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Discworld #1-5
The Colour of Magic / The Light Fantastic / Equal Rites / Mort / Sourcery
discworld novel series 1 :1 to 5 books collection set includes titles in this set :- the colour of magic, the light fantastic, equal rites, mort, sourcery. The Colour Of (Discworld Novel 1) Somewhere on the frontier between thought and reality exists the Discworld, a parallel time and place which might sound and smell very much like our own, but which looks completely different. Particularly as it's carried though space on the back of a giant turtle (sex unknown). It plays by different rules. The Light (Discworld Novel 2) As it moves towards a seemingly inevitable collision with a malevolent red star, the Discworld could do with a hero. What it doesn't need is a singularly inept and cowardly wizard, still recovering from the trauma of falling off the edge of the world, or a well-meaning tourist and his luggage which has a mind (and legs) of its own. Which is a shame because that's all there is... Equal (Discworld Novel 3) The last thing the wizard Drum Billet did, before Death laid a bony hand on his shoulder, was to pass on his staff of power to the eighth son of an eighth son. Unfortunately for his colleagues in the chauvinistic (not to say misogynistic) world of magic, he failed to check that the baby in question was a son. (Discworld Novel 4) Henceforth, Death is no longer going to be the end, merely the means to an end. It's an offer Mort can't refuse. As Death's apprentice he'll have free board, use of the company horse - and being dead isn't compulsory. It's a dream job - until he discovers that it can be a killer on his love life... (Discworld Novel 5) There was an eighth son of an eighth son. He was, quite naturally, a wizard. And there it should have ended. However (for reasons we'd better not go into), he had seven sons. And then he had an eighth son... a wizard squared...a source of magic...a Sourcerer.
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Published January 1, 2017
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About the author
Terry Pratchett
679 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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July 20, 2018
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June 2, 2025
1. Colour of magic ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
All legends must, inevitably, have a point of origin. For the inimitable Discworld series, this diminutive volume—oft-overlooked depending on the edition (particularly when deprived of Kirby’s illustrations)—constitutes the zero point, the Big Bang, the fiat lux.
A flat world, disc-shaped (a veritable delight for the modern flat-earther, albeit one lacking the cranial geometry requisite for such a read), rests atop the backs of four colossal elephants (a fifth exists, though we shall not entangle ourselves with it just yet), themselves poised upon the mighty carapace of the cosmic turtle, Great A’Tuin, who swims through the sparse aether of the universe, seemingly without destination. Of course, water cascades endlessly into the void from the rim of the disc; naturally, there is no 'north' or 'south', but rather 'hubward' and 'rimward'; and indeed, there is magic, heroism, cowardice, wizards, books so potent they must be chained down (yet still manage to plant spells into the minds of hapless apprentices), and—perhaps most fantastically—a tourist. With a trunk...
Terry Pratchett (who, most tragically, succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease in 2015—a cruel irony for a mind so incisive) skewers every cliché of the fantasy genre—swords, sorcery, and dragons, as one might say in plainer speech—with unparalleled wit, never missing an opportunity to draw trenchant parallels with our own world. These parallels, as the series progresses, become increasingly sophisticated, increasingly ludicrous, and, correspondingly, increasingly delightful—culminating in an entire spin-off metatextual series: The Science of Discworld.
The narrative is not, one must note, self-contained in this first instalment. It finds its resolution in the second volume, The Light Fantastic—in essence, the two comprise a single diptych. Nonetheless, the foundation is laid, the seed planted; whether you shall be enchanted by the exceptional prose of one of the 20th century’s most sagacious authors is now, quite simply, a matter for your own discovery. If you are only now embarking upon this journey, I must confess—I envy you. For before you lies a corpus of over forty unwritten (for you, at least) tomes, filled with marvel and delight. Granted, the later volumes bear the melancholy mark of Pratchett’s illness, and, lamentably, his publishers continued to exploit the franchise... yet, from a certain point onward—when his style attains full maturity—the humour gracefully yields primacy to philosophical resonance, without compromising the pleasure of the text.
