( a. OBVIOUSLY, b. as usual ), only to find himself at the centre of a revolution that no one truly understands the origins of.
There we meet—or, if one has invested time in the earlier volumes, reunite with—Cohen the Barbarian, the elderly warrior with a decaying set of dentures and a blade still sharp as ever. Alongside him stands the “Silver Horde”, oh, for heaven’s sake, let’s go: a satirical nod to the historical “Golden Horde” of the Mongols, referring to the tribal confederation that invaded Eastern and Central Europe via the Caucasus in the early 13th century, toppling the Volga Bulgars and the Rus’.
The term is also used for the khanate formed in the aftermath of that conquest, which at its height spanned a vast domain—from the Carpathians in the west to the Altai mountains in the east—across lands that today belong to: all of Moldova and southern Ukraine, the European part of Russia (excluding the territories held by the Feudal Republic of Novgorod), most of Kazakhstan, a slice of Uzbekistan, and western Siberia. Incidentally, the term “Golden Horde” was coined retrospectively, with its earliest written appearance dating only to the 17th century.
If you’re still with us and haven’t collapsed into Morpheus’ embrace, we continue with the Discworld’s “Silver Horde”—a band of geriatric ex-barbarians who drag the faded glory of their past through rheumatism, bad backs, and (what kind of barbarians would they be otherwise?) occasional bloody outbursts of vigour . They are comic, never ridiculous; and through them, Pratchett deftly deconstructs the notion of heroism (while slipping in a few barbs about ageing and its indignities).
The presence of Twoflower, the first -and most naïve- tourist of the Discworld (whom we first met in The Colour of Magic), adds another layer of irony. He has now become the author of a "travel guide" which… inadvertently inspired the Red Army -a group of student revolutionaries intent on transforming the regime. With naïveté at full throttle and a lexicon seemingly drawn from a travel agency brochure, they attempt to build a new world on misinterpreted ideals.
This is Pratchett’s true magic: he builds a universe that makes us laugh, while simultaneously compelling us to think. In Interesting Times, revolution is deconstructed without being debased, and power is revealed as a game without fixed rules—one in which the players change, but not the mechanisms. Amidst all this chaos, Rincewind, ever ready to flee in his sandals, becomes the accidental agent of change. And perhaps therein lies the book’s ironic beauty: that sometimes, the most useless (or shall we say, humble?) among us are those who set history’s wheels most decisively in motion.
The narrative races forward with Pratchett’s trademark energy, brimming with misunderstandings, cultural collisions, wordplay, and surreal moments. From magical armour accidentally worn, to cannons long forgotten in storage that miraculously turn the tide, Discworld never ceases to surprise us ( and won’t stop doing so for another twenty books or so ).
Interesting Times was written in 1995, during a period when Pratchett’s creative engines were running at full capacity, delivering one priceless “gem” each year (sometimes two). It marks both the peak of his creative ascent and the maturity of his craft ( which, admittedly, endured until it inevitably declined due to illness ). Beneath the laughter lies melancholy; beneath the absurdity, a deep meditation on society, history, and the human condition.
Should Fortune -or The Lady- place this book in your path, seize it. Rincewind may be running away, but Interesting Times remains; like any truly powerful piece of literature.
18. Maskerade ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Maskerade (1995), the eighteenth instalment in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series, is a delightfully absurd opera, where The Phantom of the Opera collides headlong with the swift locomotives of the author’s ever-sharp irony (in full form). Returning to centre stage are the beloved witches of Lancre — the relentlessly perceptive Granny Weatherwax and the delightfully foul-mouthed Nanny Ogg — this time set amidst a city replete with intrigues, ghosts, and… vocal performances reminiscent of Dostoevskian drama!
