1. Colour of magic ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
All legends must, inevitably, have a point of origin. For the inimitable Discworld series, this diminutive volume—oft-overlooked depending on the edition (particularly when deprived of Kirby’s illustrations)—constitutes the zero point, the Big Bang, the fiat lux.
A flat world, disc-shaped (a veritable delight for the modern flat-earther, albeit one lacking the cranial geometry requisite for such a read), rests atop the backs of four colossal elephants (a fifth exists, though we shall not entangle ourselves with it just yet), themselves poised upon the mighty carapace of the cosmic turtle, Great A’Tuin, who swims through the sparse aether of the universe, seemingly without destination. Of course, water cascades endlessly into the void from the rim of the disc; naturally, there is no 'north' or 'south', but rather 'hubward' and 'rimward'; and indeed, there is magic, heroism, cowardice, wizards, books so potent they must be chained down (yet still manage to plant spells into the minds of hapless apprentices), and—perhaps most fantastically—a tourist. With a trunk...
Terry Pratchett (who, most tragically, succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease in 2015—a cruel irony for a mind so incisive) skewers every cliché of the fantasy genre—swords, sorcery, and dragons, as one might say in plainer speech—with unparalleled wit, never missing an opportunity to draw trenchant parallels with our own world. These parallels, as the series progresses, become increasingly sophisticated, increasingly ludicrous, and, correspondingly, increasingly delightful—culminating in an entire spin-off metatextual series: The Science of Discworld.
The narrative is not, one must note, self-contained in this first instalment. It finds its resolution in the second volume, The Light Fantastic—in essence, the two comprise a single diptych. Nonetheless, the foundation is laid, the seed planted; whether you shall be enchanted by the exceptional prose of one of the 20th century’s most sagacious authors is now, quite simply, a matter for your own discovery. If you are only now embarking upon this journey, I must confess—I envy you. For before you lies a corpus of over forty unwritten (for you, at least) tomes, filled with marvel and delight. Granted, the later volumes bear the melancholy mark of Pratchett’s illness, and, lamentably, his publishers continued to exploit the franchise... yet, from a certain point onward—when his style attains full maturity—the humour gracefully yields primacy to philosophical resonance, without compromising the pleasure of the text.
Tarry no longer. Awaiting your acquaintance are the most ineffectual wizard in all creation (though he at least bears a hat which clearly proclaims his station), the most ingenuous tourist the Disc has ever known, and a magical world, vast and strange, for you to explore in their improbable company.
2. Light Fantastic ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
If The Colour of Magic was the initial spark — the proverbial kick to the gears — then The Light Fantastic is the blowtorch (or the choke, or the flap, or indeed the compressor) that irrevocably sets the Discworld engine in motion. It is not a "sequel" in the conventional sense; rather, it constitutes the indispensable second half of a single, continuous narrative. A book that commences precisely at the final page of its predecessor — almost as if that page had never been turned.
The thoroughly inept wizard Rincewind (rendered as “Ανεμοβρόχης” in the Greek translation) continues his valiant attempts not to die; the ever-optimistic tourist Twoflower (Δίανθος) persists in documenting, with charming naïveté, the most chaotic world in the cosmos; and the Luggage continues to scurry about on its hundred little legs, brimming with the zeal of a... homicidal puppy. Meanwhile, Magic begins to shake the very foundations of reality; the great turtle A’Tuin edges ever closer to a celestial consort; and the wizards of the Unseen (and highly magical) University — who never miss a chance for subterfuge — attempt to “resolve” the crisis in the most traditional of manners: with rather more magic, and only marginally less reason.
Pratchett retains the same frenetic, almost cartoonish energy that characterised the first volume, yet something here has shifted: one begins to perceive the cracks behind the smile. Not from fatigue, but from depth. Behind the humorous dust jacket and the linguistic acrobatics, the author has begun to assemble an entire world — one governed by its own peculiar laws (or rather, its own deliberate infractions of them). The first strains of seriousness emerge gradually, like a cello playing softly behind the orchestra of punchlines.
It is also worth noting that this is where we encounter the first genuine inklings of Discworld cosmology — something that shall evolve into a rich mythology, as resonant in meaning as it is abundant in trolls, elves, golems, bureaucrats, librarian-orangutans, and arcane metaphysical regulations.
If you finished the first book wondering, “Yes, but what happens next?”, then The Light Fantastic is not merely the next chapter — it is the inevitable continuation of a journey that was never about destination, but always about manic, unstoppable momentum. And now that the first foundations of this strange new world have been laid, its protagonists begin to resemble less caricatures and more... heroes. Or at the very least, people. Or something, at any rate, that carries emotions, terror, and perhaps a bit of sausage in a pouch inside the Luggage.
If you’re reading these books in order, congratulations: you’ve arrived at the end of the beginning. If not, do yourself a favour and turn back to page one — the worlds Pratchett has wrought deserve to be witnessed as they assemble, piece by absurd, affectionate, and razor-sharp piece.
Sourcery ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
Sourcery by Terry Pratchett (aka Discworld #5 continues the misadventures of Rincewind, a cowardly yet dogged wizard, who is once again drawn into a chaotic and surreal journey. While the novel contains many of Pratchett’s signature virtues — witty humour, wordplay, mythological allusions, and postmodern irony — it does not always manage to sustain the narrative cohesion or momentum that one might expect.
The central premise, that of a sourcerer born as the eighth son of an eighth son of an eighth son, is rich with potential. So too is the characterisation of Coin, a child of unimaginable power, trapped in the shadow of his overreaching father. Coin embodies the tragic tension between innate kindness and imposed omnipotence — a child not merely taught how to wield power, but indoctrinated into believing that power is identity. His gradual transformation from innocent conduit of magic to authoritarian ruler is not only dramatically effective but serves as a pointed reflection on how readily power can corrupt even the noblest of intentions.