Tarry no longer. Awaiting your acquaintance are the most ineffectual wizard in all creation (though he at least bears a hat which clearly proclaims his station), the most ingenuous tourist the Disc has ever known, and a magical world, vast and strange, for you to explore in their improbable company.
2. Light Fantastic ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
If The Colour of Magic was the initial spark — the proverbial kick to the gears — then The Light Fantastic is the blowtorch (or the choke, or the flap, or indeed the compressor) that irrevocably sets the Discworld engine in motion. It is not a "sequel" in the conventional sense; rather, it constitutes the indispensable second half of a single, continuous narrative. A book that commences precisely at the final page of its predecessor — almost as if that page had never been turned.
The thoroughly inept wizard Rincewind (rendered as “Ανεμοβρόχης” in the Greek translation) continues his valiant attempts not to die; the ever-optimistic tourist Twoflower (Δίανθος) persists in documenting, with charming naïveté, the most chaotic world in the cosmos; and the Luggage continues to scurry about on its hundred little legs, brimming with the zeal of a... homicidal puppy. Meanwhile, Magic begins to shake the very foundations of reality; the great turtle A’Tuin edges ever closer to a celestial consort; and the wizards of the Unseen (and highly magical) University — who never miss a chance for subterfuge — attempt to “resolve” the crisis in the most traditional of manners: with rather more magic, and only marginally less reason.
Pratchett retains the same frenetic, almost cartoonish energy that characterised the first volume, yet something here has shifted: one begins to perceive the cracks behind the smile. Not from fatigue, but from depth. Behind the humorous dust jacket and the linguistic acrobatics, the author has begun to assemble an entire world — one governed by its own peculiar laws (or rather, its own deliberate infractions of them). The first strains of seriousness emerge gradually, like a cello playing softly behind the orchestra of punchlines.
It is also worth noting that this is where we encounter the first genuine inklings of Discworld cosmology — something that shall evolve into a rich mythology, as resonant in meaning as it is abundant in trolls, elves, golems, bureaucrats, librarian-orangutans, and arcane metaphysical regulations.
If you finished the first book wondering, “Yes, but what happens next?”, then The Light Fantastic is not merely the next chapter — it is the inevitable continuation of a journey that was never about destination, but always about manic, unstoppable momentum. And now that the first foundations of this strange new world have been laid, its protagonists begin to resemble less caricatures and more... heroes. Or at the very least, people. Or something, at any rate, that carries emotions, terror, and perhaps a bit of sausage in a pouch inside the Luggage.
If you’re reading these books in order, congratulations: you’ve arrived at the end of the beginning. If not, do yourself a favour and turn back to page one — the worlds Pratchett has wrought deserve to be witnessed as they assemble, piece by absurd, affectionate, and razor-sharp piece.
Equal Rites are coming (pun intended). Hold on!
3. Equal Rites ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
Equal Rites, the third book in the Discworld series, marks a decisive turning point in the literary trajectory of Terry Pratchett. It is here that we encounter his first truly unforgettable heroine, Eskarina Smith, through whom a significant social concern emerges—one that could easily have lapsed into didacticism: gender discrimination, particularly within the realm of magic.
Published in the now distant 1987, the novel is in dialogue with the second-wave feminist movement, which concentrated on gender inequality across professional and social spheres. The protagonist—a young girl who claims the right to become a "wizard"—embodies the demand for equal opportunities irrespective of gender. Though Pratchett deftly sidesteps overt moralising, the narrative tension between “masculine” and “feminine” forms of magic functions as a pointed allegory for societal expectations and the structures of power. With humour and considerable acuity, the author dismantles the tradition that relegates women to “supporting” roles, doing so at a time when such narratives were rarely afforded space within the fantasy genre.
The plot itself is elegantly simple: it follows Esk, a girl who "accidentally" acquires the power of a wizard—an occurrence unthinkable in a world where wizardry is an exclusively male preserve, while women are expected to engage in the supposedly inferior domain of witchcraft. At her side stands Granny Weatherwax, the enigmatic and irascible witch of the mountains, and one of the Discworld's most iconic characters. With her stubbornness, wisdom, and occasionally unsettling logic, Granny assumes the role of mentor, guiding Esk through a world unprepared to accept her.