The narrative revolves around Agnes Nitt, a young, gifted yet socially awkward/uneasy woman with two personalities: her own, and the internal Perdita, who provides plentiful moments of self-mockery and internal counterpoint. Agnes possesses an almost otherworldly voice — two octaves above the natural frequency of the world — and secretly sings on behalf of the mute but photogenic Christine. This device serves as a cutting allegory for the commodification of art and the illusion of spectacle: who is heard and why? Who remains invisible when packaging obscures substance? And why, pray, do potato chip bags contain so much air? Hmm, that might be straying off-topic…
Thus, Agnes becomes a symbol of a modern heroine striving to claim space in a world that prefers her silent, invisible, or at best, a second voice. Her internal conflict, between the socially acceptable image and the need for authentic expression, operates on a second level as a commentary on the demands placed upon women regarding appearance, roles, and normality.
Pratchett mercilessly satirises the world of opera and the arts in general: the pompous productions, the patrons driven by financial motives, the musical directors more concerned with balance sheets than harmonies. Mr Salzella embodies the disillusioned artist who, oppressed by a system of profit and pervasive mediocrity, descends into cynicism and vengeance — a reminder that fanaticism, even when born of passion, remains perilous. His motives were not humble, but...
Maskerade retains Pratchett’s humourous, quintessentially British voice, yet incorporates a more mature thematic depth. Indeed, the author’s era of maturity has commenced, and while Discworld’s humour always shines brightly, it is now accompanied by social sensitivity and Pratchett’s relentless critique of the ills of our all-encompassing world.
Granny’s obsession with identity, superiority, and duty reveals an underlying fear: the loss of self and one’s place in the world. A counterbalance is provided by Nanny Ogg, with her cutting practicality and sexual freedom: not merely a comic figure but an unapologetic voice of life and experience (she is the witch who, upon returning home, removes her knickers and flings them at the ceiling: if they stick, it is deemed a good night). Together with Agnes, these three women form an informal feminist triptych that challenges roles, power, and prejudice — both in the magical and the ‘normal’ worlds.
The ironic twist between authentic talent and the structures of power that suppress it. The final resolution, with Walter Plinge taking the helm and bringing a breath of optimism reminiscent of the musical theatre genre, delivers an encouraging message: art need not belong to the few to be great; it can be reborn through acceptance, sincerity, and the playful joy of creation.
Maskerade dialogues not only with the tradition of opera and the work of Gaston Leroux but also with contemporary popular culture, talent shows (from me, a definite no), and social media — realms where surface does not merely overshadow substance, but tends to disregard it conspicuously. Compared to other Discworld works starring witches, such as Wyrd Sisters or Lords and Ladies, it is less metaphysical but decidedly more theatrical (quite naturally), emphasising image, voice, and performance.
Although not the most layered or emotionally charged of Discworld’s offerings, Maskerade shines through its theatrical vitality, social insight, and feminine polyphony. Agnes stands as one of Pratchett’s most humane characters, and her return to Lancre to complete her journey of self-discovery is among the most quiet yet profoundly moving climaxes in the entire Discworld canon.
Inventive, incisive, and thoroughly entertaining, Maskerade combines satire, mystery, and social commentary in Pratchett’s singular manner. The theatre of the absurd becomes opera, punctuated by solemn notes of truth… and another brilliant performance in Discworld’s lengthy oeuvre.
As with many Discworld works, Maskerade demonstrates that Pratchett was not merely writing fantasy; he was writing about our world, disguised with witches’ hats, old scores, and theatrical masks. And we shall love him always for that.
[See comments for the rest due to GR restrictions]
Soul Music – When Music Composes Destiny
Soul Music is among Terry Pratchett’s most inventive, emotionally resonant, and multilayered works—combining his unparalleled wit with a moving exploration of memory, loss, and—naturally—the power of music.
In the sixteenth novel of the Discworld series, Pratchett brings rock 'n' roll to the Disc. And yes, I’m not quite sure why you’d be reading this review if you were unaware of the first fifteen books, but should that be the case, dear reader, know that this is the fever dream of a flat earther (or rather, its ultimate satire): a fantastical disc-shaped world (yes, the water flows off the edge) balanced on the backs of four gargantuan elephants (there is, cosmologically speaking, a significant fifth—but that’s for another volume), who themselves stand upon the shell of a vastly larger turtle travelling through space.
