1. 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.
2. Wyrd Sisters ⭐ ⭐ ⭐⭐
Wyrd Sisters (Discworld #6) is a delightful blend of satire, fantasy, and theatrical sorcery, and stands as a compelling example of why Terry Pratchett is widely regarded as one of the most intelligent and multi-layered authors in contemporary speculative fiction (yes, I am quite aware it was first published in 1988, thirty-seven years ago—thank you ever so much). One of the most striking features of the novel is the manner in which the very land itself acquires consciousness and resists tyranny, lending voice to concepts that are typically consigned to abstraction. This personification of landscape, History, and Fate is emblematic of Pratchett’s magical cosmology, wherein even the universe itself seems to observe—and occasionally intervene.
At the heart of the narrative are three witches, each with a markedly distinct personality: the formidable Granny Weatherwax, whose strict discipline is matched only by her near-metaphysical wisdom; the earthy and unexpectedly shrewd Nanny Ogg, accompanied by her infamous feline companion Greebo; and the young, romantic Magrat Garlick, who earnestly believes in enchanted jewellery and cauldrons bubbling at moonlit covens—a quintessential “new age” witch with a penchant for both experimentation and emotional earnestness. The dynamic among them is a joy to witness: their exchanges, steeped in acerbic wit and incisive social commentary, lend vitality and tempo to the narrative.
The plot is catalysed by a regicide: the King of Lancre is murdered by his ambitious cousin, Duke Felmet, incited by his even more diabolical wife. The infant heir is rescued by the witches and entrusted to a troupe of travelling players, where he is raised as an actor, far removed from the truth of his lineage. The motif of an insistent destiny and a truth that cannot remain buried runs throughout, underscoring the power of memory, storytelling, and the inexorable passage of time.
Pratchett constructs a finely wrought, multi-tiered parody of Shakespeare, laced with direct but ingeniously embedded allusions to Macbeth, Hamlet, King Lear, and As You Like It (a comedy of mistaken identity, disguise, and inversion). Particularly compelling is the role of the theatre as a magical medium that transcends both time and memory; in Pratchett’s world, the stage becomes a vehicle of truth, a mirror for power and History alike. The novel’s climax—a play within the play—reveals the past and restores natural order in a manner that borders on the ritualistic.
The witches do not engage in battle with swords or dragons (rolling eyes, mumbling “obviousleyyyy”), but rather with wisdom, irony, and a powerful spell that projects the entire kingdom fifteen years into the future, thus eliding the suffering of civil war and facilitating the restoration of justice. This approach—ecological, philosophical, and anthropocentric—distinguishes the work from more conventional fantasy fare, lending it a tone that is almost… essayistic.
Particular highlights: The appearance of DEATH—Discworld’s personification of mortality, who always speaks in CAPITAL LETTERS and is marked by a philosophical curiosity about humanity—is sparing yet strikingly apt, sardonically suggestive and laconically wise. Hwel, a dwarf playwright, wrestles with the burden of art that “must say something”—a poignant yet humorous meditation on creativity itself. Tomjon, the rightful heir who chooses the stage over the throne, embodies the transcendence of predetermined fate through personal freedom.
Weaknesses: While structurally sound, the book’s abundance of wordplay, meta-references, and “literary games” may discourage readers unfamiliar with Pratchett’s style or the Shakespearean substratum on which the narrative draws. However, upon rereading, layers of depth and intricate detail emerge, rewarding the attentive reader (you may find yourself rereading it endlessly and still discovering nuance—on first read I gave it a 3/5, and I now lean firmly towards a 5/5). Furthermore, the eventual revelation concerning Tomjon’s parentage and the new king, though functional as plot resolution, lacks the emotional gravitas it might have achieved—serving more as a narrative device than a moment of dramatic catharsis. One is left with a sense of narrative completeness, if not emotional resonance.
Yes, Wyrd Sisters stands as one of the most robust and multi-dimensional works of the early Discworld era. It marks the loss of childhood for the Discworld, and heralds the onset of a frenzied adolescence—in terms of creativity, imagination, and thematic breadth. It deftly balances humour, fantasy, and philosophical satire, distinguished by a prose style notable for its rhythm, inventive imagery, and deep intertextuality. A true delight for those who revel in clever storytelling, strong female characters, and the alchemy of performance—whether on the stage or the page. It is a magical tale, rich in irony, literary finesse, and a narrative voice that invites, if not demands, repetition.