Granny Weatherwax, who begins Equal Rites as a seemingly archetypal (if slightly sharper or more indulgent than average) mountain witch, rapidly develops into one of the most complex and respected figures in the Discworld canon. In the later works of the Witches subseries—such as Wyrd Sisters, Lords and Ladies, and Carpe Jugulum—Granny acquires a philosophical, moral, and existential depth. Beneath her sardonic manner and rigorous rationality lies a tireless advocate of common sense and the “hidden good.” Her relationship with power, identity, and choice renders her a truly remarkable fictional hero: a counterweight to arrogance and institutional authority. It is no coincidence that she frequently steals the limelight even from the wizards of Ankh-Morpork.
Pratchett’s humour is ever-present: linguistic playfulness, witty dialogues, and surreal reversals dissect the conventions and clichés of traditional fantasy. However, the narrative has not yet attained the structural assurance or philosophical maturity of his later work. The plot remains relatively straightforward and linear, and the underlying message—though timely and insightful—is at times articulated in a direct and somewhat predictable manner.
Equal Rites is a charming, often amusing read—particularly suited to those interested in witnessing the emergence of some of Discworld’s most beloved figures. Though it does not rank among Pratchett’s masterpieces, it serves as a bridge: a transitional step from near-slapstick parody towards social satire imbued with depth and emotional resonance. It is an honest, humorous, and important milestone in the evolution of Discworld: imperfect, to be sure, yet unmistakably marked by the voice of an author beginning to discover his true range.
4. Mort ⭐ ⭐ ⭐⭐
Mort is the first novel in the Discworld series to centre explicitly on the character of Death. Of course, we have encountered Death before—most notably in The Colour of Magic—as a delightfully macabre reaper who speaks in capitals and waits, in vain, for Rincewind to expire. However, his elevation here to a principal role marks a significant step in the maturation of Terry Pratchett’s narrative craft. Indeed, the author himself has admitted that this was the first work in which he felt he had successfully married inventive satire with a coherent and meaningful plot.
The story begins with young Mort, a lad conspicuously ill-suited to agricultural life—he appears to possess more elbows and knees than one might consider anatomically proper—who becomes Death’s apprentice. What follows is a narrative that toys intelligently with philosophical themes such as fate, free will, and identity, all while maintaining Pratchett’s signature wit.
The personification of Death as a figure who is at once paternal, curiously tender, and frequently clueless is paradoxically human, making him instantly endearing. (Not that we disliked him in his earlier appearances, of course—but now we truly get to know him.) Death’s fascination with the human condition—from dancing and drinking to, rather amusingly, gainful employment—yields moments that are as comedic as they are quietly affecting.
Mort, for his part, undergoes a rather compelling transformation. His gradual assimilation into the “essence” of Death introduces ethical dilemmas and psychological tension, deepening the dramatic scope of the novel.
The narrative becomes genuinely delightful when Mort intervenes in the fate of Princess Keli, preventing her assassination and dispatching her would-be killer—thereby disrupting the natural order. Nevertheless, those around her continue as if she were dead, preparing her funeral and mourning her... in her presence. This conceit of an alternate reality—one on the brink of collapse—adds unexpected urgency and narrative propulsion. Meanwhile, the contributions of the wizard Cutwell and Death’s adopted daughter Ysabell offer not only comic relief but also vital support for Mort’s journey.
To be sure, there are moments where the humour overshadows the emotional or narrative depth—an indulgence that may wear thin for some readers. Yet these minor lapses do little to detract from the novel’s overall charm and structural success. Mort is among the first truly accomplished entries in the Discworld canon. With Death at the forefront and a plot that deftly combines magic, metaphysics, and quintessentially British humour, the novel stands tall and inaugurates what might be called the informal “Death Saga” of Pratchett’s universe.
A clever, touching, and uproariously funny read that unquestionably deserves its place among the high points of modern fantasy literature.
