Hogfather (Discworld, #20; Death, #4)

by Terry Pratchett

“You can’t give her that!” she screamed. “It’s not safe!” IT’S A SWORD, said the Hogfather. THEY’RE NOT MEANT TO BE SAFE. “She’s a child!” shouted Crumley. IT’S EDUCATIONAL. “What if she cuts herself?” THAT WILL BE AN IMPORTANT LESSON.

No. Death stood up. THIS IS HOW IT SHOULDN’T GO.

“It’s the hope that’s important. Big part of belief, hope. Give people jam today and they’ll just sit and eat it. Jam tomorrow, now—that’ll keep them going forever.”

IT IS . . . UNFAIR. “That’s life, master.” BUT I’M NOT. “I meant, this is how it’s supposed to go, master,” said Albert. NO. YOU MEAN THIS IS HOW IT GOES.

IT IS HOGSWATCH, said Death, AND PEOPLE DIE ON THE STREETS. PEOPLE FEAST BEHIND LIGHTED WINDOWS AND OTHER PEOPLE HAVE NO HOMES. IS THIS FAIR? “Well, of course, that’s the big issue—” Albert began. THE PEASANT HAD A HANDFUL OF BEANS AND THE KING HAD SO MUCH HE WOULD NOT EVEN NOTICE THAT WHICH HE GAVE AWAY. IS THIS FAIR? “Yeah, but if you gave it all to the peasant then in a year or two he’d be just as snooty as the king—” began Albert, jaundiced observer of human nature. NAUGHTY AND NICE? said Death. BUT IT’S EASY TO BE NICE IF YOU’RE RICH. IS THIS FAIR? Albert wanted to argue. He wanted to say, Really? In that case, how come so many of the rich buggers is bastards? And being poor don’t mean being naughty, neither. We was poor when I were a kid, but we was honest. Well, more stupid than honest, to tell the truth. But basically honest.

Their collecting tins were already full of donations for the poor of the city, or at least those sections of the poor who in Mrs. Huggs’s opinion were suitably picturesque and not too smelly and could be relied upon to say thank you.

“All right,” said Susan. “I’m not stupid. You’re saying humans need . . . fantasies to make life bearable.” REALLY? AS IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE. “Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little—” YES. AS PRACTICE. YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES. “So we can believe the big ones?” YES. JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING. “They’re not the same at all!” YOU THINK SO? THEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET—Death waved a hand. AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME . . . SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED. “Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what’s the point—” MY POINT EXACTLY.

THE WORLD WILL TEACH THEM ABOUT MONSTERS SOON ENOUGH. LET THEM REMEMBER THERE’S ALWAYS THE POKER. “But they saw he’s human—” I THINK THEY HAD A VERY GOOD IDEA OF WHAT HE WAS.

state of not knowing what a pronoun is, or how to find the square root of 27.4, and merely knowing childish and useless things like which of the seventy almost identical-looking species of the purple sea snake are the deadly ones, how to treat the poisonous pith of the Sago-sago tree to make a nourishing gruel, how to foretell the weather by the movements of the tree-climbing Burglar Crab, how to navigate across a thousand miles of featureless ocean by means of a piece of string and a small clay model of your grandfather, how to get essential vitamins from the liver of the ferocious Ice Bear, and other such trivial matters. It’s a strange thing that when everyone becomes educated, everyone knows about the pronoun but no one knows about the Sago-sago.