Despite its overtly comic nature, the Disc astutely mirrors our own world—distorted through a lens of satire and sorcery.
Imp y Celyn—“Buddy” to some—is a young bard from Llamedos (and yes, we’ve started…), which is itself an anagram of "sod 'em all", and a nod to Dylan Thomas’s Under Milk Wood, specifically to the town of Llareggub (anagram of “bugger ‘em all”). When reading Pratchett, references will strike like machine-gun fire—you must come armed and alert.
This young bard is literally overtaken by the Music With Rocks In—a quasi-sentient force that emerges on the Disc and uses Buddy as its conduit to revolutionise sound, aesthetics, and culture. Music is not merely the subject of the novel—it is a character with volition. In one of the book’s most telling episodes, Buddy’s band is thrust onto a stage against their will, propelled by an invisible force that refuses to halt—even when they themselves attempt to back away. Music pushes them, quite literally, toward glory—or ruin. This is a clear commentary on the perils of ascent into the pantheon of rock and pop (and, naturally, the charts).
Through the rise of the Band with Rocks In, Pratchett delivers a razor-sharp satire on the history of rock—from the Beatles to Woodstock—while simultaneously offering a commentary on the power of music to move minds, hearts, and indeed reality itself. His parodies of musical genres and their zealous adherents offer him a canvas on which to unfurl his unflagging inventiveness. The wizards of the Unseen University—more accustomed to grimoires, cauldrons, and spells—succumb to riffs and ballads with near-terrifying glee, while CMOT Dibbler, perennial peddler and now band manager, utters such indelible gems as:
“If you can’t sell T-shirts, what’s the point of art?”
—a remark as ludicrous as it is alarmingly accurate when it comes to the entertainment industry.
Meanwhile, Susan Sto Helit—granddaughter of Death, as we’ve come to know him in Mort and Reaper Man (despite his… ahem, intrinsic reproductive limitations)—makes her debut as a compelling heroine: deeply human, quietly incisive, and caught between the world of the living and the obligation to assume her grandfather’s mantle. Her arc is tender and multifaceted, as she struggles to comprehend her identity, balance logic with the inexplicable, and accept that some things—like death, or music—simply are. Her relationship with Buddy is subtly romantic, full of interiority, a note of human warmth amid the chaos of the Music.
Pratchett, known for his razor wit and relentless wordplay, is in full form here. From song titles that cleverly parody pop culture, to the unforgettable quip from Archchancellor Ridcully:
“I don’t know what this beat thing is, but it seems you’ve got one!”
—Soul Music hits all the right notes—comic and poignant alike.
Soul Music shines as a beacon within Pratchett’s already dazzling oeuvre, for its ability to bind satire to soul. Here, music is not a decorative motif but a fundamental mechanism, an irresistible force coursing through the world—yet made meaningful only when it encounters the human element: a child with an instrument and a song.
Witty, moving, intelligent, and richly enjoyable, Soul Music ranks among the finest of the Discworld novels, and perhaps offers one of Pratchett’s most poignant reflections on the human condition and our cultural hunger for meaning through sound. If you love music, you will adore this book. If you love Pratchett, you already do. It is eminently rereadable—perhaps with a guitar beside you or an old vinyl spinning softly in the background.
And as a cherry on top: the book was adapted into an animated series in 1997, featuring a similarly offbeat aesthetic. It lacks today’s 3D graphics and high-resolution CGI—you’ll be lucky to find it in anything above grimy 576p on some dodgy torrent—but it is PRATCHETT TO THE BONE in tone and spirit, never letting the visuals overshadow the tale.