5. Sourcery ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
Sourcery by Terry Pratchett (aka Discworld #5 continues the misadventures of Rincewind, a cowardly yet dogged wizard, who is once again drawn into a chaotic and surreal journey. While the novel contains many of Pratchett’s signature virtues — witty humour, wordplay, mythological allusions, and postmodern irony — it does not always manage to sustain the narrative cohesion or momentum that one might expect.
The central premise, that of a sourcerer born as the eighth son of an eighth son of an eighth son, is rich with potential. So too is the characterisation of Coin, a child of unimaginable power, trapped in the shadow of his overreaching father. Coin embodies the tragic tension between innate kindness and imposed omnipotence — a child not merely taught how to wield power, but indoctrinated into believing that power is identity. His gradual transformation from innocent conduit of magic to authoritarian ruler is not only dramatically effective but serves as a pointed reflection on how readily power can corrupt even the noblest of intentions.
Pratchett, beyond indulging in fantasy, employs magic as a political and social instrument. The Unseen University becomes the site of an internal coup, where wizards cease to pursue knowledge and instead hunger for dominion. Sourcery is not merely a heightened form of magic, but a mechanism for the centralisation of power — one that destabilises the very fabric of the world. In this, Pratchett offers a satire of institutional arrogance and the illusion of control, subtly suggesting that the more absolute magic becomes, the less freedom remains for all others.
Yet, Sourcery frequently seems overwhelmed by its own chaos. The plot leaps from scene to scene with a pace that, while relentless, can become wearying. Secondary characters such as Nigel and Conina are amusing, yet are denied the narrative depth they arguably deserve. The adventure itself, despite its imaginative flourish, occasionally feels unsure of its direction.
The humour, as ever, is sharp and effective. Pratchett seizes every opportunity to lampoon institutions, heroes, and even the very fabric of fantasy itself. In one memorable sequence, the wizards attempt to conduct a summit in the midst of a wartime crisis, only to become embroiled in internal squabbles over whose hat is largest. Elsewhere, Rincewind tries to escape a burning palace using a magical item (no spoilers here) that despises heights — with predictably farcical results. These scenes showcase Pratchett’s deftness in turning even the most epic situations into delightful exercises in comic deflation.
The novel’s ending, with Rincewind making the ultimate sacrifice to save Coin and, by extension, the world, is unexpectedly moving, injecting a note of gravity into an otherwise light-hearted narrative. The final line — “A wizard... will always come back for his hat” — stands as one of the most resonant and nostalgic closings in the series.
Overall, Sourcery is a modest but worthy addition to the Discworld canon. It offers several memorable moments and characters, while also revealing the limitations of Pratchett’s still-“early” phase as a writer. It may not rank among his most polished works, but for fans of Rincewind and the anarchic magic of the Discworld, it remains a read laced with irreverent charm and cheerful absurdity.
We applaud: Original premise, humour, satire of authority
We raise an eyebrow at: Uneven plotting, underdeveloped supporting characters
Best suited for: Devotees of Pratchett seeking a hearty dose of Rincewind and unhinged magic.
All legends must, inevitably, have a point of origin. For the inimitable Discworld series, this diminutive volume—oft-overlooked depending on the edition (particularly when deprived of Kirby’s illustrations)—constitutes the zero point, the Big Bang, the fiat lux.
A flat world, disc-shaped (a veritable delight for the modern flat-earther, albeit one lacking the cranial geometry requisite for such a read), rests atop the backs of four colossal elephants (a fifth exists, though we shall not entangle ourselves with it just yet), themselves poised upon the mighty carapace of the cosmic turtle, Great A’Tuin, who swims through the sparse aether of the universe, seemingly without destination. Of course, water cascades endlessly into the void from the rim of the disc; naturally, there is no 'north' or 'south', but rather 'hubward' and 'rimward'; and indeed, there is magic, heroism, cowardice, wizards, books so potent they must be chained down (yet still manage to plant spells into the minds of hapless apprentices), and—perhaps most fantastically—a tourist. With a trunk...
