The Time of Your Life
Another way of measuring time is by the lifetimer—the hourglass that measures a life. Death carries one for each person he visits who is about to die. The lifetimer is a symbol of the mortality of man. As the Romans would say, “Memento mori”—“Remember that you are mortal.” This is reminiscent of the grim reminder of mortality in Genesis 3:19, “For dust you are and to dust you will return” (New International Version). But the lifetimer used by Wen the Eternally Surprised (for more on him, keep reading) in Thief of Time grants time to the person to whom it is given.
The Discworld Time Lords: The Monks of History
If you’re a fan of the Doctor Who TV series, one that has been around since the 1960s, you know that the Doctor is a Time Lord from Gallifrey—someone able to travel back and forth through time. He’s the last of his kind. So, why’d we bring him up? Because of the Monks of History in Discworld. They are time lords, in a way—the ones who monitor and shape time. Their existence is top secret. But the people of Discworld feel the effects of their constant vigilance. (Maybe you’re thinking of the Men in Black right about now … )
In the creation of the Monks of History, you can find a hint of Eastern religions. There’s the great Lu-Tze the Sweeper, a follower of the Way of Mrs. Marietta Cosmopolite and master of déjà fu—using time as a weapon, rather than, say, kung fu. Lu-Tze, who appears in Night Watch, Thief of Time, and Small Gods, reminds us of Zen master Lao-tzu, writer of Tao Te Ching, and blind Master Po, the Shaolin monk who trained Kwai Chang Caine in the 1970s TV series Kung Fu.
Other members of the order include Marco Soto—the monk who finds promising novice Lobsang Ludd; the Master of Novices; the Abbot (with his “circular aging,” a phrase meaning reincarnation); chief acolyte Rinpo; and Qu, a monk inventor/weapons master like Q in the James Bond series.
Instead of a TARDIS (the Doctor’s police box/time travel machine—a sentient machine the initials of which stand for “Time and Relative Dimension(s) in Space”), a time machine à la H. G. Wells, or a souped-up DeLorean used by Dr. Emmett Brown in Back to the Future, the monks’ mode of time travel is the portable procrastinator, which slices time. (More on them in chapter 19.) As they slice, the monks get to Zimmerman Valley, a time-slicing state that can’t simply be calculated by a velocity formula like:
With Zimmerman, we can’t help thinking of a cross between Silicon Valley and Dean Zimmerman, a Rutgers professor who wrote a paper with the heading “Defending an ‘A-theory’ of Time,” which we saw on the Internet. Undoubtedly a coincidence.
Perhaps it’s only fitting that Wen the Eternally Surprised, founder of the Monks of History, and the personification of Time are the parents of Lobsang Ludd. It takes time to make time.
On the monastery grounds, you find the Mandala, sands showing the currents of time. This concept didn’t originate with Pratchett. According to Hindu beliefs, the Mandala is a sand graph of the universe, one used for purposes of contemplation. We would prefer to contemplate a box of Thin Mints and a stretch of white sand in Jamaica. But that’s just us. (For more on the Mandala, see chapter 19.)
18
But Is It … Art?
STATE OF THE ART
Years ago (okay, I will admit it was during the early 1980s; yes, I’m that old) during my senior year at Northwestern, I [Linda] took a drawing class taught by late Chicago artist Ed Paschke, one of the professors at NU. In between sessions involving sketching unclothed models—sessions I giggled through—our class took a tour of some of the north side art galleries in Chicago. In one gallery, a young man proudly exhibited his sculpture (I’m not sure what else to call it) to his adoring public, one of whom apparently was his patroness, a tiny elderly woman in a fur coat who looked as if she dripped money.
His sculpture consisted of a paint roller standing in a paint tray. He’d set the roller on fire. Why, I don’t know. For the effect, maybe? While it burned merrily, his patroness beamed. I could only gawk and wonder, Is that … art? He seemed to think so. I wondered how much his patroness had shelled out for him to create that … thing, or how much (if anything) he would charge for it. Judging by a nearby wall filled with other pieces of … art consisting of three large sticks nailed together in varying criss-cross shapes and bearing price tags in the hundreds of dollars, I would guess a great deal of money.
The question But is it art? comes up a lot in the Discworld novels. After all, numerous art pieces adorn the museum that is Discworld. Mr. Tulip, one of the thugs hired by the zombie lawyer, Mr. Slant, on behalf of Lord de Worde (for more about them, see chapter 12) provides a lesson in Discworld art appreciation in The Truth. I’ve taken some of his advice, and that of other art connoisseurs to heart, to explore the state of the arts in Discworld.
Check out the brush strokes. I’ve never been to the Musée du Louvre—the home of some of the most well-known pieces of art in the world, so I have to rely on the witness of others, not to mention a viewing of The Da Vinci Code. During a trip to Paris in the mid-1990s, my older brother Chris and sister-in-law Lisa stood in a really long line at the Louvre to see Leonardo’s Mona Lisa. They told me they were impressed by the sheer age of the painting. (They didn’t bring back a T-shirt, though.)
The Mona Ogg, painted by Leonard of Quirm, is, of course, a parody of the Mona Lisa, with artist/engineer Leonard acting as the Leonardo da Vinci of Discworld. If you’ve seen the cover of The Art of the Discworld, you’ve seen the Mona Ogg, which supposedly was inspired by a young Nanny Ogg. But Woman Holding Ferret by Leonard of Quirm is an allusion to Leonardo’s Lady with an Ermine, painted in 1485. (Speaking of Leonardo, The Koom Valley Codex mentioned in Thud! is an allusion to The Da Vinci Code.)