17. Interesting Times ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Terry Pratchett, in Interesting Times, returns once again to the Discworld to deliver yet another devilishly clever satire, wrapped—as ever—in a cloak of fantasy and political reflection. It is the 17th book in the series and the fifth to centre on the most reluctant, inadvertently wandering, and... pathetically salvific wizard: Rincewind. Incapable of casting even a single spell, yet highly adept at surviving (primarily by running away), Rincewind is the ideal antihero in a world that scoffs at conventions.
The plot transports Rincewind to a comically distorted version of the Far East, the distant Agatean Empire, following the intervention of two deities: Lady Luck and The Lady, who decide to engage in yet another game of chess, using ordinary mortals as their pawns. Rincewind ends up there entirely against his will ( a. OBVIOUSLY, b. as usual ), only to find himself at the centre of a revolution that no one truly understands the origins of.
There we meet—or, if one has invested time in the earlier volumes, reunite with—Cohen the Barbarian, the elderly warrior with a decaying set of dentures and a blade still sharp as ever. Alongside him stands the “Silver Horde”, oh, for heaven’s sake, let’s go: a satirical nod to the historical “Golden Horde” of the Mongols, referring to the tribal confederation that invaded Eastern and Central Europe via the Caucasus in the early 13th century, toppling the Volga Bulgars and the Rus’.
The term is also used for the khanate formed in the aftermath of that conquest, which at its height spanned a vast domain—from the Carpathians in the west to the Altai mountains in the east—across lands that today belong to: all of Moldova and southern Ukraine, the European part of Russia (excluding the territories held by the Feudal Republic of Novgorod), most of Kazakhstan, a slice of Uzbekistan, and western Siberia. Incidentally, the term “Golden Horde” was coined retrospectively, with its earliest written appearance dating only to the 17th century.
If you’re still with us and haven’t collapsed into Morpheus’ embrace, we continue with the Discworld’s “Silver Horde”—a band of geriatric ex-barbarians who drag the faded glory of their past through rheumatism, bad backs, and (what kind of barbarians would they be otherwise?) occasional bloody outbursts of vigour . They are comic, never ridiculous; and through them, Pratchett deftly deconstructs the notion of heroism (while slipping in a few barbs about ageing and its indignities).
The presence of Twoflower, the first -and most naïve- tourist of the Discworld (whom we first met in The Colour of Magic), adds another layer of irony. He has now become the author of a "travel guide" which… inadvertently inspired the Red Army -a group of student revolutionaries intent on transforming the regime. With naïveté at full throttle and a lexicon seemingly drawn from a travel agency brochure, they attempt to build a new world on misinterpreted ideals.
This is Pratchett’s true magic: he builds a universe that makes us laugh, while simultaneously compelling us to think. In Interesting Times, revolution is deconstructed without being debased, and power is revealed as a game without fixed rules—one in which the players change, but not the mechanisms. Amidst all this chaos, Rincewind, ever ready to flee in his sandals, becomes the accidental agent of change. And perhaps therein lies the book’s ironic beauty: that sometimes, the most useless (or shall we say, humble?) among us are those who set history’s wheels most decisively in motion.
The narrative races forward with Pratchett’s trademark energy, brimming with misunderstandings, cultural collisions, wordplay, and surreal moments. From magical armour accidentally worn, to cannons long forgotten in storage that miraculously turn the tide, Discworld never ceases to surprise us ( and won’t stop doing so for another twenty books or so ).
Interesting Times was written in 1995, during a period when Pratchett’s creative engines were running at full capacity, delivering one priceless “gem” each year (sometimes two). It marks both the peak of his creative ascent and the maturity of his craft ( which, admittedly, endured until it inevitably declined due to illness ). Beneath the laughter lies melancholy; beneath the absurdity, a deep meditation on society, history, and the human condition.
Should Fortune -or The Lady- place this book in your path, seize it. Rincewind may be running away, but Interesting Times remains; like any truly powerful piece of literature.