Terry Pratchett (who, most tragically, succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease in 2015—a cruel irony for a mind so incisive) skewers every cliché of the fantasy genre—swords, sorcery, and dragons, as one might say in plainer speech—with unparalleled wit, never missing an opportunity to draw trenchant parallels with our own world. These parallels, as the series progresses, become increasingly sophisticated, increasingly ludicrous, and, correspondingly, increasingly delightful—culminating in an entire spin-off metatextual series: The Science of Discworld.
The narrative is not, one must note, self-contained in this first instalment. It finds its resolution in the second volume, The Light Fantastic—in essence, the two comprise a single diptych. Nonetheless, the foundation is laid, the seed planted; whether you shall be enchanted by the exceptional prose of one of the 20th century’s most sagacious authors is now, quite simply, a matter for your own discovery. If you are only now embarking upon this journey, I must confess—I envy you. For before you lies a corpus of over forty unwritten (for you, at least) tomes, filled with marvel and delight. Granted, the later volumes bear the melancholy mark of Pratchett’s illness, and, lamentably, his publishers continued to exploit the franchise... yet, from a certain point onward—when his style attains full maturity—the humour gracefully yields primacy to philosophical resonance, without compromising the pleasure of the text.
Tarry no longer. Awaiting your acquaintance are the most ineffectual wizard in all creation (though he at least bears a hat which clearly proclaims his station), the most ingenuous tourist the Disc has ever known, and a magical world, vast and strange, for you to explore in their improbable company.
2. Light Fantastic ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
If The Colour of Magic was the initial spark — the proverbial kick to the gears — then The Light Fantastic is the blowtorch (or the choke, or the flap, or indeed the compressor) that irrevocably sets the Discworld engine in motion. It is not a "sequel" in the conventional sense; rather, it constitutes the indispensable second half of a single, continuous narrative. A book that commences precisely at the final page of its predecessor — almost as if that page had never been turned.
The thoroughly inept wizard Rincewind (rendered as “Ανεμοβρόχης” in the Greek translation) continues his valiant attempts not to die; the ever-optimistic tourist Twoflower (Δίανθος) persists in documenting, with charming naïveté, the most chaotic world in the cosmos; and the Luggage continues to scurry about on its hundred little legs, brimming with the zeal of a... homicidal puppy. Meanwhile, Magic begins to shake the very foundations of reality; the great turtle A’Tuin edges ever closer to a celestial consort; and the wizards of the Unseen (and highly magical) University — who never miss a chance for subterfuge — attempt to “resolve” the crisis in the most traditional of manners: with rather more magic, and only marginally less reason.
Pratchett retains the same frenetic, almost cartoonish energy that characterised the first volume, yet something here has shifted: one begins to perceive the cracks behind the smile. Not from fatigue, but from depth. Behind the humorous dust jacket and the linguistic acrobatics, the author has begun to assemble an entire world — one governed by its own peculiar laws (or rather, its own deliberate infractions of them). The first strains of seriousness emerge gradually, like a cello playing softly behind the orchestra of punchlines.
It is also worth noting that this is where we encounter the first genuine inklings of Discworld cosmology — something that shall evolve into a rich mythology, as resonant in meaning as it is abundant in trolls, elves, golems, bureaucrats, librarian-orangutans, and arcane metaphysical regulations.
If you finished the first book wondering, “Yes, but what happens next?”, then The Light Fantastic is not merely the next chapter — it is the inevitable continuation of a journey that was never about destination, but always about manic, unstoppable momentum. And now that the first foundations of this strange new world have been laid, its protagonists begin to resemble less caricatures and more... heroes. Or at the very least, people. Or something, at any rate, that carries emotions, terror, and perhaps a bit of sausage in a pouch inside the Luggage.
If you’re reading these books in order, congratulations: you’ve arrived at the end of the beginning. If not, do yourself a favour and turn back to page one — the worlds Pratchett has wrought deserve to be witnessed as they assemble, piece by absurd, affectionate, and razor-sharp piece.
Equal Rites are coming (pun intended). Hold on!
3. Equal Rites ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
Equal Rites, the third book in the Discworld series, marks a decisive turning point in the literary trajectory of Terry Pratchett. It is here that we encounter his first truly unforgettable heroine, Eskarina Smith, through whom a significant social concern emerges—one that could easily have lapsed into didacticism: gender discrimination, particularly within the realm of magic.
