Fantasy and science fiction, marked at their birth as the most heroic of genres, were destined to flip- flop and take on a mock heroic stance. Didn't Hegel tell us all things turn into their opposites? Yes, we've lived through dialectical times. We now see Mao smile at us from the currency of the most capitalist society on the planet. We've watched democracies elect "Presidents for Life," and no one even chuckles at the term. We've even seen Madonna rise to fame through a song extolling virginity. So we shouldn't be surprised when the fantasy hero turns into the fantasy failure.
But this was heady stuff when it first arrived on the scene —and, no, we're not talking about Madonna's corset. Kurt Vonnegut was the first significant author to develop this new approach to genre fiction. In works such as The Sirens of Titan and Cat ' s Cradle , he poked gentle fun at sci-fi conventions even as he employed them on almost every page. But the anti-golden age of mock space operas didn't arrive until the late 1970s and early 1980s, when Douglas Adams published The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and Terry Pratchett launched his Discworld series.
These changes in intergalactic entertainments had more than a little bit in common with terrestrial fictions of various sorts and stripes. The postmodernist spirit pervading the literary world during this same period inspired a whole generation of highbrow writers to undermine their own premises. Stories swallowed their own tales, characters rebelled against their authors, and a general spirit of revelry, sometimes collapsing into anarchy, prevailed. The dominant tone of the era was irony. The most prized pursuits were the most futile. The butt of the joke was often the reader, who was expected to laugh along and keep turning the pages.
And they usually did. Especially when the story-teller was Terry Pratchett, who still remains the master of the mock heroic tone in fantasy fiction. In Pratchett's The Color of Magic —the first book in his popular Discworld series—he launched a franchise that would eventually sell more than 70 million books, and spawn translations into more than three dozen languages. Until Harry Potter came along, Pratchett routinely dominated the fantasy series bestseller charts, and if the truth be told, those amusing scenes in J.K. Rowling's books when spells go wrong and wizardry blends seamlessly with comedy will remind readers of Pratchett's precedence. For these efforts, our author became Sir Terry Pratchett in 2009.
Rincewind, the wizard hero of The Color of Magic , could hardly be more incompetent. He got kicked out of the Unseen University for wizards (yes, it was founded before Hogwarts), and only knows one spell—and that incantation is so dangerous even he doesn't dare use it. Rincewind encounters adventures inadvertently—usually while retreating from the last one. Where other heroes rescue, Rincewind is invariably rescued.
Rincewind's traveling companion Twoflower is the wizard's antithesis. He is a tourist in Discworld, and his insatiable curiosity for new sights and experiences invariably prods him forward into risky terrain. He scorns danger, not through bravery but due to naiveté and an appealing insouciance. Twoflower makes many bad decisions—first and foremost, hiring Rincewind as his guide—but possesses a lucky streak that gets him through the worst binds unscathed.
Of course, he has a little help. Lady Luck, an official goddess of Discworld, even pays Twoflower a visit during the course of these pages. But Twoflower's greatest resource may be his luggage. An iron-bound chest constructed of sapient pearwood, this suitcase has legs and follows wherever its master goes. Anyone who tries to steal its contents finds some sharp teeth and a Rolling Stones-sized tongue inside. In the long history of magical containers—from Pandora's box to Felix the Cat's bag of tricks —this loyal luggage is best equipped to win the popularity contest, and is awarded with a starring role in Pratchett's novel.
Perhaps I should spare a few words on the cosmogony of Discworld. Pratchett himself, renouncing the time-honored practice of fantasy writers, refuses to provide a map. "You can't map a sense of humor," he explains. "Anyway, what is a fantasy map but a space beyond which There Be Dragons?" But he is not telling the whole truth here. Beyond Discworld, instead of a dragon, one encounters a giant turtle, the Great A'Tuin, who slowly trods through outer space. On the turtle's back stand four very large elephants. And on the backs of the elephants sits the large plate of Discworld.
Yes, you can fall off the edge. A nasty experience, to be sure, but at least you get a good look at the turtle and elephants as you spin off into outer space. Indeed, this is one of the terrors that Rincewind and Twoflower must face in their travels, but by no means the only one. They are also pursued by thieves, slated for extermination by evil rulers, threatened by fire, water, earth and air in many of their nastiest manifestations. Slave-traders want to sell them into slavery, and the rescuers want to offer them as a sacrifices to Fate. As if all that isn't bad enough, the Grim Reaper shows up periodically during the course of The Color of Magic . You can tell when he arrives—he's the dude with no flesh on his skull, and always speaks in capital letters. (Typical small talk from Death: THE WHITE PLAGUE ABIDES EVEN NOW IN PSEUDOPOLIS AND I AM BOUND THERE TO RESCUE MANY OF ITS CITIZENS FROM HIS GRASP.)
How do you wrap up a rambling picaresque parody such as this one? Pratchett pulls out all the stops and delivers an edgy—or perhaps 'over the edge' is a better descriptor—climactic stunt reminiscent of Slim Pickens' most famous scene in Dr. Strangelove . And how can you top that? Well, Pratchett rose to the occasion. He followed up The Color of Magic with 38 additional Discworld novels, an encore in excess of three million words and spanning almost three decades.
Ted Gioia writes on music, literature, and popular culture. His newest book is The Jazz Standards: A Guide to the Repertoire .