...And Now For Something Completely Different

It’s sometimes difficult to stay on target. My original intention was to develop a blog that had a consistent theme, that was cohesive and of singular vision. The plan was to write about those books that have, without sounding too much like F.R. Leavis, literary merit. I’d also planned on writing something every week. The problem with this is that I also have to work — so the book that I review each week tends to be the only one that gets read. I don’t generally have a problem with this, as I love the books I read. But every now and again you just want to laugh.

Now, I’m not saying that literary novels aren’t funny, because many of them are. But sometimes the requirement that the jokes be part of a greater rumination on the trials of ageing, or the brevity of life can be a little draining. Particularly when you don’t have a lot of money and you’re haemorrhaging wasted days. So this week I’ve taken a break from my usual fare, with a book that simply made me laugh, Unseen Academicals.

As the 37th novel in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series, Unseen Academicals isn’t likely to attract the attention of the serious literary types who normally, and quite reasonably, treat prolific authors with some trepidation. And indeed, such caution is probably justifiable for Pratchett’s work, which is often joyously silly and features wizards — a profession persistently out of fashion in serious Literature since Le Morte Darthur. To treat it as assembly line fiction however is to understate its appeal.

Unseen Academicals sees the wizards of the Unseen University facing a contemporary, if somewhat farcical, challenge— a crippling budget cut. The wizards face having their meals reduced to a paltry three-per-day, unless they can fulfil the baffling terms of the bequest that majority funds their sumptuous culinary lifestyle, namely by fielding an Unseen University football team. As you can imagine, high jinks inevitably ensue.

The strength of Pratchett’s work lies principally in his characters, which are crafted to be so wilfully excessive that they border on sublime. The superlatively titled Archancellor Ridcully returns with a glut of boorishly classic lines, while Ponder Stibbons is, as ever, the perpetually misused post grad — amply illustrated by the following extract:

'It is a well-known fact in any organisation that, if you want a job done, you should give it to some one who is already very busy […]
In UU, Ponder Stibbons was that busy man.'

In addition to the familiar faces, Pratchett also introduces a number of new creations, including the idiot savant Mr Nutt, who aspires to coach the eponymous football team; Glenda Sugarbean, a stereotype challenging pie-maker; Trevor Likely, heir-apparent to the title of ‘Prince Of Football’ — but ‘promised his ma he wouldn’t play’; and Juliet Stollop, soon to be Discworld’s first fashion model. The latter two becoming the star-crossed lovers in a facetious tribute to the bard, retold through the medium of football tribalism.

Pratchett’s writing is simple and accessible, as you would expect, but there is a joy in it that is infectious. Unabashed when it comes to using word play, Pratchett is a connoisseur of linguistic comedy — his puns aren’t restrained, but rather recall the puerile relish of language that can be found in Wilde’s ‘The Importance of being Earnest’. He also shows that he is capable of surprising virtuosity, as in his ridiculous use of the mock grandiose in, ‘There was a brief interregnum as the ladle went from bowl to bowl’. Clearly Pratchett is someone who takes enormous pleasure in his craft, and it shows.

You do then have to wonder if Terry Pratchett might not be better than he’s sometimes given credit for. His wit impresses, yet he resists the urge towards ostentation; references to Keats and Shakespeare, and a play on the name of the scholar Erasmus are nods to literary tradition, but the homage remains populist, which befits the tone of his work. I suspect that Pratchett might have gained more literary recognition had his work been a little more acerbic. The satire in Pratchett’s writing is astute and constant enough to reward re-reading, but always benign. Perversely though, this is what makes his work so inimitable — few writers have the ability to present such compelling satire whilst offending so few.

Pratchett has recently won plaudits from A.S. Byatt for the simple fact that he writes books that people want to read. I don’t think that this necessarily differentiates him from any of the other popular genre-fiction writers, but I can understand why Byatt has singled him out. The linguistic zeal in his writing appeals to the hearts of those who take an unusual pleasure in the English language — it is this simple fact that makes him a companionable, if un-literary, retreat for literary types. I might hope that posterity will relieve him from that purgatory of sorts, but I don’t doubt that he’d rather be where he is now.