Published in the now distant 1987, the novel is in dialogue with the second-wave feminist movement, which concentrated on gender inequality across professional and social spheres. The protagonist—a young girl who claims the right to become a "wizard"—embodies the demand for equal opportunities irrespective of gender. Though Pratchett deftly sidesteps overt moralising, the narrative tension between “masculine” and “feminine” forms of magic functions as a pointed allegory for societal expectations and the structures of power. With humour and considerable acuity, the author dismantles the tradition that relegates women to “supporting” roles, doing so at a time when such narratives were rarely afforded space within the fantasy genre.
The plot itself is elegantly simple: it follows Esk, a girl who "accidentally" acquires the power of a wizard—an occurrence unthinkable in a world where wizardry is an exclusively male preserve, while women are expected to engage in the supposedly inferior domain of witchcraft. At her side stands Granny Weatherwax, the enigmatic and irascible witch of the mountains, and one of the Discworld's most iconic characters. With her stubbornness, wisdom, and occasionally unsettling logic, Granny assumes the role of mentor, guiding Esk through a world unprepared to accept her.
Granny Weatherwax, who begins Equal Rites as a seemingly archetypal (if slightly sharper or more indulgent than average) mountain witch, rapidly develops into one of the most complex and respected figures in the Discworld canon. In the later works of the Witches subseries—such as Wyrd Sisters, Lords and Ladies, and Carpe Jugulum—Granny acquires a philosophical, moral, and existential depth. Beneath her sardonic manner and rigorous rationality lies a tireless advocate of common sense and the “hidden good.” Her relationship with power, identity, and choice renders her a truly remarkable fictional hero: a counterweight to arrogance and institutional authority. It is no coincidence that she frequently steals the limelight even from the wizards of Ankh-Morpork.
Pratchett’s humour is ever-present: linguistic playfulness, witty dialogues, and surreal reversals dissect the conventions and clichés of traditional fantasy. However, the narrative has not yet attained the structural assurance or philosophical maturity of his later work. The plot remains relatively straightforward and linear, and the underlying message—though timely and insightful—is at times articulated in a direct and somewhat predictable manner.
Equal Rites is a charming, often amusing read—particularly suited to those interested in witnessing the emergence of some of Discworld’s most beloved figures. Though it does not rank among Pratchett’s masterpieces, it serves as a bridge: a transitional step from near-slapstick parody towards social satire imbued with depth and emotional resonance. It is an honest, humorous, and important milestone in the evolution of Discworld: imperfect, to be sure, yet unmistakably marked by the voice of an author beginning to discover his true range.
4. Mort ⭐ ⭐ ⭐⭐
Mort is the first novel in the Discworld series to centre explicitly on the character of Death. Of course, we have encountered Death before—most notably in The Colour of Magic—as a delightfully macabre reaper who speaks in capitals and waits, in vain, for Rincewind to expire. However, his elevation here to a principal role marks a significant step in the maturation of Terry Pratchett’s narrative craft. Indeed, the author himself has admitted that this was the first work in which he felt he had successfully married inventive satire with a coherent and meaningful plot.
The story begins with young Mort, a lad conspicuously ill-suited to agricultural life—he appears to possess more elbows and knees than one might consider anatomically proper—who becomes Death’s apprentice. What follows is a narrative that toys intelligently with philosophical themes such as fate, free will, and identity, all while maintaining Pratchett’s signature wit.
The personification of Death as a figure who is at once paternal, curiously tender, and frequently clueless is paradoxically human, making him instantly endearing. (Not that we disliked him in his earlier appearances, of course—but now we truly get to know him.) Death’s fascination with the human condition—from dancing and drinking to, rather amusingly, gainful employment—yields moments that are as comedic as they are quietly affecting.
Mort, for his part, undergoes a rather compelling transformation. His gradual assimilation into the “essence” of Death introduces ethical dilemmas and psychological tension, deepening the dramatic scope of the novel.
