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Discworld #11-12
Reaper Man / Witches Abroad
- GenresFantasy
768 pages, Mass Market Paperback
Published October 1, 2002
4 people are currently reading
198 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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Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews
August 25, 2013
Whenever I'm having a rough time in my life, I read a Terry Pratchett novel. It helps me remember that the world is a pretty nice place to live, and that people are basically good inside.
That sort of thing is easy for me to forget sometimes. And the fact that Pratchett manages to remind me in every one of his books is why he is a brilliant author. Better than I will ever be.
That sort of thing is easy for me to forget sometimes. And the fact that Pratchett manages to remind me in every one of his books is why he is a brilliant author. Better than I will ever be.
Read
August 14, 2019In Witches Abroad Granny Weatherwax & Co. travel to a Discworld version of New Orleans. This novel features a Dwarf who acknowledges that he is only Discworld's second best lover - but he tries harder.
One of the key elements to the Witches stories is their natural environment, the kingdom of Lancre. Several stories play around with this by changing the background (see also Equal Rites), naturally the fish out of water triumphs and restores the world to order. The important point about the Witches is that they have the power and ability to do and accomplish, but generally choose not to do so. Their excursions emphasise both their superior power - since where ever they go they win out - and their decision to limit their interventions in the world (in itself a reflection of their understanding of the nature of magical power and the value of restraint) - since the point of the story is journeying out and returning to the quiet and remote mountainous backwater from whence they came.
Reaper Man repeats and elaborates on the idea of Death taking a holiday that occurred in Mort. This time he looses his job and has been replaced with a new death. So Death is obliged to find alternative employment and naturally enough this is on a farm. After all where else would a skeleton with a scythe go? Whereupon various funny things happen, such as teaching a dyslexic cockerel to read so that it can crow correctly in the morning, and the world is restored to its original order at the end of the story.
One of the key elements to the Witches stories is their natural environment, the kingdom of Lancre. Several stories play around with this by changing the background (see also Equal Rites), naturally the fish out of water triumphs and restores the world to order. The important point about the Witches is that they have the power and ability to do and accomplish, but generally choose not to do so. Their excursions emphasise both their superior power - since where ever they go they win out - and their decision to limit their interventions in the world (in itself a reflection of their understanding of the nature of magical power and the value of restraint) - since the point of the story is journeying out and returning to the quiet and remote mountainous backwater from whence they came.
Reaper Man repeats and elaborates on the idea of Death taking a holiday that occurred in Mort. This time he looses his job and has been replaced with a new death. So Death is obliged to find alternative employment and naturally enough this is on a farm. After all where else would a skeleton with a scythe go? Whereupon various funny things happen, such as teaching a dyslexic cockerel to read so that it can crow correctly in the morning, and the world is restored to its original order at the end of the story.
July 20, 2018
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June 20, 2025
1. Reaper Man ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Death learns to live
If you've landed here straight from the clouds—or, more accurately, from the stratosphere of ignorance—and you’re entirely Pratchett -virginal, allow me to begin by saying that the Discworld , the ingenious universe created by Terry Pratchett , is a fantasy realm where satire, absurdity, and human truth coexist in a delicate balance—sometimes tenderly humorous, sometimes sharply ironic. On this disc, which rests upon four elephants standing on the back of a cosmic turtle, anything is possible—even Death losing his job.
Reaper Man (the 11th in the series, and the second to centre on Death ) is one of Pratchett’s most touching, philosophical, and well-crafted works, written as he races towards full literary maturity. In its pages, Death is punished for having developed… a personality—an " unheard-of " flaw for a primordial entity of the cosmos. He is compelled to live as a mortal under the name Bill Door , working on a farm beside the elderly, practical, and unexpectedly sensitive Miss Flitworth .
From the imperishable eternal to the grime of the finite everyday
Death’s sojourn in the realm of mortals confronts him with something he had never truly experienced, despite his millennia of observing ephemeral humankind: the passage of time, fatigue, fear. And yet, through this journey, Pratchett demonstrates that humanity lies not in biological characteristics but in the capacity for care, sacrifice, empathy.
“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away.”
The book masterfully balances humour and existential inquiry. Through Death , who… learns to live , Pratchett touches upon fundamental questions: What does it mean to have a purpose? What is the value of life if it has no end?
Life after death (or before?)
Meanwhile, as Death shovels the metaphorical muck of mortal toil and shared fate, his absence from his official “ duties ” plunges the world into chaos: the spirits of the dead refuse to depart, and life stagnates. The deceased wizard Windle Poons returns not to seek vengeance by screaming skyward “ MWAHAHAHA ” amid thunderclaps, but for a second chance to discover what it means to be… alive .