Pratchett, beyond indulging in fantasy, employs magic as a political and social instrument. The Unseen University becomes the site of an internal coup, where wizards cease to pursue knowledge and instead hunger for dominion. Sourcery is not merely a heightened form of magic, but a mechanism for the centralisation of power — one that destabilises the very fabric of the world. In this, Pratchett offers a satire of institutional arrogance and the illusion of control, subtly suggesting that the more absolute magic becomes, the less freedom remains for all others.
Yet, Sourcery frequently seems overwhelmed by its own chaos. The plot leaps from scene to scene with a pace that, while relentless, can become wearying. Secondary characters such as Nigel and Conina are amusing, yet are denied the narrative depth they arguably deserve. The adventure itself, despite its imaginative flourish, occasionally feels unsure of its direction.
The humour, as ever, is sharp and effective. Pratchett seizes every opportunity to lampoon institutions, heroes, and even the very fabric of fantasy itself. In one memorable sequence, the wizards attempt to conduct a summit in the midst of a wartime crisis, only to become embroiled in internal squabbles over whose hat is largest. Elsewhere, Rincewind tries to escape a burning palace using a magical item (no spoilers here) that despises heights — with predictably farcical results. These scenes showcase Pratchett’s deftness in turning even the most epic situations into delightful exercises in comic deflation.
The novel’s ending, with Rincewind making the ultimate sacrifice to save Coin and, by extension, the world, is unexpectedly moving, injecting a note of gravity into an otherwise light-hearted narrative. The final line — “A wizard... will always come back for his hat” — stands as one of the most resonant and nostalgic closings in the series.
Overall, Sourcery is a modest but worthy addition to the Discworld canon. It offers several memorable moments and characters, while also revealing the limitations of Pratchett’s still-“early” phase as a writer. It may not rank among his most polished works, but for fans of Rincewind and the anarchic magic of the Discworld, it remains a read laced with irreverent charm and cheerful absurdity.
We applaud: Original premise, humour, satire of authority
We raise an eyebrow at: Uneven plotting, underdeveloped supporting characters
Best suited for: Devotees of Pratchett seeking a hearty dose of Rincewind and unhinged magic.
Eric ⭐ ⭐ ⭐⭐
Eric, also known as
Faust Eric
, is the ninth novel in the Discworld series and a sharp parody of the well-known Faustian myth. It was first published in 1990 as a large-format illustrated edition featuring artwork by Josh Kirby, and was later reissued as a standard paperback without illustrations — although its dual identity (
Eric
/
Faust
) was preserved even in the running headers. For a time, it ranked among Pratchett’s most elusive hardbacks, and acquiring the semi-leatherbound “Unseen University Edition” (BCA) was all but a necessity (we have long since accepted that the book is something of a fetish object — and that, however much we focus on content, we never quite forget the form).
We are, however, digressing rather extravagantly for such a slender volume. Let us turn to the matter at hand: the protagonist is, once more, Rincewind — Discworld’s most luckless and cowardly wizard — who finds himself in yet another unexpected adventure when he is inadvertently summoned by a thirteen-year-old demonologist named Eric Thursley. Eric had set out to conjure a demon who would grant him his deepest wishes, and instead finds himself saddled with Rincewind, who — OBVIOUSLY, and much to his own dismay — hasn’t the faintest idea how to do any such thing.
The satire operates on multiple levels. Through three classic wishes — to become master of the world, to meet the most beautiful woman in history, and to live forever — Eric and Rincewind travel through absurdist versions of the past, mythology, and metaphysics: from the jungles of Klatch and the pious Tezumen (a parody of the Aztecs), to the Trojan War (with a deeply disappointing and rather plump “Helen” with numerous children, and Lavaeolus — quite possibly Rincewind’s ancestor), and finally beyond time itself, all the way to Creation.
All roads lead to Hell, where Pratchett offers perhaps his
most hilariously inventive
vision yet: no fire and brimstone, but a terrifying bureaucracy. The King of Demons, Astfgl, has built an infernal mechanism of torment via... forms, queues, and administrative delays. Here, Rincewind thrives — his student experience and instinctive panic proving to be his greatest allies. The political upheaval in Hell, orchestrated by the demon Vassenego, who stages a coup to “liberate” Astfgl by trapping him in the ultimate prison of power, is one of the novel’s
wittiest
and
most ironically delightful
sequences.
Despite its brevity compared to others in the series,
Eric
is rich in cultural and literary allusion, subtle satire, and scenes of unpredictable comedy. However, its relatively limited development of character and theme may leave wanting those readers who favour Pratchett’s more layered works. The (notoriously prickly) Gardner Dozois — editor of science fiction anthologies for 35 consecutive years — dismissed it as
“atrocious”
in a fit of pique; but many fans (and the review in Starburst, for what that’s worth) hold it in higher esteem, celebrating it as a
“series of brilliantly absurd swipes at the clichés of damnation”
. Its inclusion in the
Gollancz 50
confirms its place in the canon of modern fantasy (and adds a third hardback edition to the pantheon — until Gollancz released its small, jacketless hardback series, finally relieving the OCD of those who needed every Pratchett volume in matching format).
All in all,
Eric
may not be the most
profound
of Discworld novels, but it is a
delightful
,
satirical interlude
filled with invention and trenchant commentary on human desire, institutions, myth, and Hell itself. For fans of Rincewind and Pratchett’s singularly peculiar universe, it is a
brief but brilliantly clever escapade
. A shot of pure, crystalline, undiluted Pratchett.