The narrative becomes genuinely delightful when Mort intervenes in the fate of Princess Keli, preventing her assassination and dispatching her would-be killer—thereby disrupting the natural order. Nevertheless, those around her continue as if she were dead, preparing her funeral and mourning her... in her presence. This conceit of an alternate reality—one on the brink of collapse—adds unexpected urgency and narrative propulsion. Meanwhile, the contributions of the wizard Cutwell and Death’s adopted daughter Ysabell offer not only comic relief but also vital support for Mort’s journey.
To be sure, there are moments where the humour overshadows the emotional or narrative depth—an indulgence that may wear thin for some readers. Yet these minor lapses do little to detract from the novel’s overall charm and structural success. Mort is among the first truly accomplished entries in the Discworld canon. With Death at the forefront and a plot that deftly combines magic, metaphysics, and quintessentially British humour, the novel stands tall and inaugurates what might be called the informal “Death Saga” of Pratchett’s universe.
A clever, touching, and uproariously funny read that unquestionably deserves its place among the high points of modern fantasy literature.
5. Sourcery ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
Sourcery by Terry Pratchett (aka Discworld #5 continues the misadventures of Rincewind, a cowardly yet dogged wizard, who is once again drawn into a chaotic and surreal journey. While the novel contains many of Pratchett’s signature virtues — witty humour, wordplay, mythological allusions, and postmodern irony — it does not always manage to sustain the narrative cohesion or momentum that one might expect.
The central premise, that of a sourcerer born as the eighth son of an eighth son of an eighth son, is rich with potential. So too is the characterisation of Coin, a child of unimaginable power, trapped in the shadow of his overreaching father. Coin embodies the tragic tension between innate kindness and imposed omnipotence — a child not merely taught how to wield power, but indoctrinated into believing that power is identity. His gradual transformation from innocent conduit of magic to authoritarian ruler is not only dramatically effective but serves as a pointed reflection on how readily power can corrupt even the noblest of intentions.
Pratchett, beyond indulging in fantasy, employs magic as a political and social instrument. The Unseen University becomes the site of an internal coup, where wizards cease to pursue knowledge and instead hunger for dominion. Sourcery is not merely a heightened form of magic, but a mechanism for the centralisation of power — one that destabilises the very fabric of the world. In this, Pratchett offers a satire of institutional arrogance and the illusion of control, subtly suggesting that the more absolute magic becomes, the less freedom remains for all others.
Yet, Sourcery frequently seems overwhelmed by its own chaos. The plot leaps from scene to scene with a pace that, while relentless, can become wearying. Secondary characters such as Nigel and Conina are amusing, yet are denied the narrative depth they arguably deserve. The adventure itself, despite its imaginative flourish, occasionally feels unsure of its direction.
The humour, as ever, is sharp and effective. Pratchett seizes every opportunity to lampoon institutions, heroes, and even the very fabric of fantasy itself. In one memorable sequence, the wizards attempt to conduct a summit in the midst of a wartime crisis, only to become embroiled in internal squabbles over whose hat is largest. Elsewhere, Rincewind tries to escape a burning palace using a magical item (no spoilers here) that despises heights — with predictably farcical results. These scenes showcase Pratchett’s deftness in turning even the most epic situations into delightful exercises in comic deflation.
The novel’s ending, with Rincewind making the ultimate sacrifice to save Coin and, by extension, the world, is unexpectedly moving, injecting a note of gravity into an otherwise light-hearted narrative. The final line — “A wizard... will always come back for his hat” — stands as one of the most resonant and nostalgic closings in the series.
Overall, Sourcery is a modest but worthy addition to the Discworld canon. It offers several memorable moments and characters, while also revealing the limitations of Pratchett’s still-“early” phase as a writer. It may not rank among his most polished works, but for fans of Rincewind and the anarchic magic of the Discworld, it remains a read laced with irreverent charm and cheerful absurdity.
We applaud: Original premise, humour, satire of authority
We raise an eyebrow at: Uneven plotting, underdeveloped supporting characters
Best suited for: Devotees of Pratchett seeking a hearty dose of Rincewind and unhinged magic.
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