18. Maskerade ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Maskerade (1995), the eighteenth instalment in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series, is a delightfully absurd opera, where The Phantom of the Opera collides headlong with the swift locomotives of the author’s ever-sharp irony (in full form). Returning to centre stage are the beloved witches of Lancre — the relentlessly perceptive Granny Weatherwax and the delightfully foul-mouthed Nanny Ogg — this time set amidst a city replete with intrigues, ghosts, and… vocal performances reminiscent of Dostoevskian drama!
The narrative revolves around Agnes Nitt, a young, gifted yet socially awkward/uneasy woman with two personalities: her own, and the internal Perdita, who provides plentiful moments of self-mockery and internal counterpoint. Agnes possesses an almost otherworldly voice — two octaves above the natural frequency of the world — and secretly sings on behalf of the mute but photogenic Christine. This device serves as a cutting allegory for the commodification of art and the illusion of spectacle: who is heard and why? Who remains invisible when packaging obscures substance? And why, pray, do potato chip bags contain so much air? Hmm, that might be straying off-topic…
Thus, Agnes becomes a symbol of a modern heroine striving to claim space in a world that prefers her silent, invisible, or at best, a second voice. Her internal conflict, between the socially acceptable image and the need for authentic expression, operates on a second level as a commentary on the demands placed upon women regarding appearance, roles, and normality.
Pratchett mercilessly satirises the world of opera and the arts in general: the pompous productions, the patrons driven by financial motives, the musical directors more concerned with balance sheets than harmonies. Mr Salzella embodies the disillusioned artist who, oppressed by a system of profit and pervasive mediocrity, descends into cynicism and vengeance — a reminder that fanaticism, even when born of passion, remains perilous. His motives were not humble, but...
Maskerade retains Pratchett’s humourous, quintessentially British voice, yet incorporates a more mature thematic depth. Indeed, the author’s era of maturity has commenced, and while Discworld’s humour always shines brightly, it is now accompanied by social sensitivity and Pratchett’s relentless critique of the ills of our all-encompassing world.
Granny’s obsession with identity, superiority, and duty reveals an underlying fear: the loss of self and one’s place in the world. A counterbalance is provided by Nanny Ogg, with her cutting practicality and sexual freedom: not merely a comic figure but an unapologetic voice of life and experience (she is the witch who, upon returning home, removes her knickers and flings them at the ceiling: if they stick, it is deemed a good night). Together with Agnes, these three women form an informal feminist triptych that challenges roles, power, and prejudice — both in the magical and the ‘normal’ worlds.
The ironic twist between authentic talent and the structures of power that suppress it. The final resolution, with Walter Plinge taking the helm and bringing a breath of optimism reminiscent of the musical theatre genre, delivers an encouraging message: art need not belong to the few to be great; it can be reborn through acceptance, sincerity, and the playful joy of creation.
Maskerade dialogues not only with the tradition of opera and the work of Gaston Leroux but also with contemporary popular culture, talent shows (from me, a definite no), and social media — realms where surface does not merely overshadow substance, but tends to disregard it conspicuously. Compared to other Discworld works starring witches, such as Wyrd Sisters or Lords and Ladies, it is less metaphysical but decidedly more theatrical (quite naturally), emphasising image, voice, and performance.
Although not the most layered or emotionally charged of Discworld’s offerings, Maskerade shines through its theatrical vitality, social insight, and feminine polyphony. Agnes stands as one of Pratchett’s most humane characters, and her return to Lancre to complete her journey of self-discovery is among the most quiet yet profoundly moving climaxes in the entire Discworld canon.
Inventive, incisive, and thoroughly entertaining, Maskerade combines satire, mystery, and social commentary in Pratchett’s singular manner. The theatre of the absurd becomes opera, punctuated by solemn notes of truth… and another brilliant performance in Discworld’s lengthy oeuvre.
As with many Discworld works, Maskerade demonstrates that Pratchett was not merely writing fantasy; he was writing about our world, disguised with witches’ hats, old scores, and theatrical masks. And we shall love him always for that.
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