There was colour, in a sense, but it was the kind of colour you’d get if you could shine a beam of black through a prism. Skeletal fish cruising in the black waters of a pool, under black water lilies. Pratchett tells his tales using an omniscient narrator, and there’s no doubt that this voice belongs to no character but Pratchett himself.Īt the far end of the corridor was one of the very tall, very thin windows. However, one of the more consistent aspects of the books is the narrative voice. Universally beloved as it may be, the Discworld series is notoriously uneven. Those books of his I’ve read, I’ve re-read again and again, taking the time to savour the deliciousness of the prose, the wryness of tone, the trademark humour that is at once delightful and poignant. This should tell you much about the quality of the book itself, for rare indeed is an original story ‘adapted’ for the screen with so few alterations.įor me, reading Terry Pratchett’s work is not only a joy but an indulgence, too.

Vadim Jean’s TV adaptation is superb: I watch it religiously every Christmas, struck each time by just how much of it – dialogue, stage directions, settings, narration, everything – is lifted directly from the source material. Of the quarter or so of the Discworld I’ve explored, Hogfather is my favourite. sent my true love back,Ī nasty little letter, hah, yes indeed, and a partridge in a pear tree-’

Discworld hogswatch