3. Witches abroad ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Witches Abroad
(twelfth instalment in the celebrated
Discworld
series) stands as one of Terry Pratchett’s most intelligent and subversive works. Set against the ever-recurring tension between fairy-tale enchantment and the Discworld’s grimly satirical, often absurd realism, Pratchett weaves a narrative rich in humour, irony, and philosophical inquiry.
At the centre—both narratively and thematically—are the ever-compelling trio of witches: Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg, and Magrat Garlick. Granny is terse, unbending, possessed of a wilful wisdom—or perhaps a wise wilfulness. Nanny, by contrast, is riotously earthy, gleefully bawdy, and inextricably connected to life’s simpler, ruder pleasures (yes, she’s had her flirtation with the hedonistic, and she’s still pouring “poison into the glass” if it helps the evening along—and frankly, who are we to judge?). Magrat, the youngest and most diffident, is a well-meaning
“new age”
witch, still fumbling for her place in the world—and in magic. This dynamic forms the decidedly un-Ibsenian “triangle” whose peculiar gravity holds the narrative—and the reader—together.
The plot is set in motion when Magrat inherits the wand of Desiderata Hollow, a fairy godmother with a regrettable taste for narrative inevitability. Her mission? To ensure the “happy ending” of Emberella, a Discworld iteration of
Cinderella
—or, to risk an etymological misfire, the Greco-equivalent of “Ashypoppet”. (Apologies to the Muses, I’ll retire to a monastery posthaste.) Emberella lives in a city that’s equal parts New Orleans and voodoo masquerade, where the wand, alas, turns everything it touches into… pumpkins. A droll nod to the fairy-tale trope—and, as Granny dryly remarks:
“When you give people what they think they want, you’re likely to end up with a mountain of pumpkins and not a shred of hope.”
What ensues is a journey of comic confusion, magical entanglement, and ideological confrontation, as our witches face Lilith—Granny’s sister and the personification of prescriptive narrative. Lilith is a fairy-tale autocrat, seeking to impose “happy endings” regardless of personal agency. As she chillingly insists:
“The story must unfold correctly. That means the girl marries the prince. What the girl wants is irrelevant.”
Cue the burning bras of second-wave feminism—or rather, their metaphorical equivalents smouldering on some ideological bonfire. But we move briskly on.
Here lies the book’s central thematic concern: the tyranny of narrative. Pratchett’s contention that story, when wielded as an instrument of control, can edge into the fascistic is an audacious argument—one he camouflages in laughter. Lilith is not merely “the villain”; she is the embodiment of coercion masquerading as
“magic”
. She is, in effect, a kind of narrative inquisitor—an enforcer of saccharine orthodoxy—akin, perhaps, to the genteel authoritarianism of mid-century Britain, where stories were scrubbed clean by moral censors, and fairy tales were sterilised by those who feared dissent more than dragons.
This theme recalls the structural analysis of Vladimir Propp in his
Morphology of the Folktale
, yet Pratchett cleverly undermines those archetypes. The hero and the happy ending are not organic developments, but imposed constraints. Lilith operates as a
Foucauldian
panopticon: her stories regulate reality, rewrite will, and overwrite truth. Through comedy, Pratchett interrogates how narrative constructs subjectivity—a kind of “biopolitics of fairy tales”, if one is inclined to wear one’s Derrida on one’s sleeve. If not, the analysis proceeds merrily nonetheless.
This dynamic naturally affects the characters. Magrat, initially hesitant and ineffectual, grows into something braver—particularly as she grasps that innocence is not always a virtue. One of the novel’s most affecting moments is her confrontation with Lilith, in which Magrat declares:
“We’re not here to play roles. We’re here to live.”
Witches Abroad
delights in unravelling the very structures it parodies. The frog remains a frog, the princess may very well not want saving, and the
“happily ever after”
is negotiable at best. Even Joseph Campbell, were he peering from some mythopoeic cloud, might blush to see his monomyth wryly dismantled. In Discworld, the hero’s journey leads not to glorification but to its deconstruction.
True, the plot may lack the gravitas of other
Discworld
volumes—
Small Gods
or
Night Watch
, for instance—but the richness of atmosphere, unflagging wit, and subterranean philosophical undercurrents make this one of the series’ most rewarding entries.
Witches Abroad
is far more than a fairy-tale spoof. It is a
profoundly reflective
and bitingly clever satire on how stories—even the sweetest of them—become dangerous when weaponised as instruments of power. And, as ever with Pratchett, that truth arrives not with a sermon, but with laughter, pumpkins, and three marvellous witches simply… doing their job.