His story—narrated through the hilariously unconventional “ undead activist ” group, the Fresh Start Club —offers satirical and socially charged counterpoint to Death’s inner path. As ever, Pratchett employs absurdity to speak of the essential: the need for change, for restless thought, for hope.
Satire, yes—but with “ ballz ” and heart
If Mort approached Death as the hero of a fantastical coming-of-age tale, Reaper Man elevates him to an almost theological level. His final dialogue with Azrael , the supreme entity embodying Death of the Universe , is one of the most profound and poetic moments in the entire series (and a majestic application of the theory of the imaginary institution of the real ):
“You need to believe in things that aren't true. How else can they become?”
The Pratchett locomotive is now running at full speed, with power that transcends the bounds of satire, offering us at least 20 more exceptional stops (books, of course) before that cursed Alzheimer’s desecrates this wonderfully creative, tender, human mind. Reaper Man is a literary moment of self-awareness, a gentle hymn to the importance of finitude, of tenderness, of coexistence. It is the book in which Terry Pratchett , behind the irony and the wit, reminds us that the most magical thing in the universe is that we care . And as long as that continues—in pages, in actions, in memory— Terry Pratchett shall never truly die.
2. 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.
Death learns to live
If you've landed here straight from the clouds—or, more accurately, from the stratosphere of ignorance—and you’re entirely Pratchett -virginal, allow me to begin by saying that the Discworld , the ingenious universe created by Terry Pratchett , is a fantasy realm where satire, absurdity, and human truth coexist in a delicate balance—sometimes tenderly humorous, sometimes sharply ironic. On this disc, which rests upon four elephants standing on the back of a cosmic turtle, anything is possible—even Death losing his job.
Reaper Man (the 11th in the series, and the second to centre on Death ) is one of Pratchett’s most touching, philosophical, and well-crafted works, written as he races towards full literary maturity. In its pages, Death is punished for having developed… a personality—an " unheard-of " flaw for a primordial entity of the cosmos. He is compelled to live as a mortal under the name Bill Door , working on a farm beside the elderly, practical, and unexpectedly sensitive Miss Flitworth .
From the imperishable eternal to the grime of the finite everyday
Death’s sojourn in the realm of mortals confronts him with something he had never truly experienced, despite his millennia of observing ephemeral humankind: the passage of time, fatigue, fear. And yet, through this journey, Pratchett demonstrates that humanity lies not in biological characteristics but in the capacity for care, sacrifice, empathy.
“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away.”
The book masterfully balances humour and existential inquiry. Through Death , who… learns to live , Pratchett touches upon fundamental questions: What does it mean to have a purpose? What is the value of life if it has no end?
Life after death (or before?)
Meanwhile, as Death shovels the metaphorical muck of mortal toil and shared fate, his absence from his official “ duties ” plunges the world into chaos: the spirits of the dead refuse to depart, and life stagnates. The deceased wizard Windle Poons returns not to seek vengeance by screaming skyward “ MWAHAHAHA ” amid thunderclaps, but for a second chance to discover what it means to be… alive .
His story—narrated through the hilariously unconventional “ undead activist ” group, the Fresh Start Club —offers satirical and socially charged counterpoint to Death’s inner path. As ever, Pratchett employs absurdity to speak of the essential: the need for change, for restless thought, for hope.
Satire, yes—but with “ ballz ” and heart
If Mort approached Death as the hero of a fantastical coming-of-age tale, Reaper Man elevates him to an almost theological level. His final dialogue with Azrael , the supreme entity embodying Death of the Universe , is one of the most profound and poetic moments in the entire series (and a majestic application of the theory of the imaginary institution of the real ):
“You need to believe in things that aren't true. How else can they become?”
The Pratchett locomotive is now running at full speed, with power that transcends the bounds of satire, offering us at least 20 more exceptional stops (books, of course) before that cursed Alzheimer’s desecrates this wonderfully creative, tender, human mind. Reaper Man is a literary moment of self-awareness, a gentle hymn to the importance of finitude, of tenderness, of coexistence. It is the book in which Terry Pratchett , behind the irony and the wit, reminds us that the most magical thing in the universe is that we care . And as long as that continues—in pages, in actions, in memory— Terry Pratchett shall never truly die.
2. 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.
Read
January 23, 2022great fun I am presently working my way through Terry Pratchett's 40 books of disc world, all great fun but no spoilers and besides I am a lousy reviewer,
June 28, 2008
GREAT SATIRE! I laughed so hard that my fur children (pets) thought something was wrong with me. This was recommended to me by one of my sixth grade students this year; however, I wouldn't recommend it for MOST middle schoolers.
August 26, 2009
Witches Abroad is my second favorite Pratchett book.
June 19, 2008
Whoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
January 4, 2013
Excellent.
August 7, 2015
love the witches and death
March 26, 2017
40 of so books, different collections, some audio, it's pratchett, read and heard some as well, all. Dates wrong.
Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews