Something Holy: the Spirituality of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld

 
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‘The world is . . . different. Everywhere I look I see something holy.’ (Carpe Jugulum)

Terry Pratchett is one of the cleverest and wittiest authors of our age, and when he speaks about spiritual matters, it’s worth paying attention to, especially for those who belong to any kind of organised religion. They may disagree with his humanist beliefs, but the power of his narrative can takes a reader’s thoughts in new directions, possibly further than even the author himself can guess.

Pratchett’s Discworld series of fantasy novels has a definite whiff of J.R.R. Tolkien in its cast of dwarves, elves and trolls, but much better jokes, and his characters are far more well-rounded – especially the female ones.[1] Until Hogfather there were no serious attempts at committing his work to film, possibly due to the high-budget demands of fantasy special effects, and the worrying question of whether the American film-going public would ‘get’ Pratchett, with his wizards, witches and dead-pan humour. Isn’t he just too, well, British? And what’s all this about making Death a humorous character? That’s such a downer.

Fortunately, there’s a great deal more to Pratchett than that, and also a great deal less. Starting with the less, there are no scenes of graphic violence or sex in a Pratchett novel, and no bad language. For popular authors nowadays, that’s positively heroic.

And as for the more? There are superb plots, memorable characters, and wonderful jokes. There is a great sense of Morality with a capital M, but Pratchett’s morality is all to do with compassion for the weak, anger at injustice, and using what power you have to make a positive difference in the world. That’s because the Discworld (like all fantasy worlds) is really our own world, writ large, flattened out, then balanced on the backs of four massive elephants who stand on the carapace of a giant turtle. It’s easy to recognise signs of our own world as Pratchett’s characters negotiate the tricky, twisting path of morality through fundamentalism (Small Gods), militant religion and rap culture (Thud!), feminism (Equal Rites), militarism and nationalism, (Jingo, Monstrous Regiment), Hollywood (Moving Pictures), opera (Masquerade), journalism (The Truth), the police (Guards! Guards!) and many other issues.

Pratchett is a humanist with an enthusiasm for science. He has little time for organised religion, but he isn’t cynical about faith. Carpe Jugulum (Corgi, 1999) follows the journey into faith of Mightily Oats, a nervous evangelist facing up to real evil for the first time in his life. His only real ally is the witch he originally saw as an enemy. At one point, they get down to discussing sin. Oats, a natural liberal, says:

‘It’s not a black and white issue. There are so many shades of grey.’
‘Nope,’ replies Granny Weatherwax.
‘Pardon?’
‘There’s no greys, only whites that got grubby. I’m surprised you don’t know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.’ (p. 314)

Later, when discussing religious beliefs, she says:

If I thought there was some god who really did care two hoots about people, who watched ‘em like a father and cared for ‘em like a mother . . . .well, you wouldn’t catch me sayin’ things like ’There are two sides to every question‘ and ’We must respect other people’s beliefs.’ You wouldn’t find me just being gen’rally nice in the hope that it would all turn out right in the end, not if that flame was burning in me like an unforgiving sword. And I did say burnin’ Mister Oats, ‘cos that’s what it’d be. You say that you people don’t burn folk and sacrifice people any more, but that’s what true faith would mean, y’see? Sacrificin’ your own life, one day at a time, to the flame, declarin’ the truth of it, workin’ for it, breathin’ the soul of it. That’s religion. Anything else is just . . . is just bein’ nice. And a way of keepin’ in touch with the neighbours.’ (p. 349)

After much trial and sacrifice, Oats finds a new courage and rediscovers his sense of religious passion. Granny comments gruffly, ‘That’s a start, then.’ Passages like this show a shrewd understanding of the power of faith – and, for Pratchett, that passion is best found in a holy awe at the overwhelming wonder of the universe, and best expressed in practical compassion for others. Pratchett is interested in belief – at all levels. In his multiverse, it is belief that creates gods and belief that makes things happen, providing the power to transform hopeless situations.

In the film Hogfather, Death is discussing belief with Susan, his adopted daughter.

Death: Humans need fantasy to be human . . . you have to start out learning to believe the little lies.
Susan: So we can believe the big ones?
Death: Yes, Justice, mercy, duty. That sort of thing . . . you need to believe in things that aren’t true. How else can they become?

As for God – or the gods – Pratchett is a lot more scathing. For him, it is faith that creates gods and gives them their power on the Discworld (See Small Gods, Corgi 1993), and misplaced faith that leads to fundamentalism and fanaticism. His three science books with Ian Stewart and Jack Cohen (The Science of Discworld 1, 2 and 3, Ebury Press 1999, 2003, 2006) are a handy guide to current thinking about science and evolution, but like Richard Dawkins, they see religion as an inadequate explanation for the universe and, even at its best, a faulty guide to living one’s life.

However, what we say we believe can be undercut by how we dream. In Terry Pratchett’s narratives, prayers are answered, Good defeats Evil, and true faith replaces the false. This is how he would like things to be: a world where Death is compassionate and on our side, where sick children can be healed, where the police eventually get their man, and where good sense outlives fanaticism. If only things could really be like this. If only.

Pratchett puts his own faith in the ability of human beings to sort things out for themselves. But he sometimes seems to yearn for something more, or at least suspects that there is something more. In an interview in Third Way, he acknowledged a ‘sneaking suspicion’[2] that there may be something beyond death, and that, ‘If you are looking for the evidence for a supreme being, then the mere fact of your looking for the evidence is evidence.’[3] It seems that, like Granny Weatherwax, if he saw a powerful reason to believe in God, he would be a believer – a ‘dangerous’ one because, ‘to really believe the absolute truth of it would not be something that you just take out and dust off on Sundays, it would be all-consuming.’[4] Sadly, he sees too much bad religion happening in the world to make that possible, and nothing that he would call acceptable as ‘proof’.

Strangely, there are Jesus elements dotted throughout the Discworld. The recurring themes of compassion for the weak, painful personal sacrifice and distrust of corrupt authorities and cults are all there. The belief that every individual is precious, and that there are some things that do matter, that none of it is pointless, and that we are all put here to really live shines out through the pages. The books are full of purpose, portraying life as an awkward, bloody-minded force that negates Newton’s Second Law of Thermodynamics and the notion that everything eventually runs down. Pratchett is a believer in something, but he’s not quite sure what, and like many modern western people, he’s suspicious of trusting anyone else with it.

With his co-authors, the sad conclusion to a discussion of faith in The Science of Discworld 2 stands as, ‘The only safe home for one’s personal spirituality is oneself’ (p. 222). This is fine as far as it goes, but will it build and run hospitals or schools in the developing world, abolish slavery, write The Messiah or inspire others to Drop the Debt? History shows that such things have very often (though, of course, not always) been championed by true believers working together, inspired by faith and trusting in a personal God – curiously, just the sorts of people Pratchett admires and describes so well. He admits that charity is something that ‘religions of the book’ have excelled at.[5]

So why should you read Pratchett? Firstly, for fun because he entertains, splendidly. This is the way for a writer to create characters, plots and settings, showing all the hallmarks of Charles Dickens in his prime. Pratchett’s technique and style will be celebrated long after the products of so many of our modern literati are pulped and recycled as toilet tissue.

Secondly, read him because he discusses events and ideas with wit and humanity. Judging from the parables of Jesus, I suspect God sometimes speaks more through our imagination than our sense of reason, because our normal defences are down. Perhaps he likes a good joke too - with footnotes.

And thirdly, read him because, just occasionally, Pratchett shows a transcendent image of humanity by providing inspiring glimpses of people, as they could be, or as they want to be. His vast range of heroes and heroines are rounded, living, breathing earthy beings, all of them sympathetic – and one of them is probably, in some way, like you.

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