Theme-wise, Three Large Pink Women and One Piece of Gauze by Caravati (an allusion to Italian Baroque artist Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio perhaps?) reminds me of the ballerina pictures by Impressionist painter/sculptor Edgar Degas, including Three Ballet Dancers, One with Dark Crimson Waist, and Three Dancers in Violet Tutus. Of course, Caravaggio was known for paintings with such simple descriptive names as Boy Bitten by a Lizard and Boy with a Basket of Fruit. Charming.
The Battle of Ar-Gash by Blitzt (like blitz) seems to be a parody of Leonardo da Vinci’s Battle of Anghiari (1503-6). The Battle of Koom Valley by Methodia Rascal, a huge painting that hangs in the Royal Art Museum in Ankh-Morpork in Thud!, is reminiscent either of of paintings by Jan Matejko, a nineteenth-century Polish painter known for battle scenes such as the Battle of Grunwald, or an eighteenth-century American artist John Trumbull who, like Matejko, was known for military figures and battle scenes, including the Battle of Trenton, the Battle of Princeton, The Surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown, or The Death of General Warren at the Battle of Bunker Hill. Trumbull worked during the time of the American Revolution and later.
Waggon Stuck in River by Sir Robert Cuspidor reminds me of the Haywain triptych by Hieronymus Bosch in 1500-15. Whether it was actually inspired by Bosch’s work is anybody’s guess.
Man with Big Fig Leaf by Mauvaise reminds me of the fig-leaf controversy surrounding works by the famed Italian Renaissance master Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni (Michelangelo to his friends). Daniele Ricciarelli (a.k.a. Daniele da Volterra), a painter and sculptor, painted a fig leaf over a certain part of the male anatomy in Michelangelo’s fresco The Last Judgment during a time when nudity in paintings was considered a no-no.
Watch out for fakes. In the 1966 movie How to Steal a Million, starring Audrey Hepburn, Peter O’Toole, and Charles Boyer, Audrey played Nicole, the beleaguered daughter of an art forger (Charles Bonnet, played by Hugh Griffith) who paints like van Gogh and had a father who sculpted in the style of Benvenuto Cellini—the sixteenth-century sculptor/painter known for his Perseus sculpture and his Diana of Fontainebleau bronze figure. The conflict begins when Charles sells his “Cellini” Venus—which was made by his father—to a museum, claiming to be an art collector. Audrey convinces O’Toole’s character—Simon Der
mott—to help her break into the museum to steal it, to avoid having her father revealed as a forger.
The Cellini of Discworld might be Scolpini—a sculptor mentioned during Mr. Tulip’s art discussion in The Truth. We don’t actually see Scolpini’s work, but we’re told how to spot a real one and the fact that anyone could steal the piece Tulip views. Shades of the plot to How to Steal a Million.
Remember the Chicago art gallery pieces mentioned earlier—the twigs and the paint roller? In Thud! two pieces by Daniellarina Pouter brought back memories for me: Don’t Talk to Me About Mondays, which looks like a pile of rags, and Freedom—a stake with a nail in it. Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder.
Pay attention. Leonardo da Vinci’s studies on the perception of the human eye and the effects of light changed the way that painters viewed their craft. He paid attention to the design of the human body and took into account what the eye really sees: how much color close up and at a distance; how the form/shape of the eye (with all of its parts) affects its overall function, particularly in gauging the proportions of an object. This helps a painter correctly depict limbs on people in paintings. Foreshortening happens when the artist doesn’t take into account what his or her eye is really seeing.
We can’t really see a painting like Three Large Pink Women and One Piece of Gauze unless an artist like Paul Kidby draws it, so it’s hard to gauge whether the artist, like Leonardo da Vinci, is a student of the eye’s form and function. Thief of Time does reveal that The Battle of Ar-Gash by Blitzt features a striking use of light. Perhaps Leonardo would have been pleased.
What’s music to some is only so much noise to others. Let’s turn now to the world of music—an art form as varied in Discworld as it is in our world. Classical—Doinov’s Prelude in G is mentioned in Maskerade, and Überwald Winter, an opera the Wintersmith loves, in Wintersmith; pop—“music with rocks in” is described in Soul Music . There’s ethnic music—“Gold, Gold, Gold,” a dwarf refrain (Feet of Clay); and bawdy comic songs—“The Hedgehog Song.” And then there are the songs with a patriotic twist, such as “Carry Me Away from Old Ankh-Morpork,” “I Fear I’m Going Back to Ankh-Morpork,” and “We Can Rule You Wholesale”—the Ankh-Morpork civic anthem. Music to stir your soul and conscience.
Everyone in Discworld has an opinion about music. In Soul Music, which details the musical career of Imp y Celyn—a.k.a. Buddy Holly (an obvious allusion)—the question is whether music with rocks in is a legitimate form of expression. (According to the Guild of Musicians, the answer is no, unless they can profit by it.) Well, it is an issue that causes a lot of trouble for Discworldians. This subject has been long debated, since the early days of rock, back when the real Buddy Holly was alive, and continues even today with regard to rap.
And of course, Granny has an opinion every time Nanny tries to sing “The Hedgehog Song.” (See Witches Abroad.) Is it art? Is “The Hokey Pokey”? It all depends on what you like.
The same argument can be made for the Discworld series. Some may balk at the parodies and puns. “But is it art?” they ask. If you’re reading this book, we think you know the answer to that question already.
19
Terry Pratchett: Titan of Technomancy
Together, my lord Sauron, we shall rule this Middle-earth.
The old world will burn in the fires of industry.
Forests will fall. A new order will rise. We will drive the
machine of war with the sword and the spear
and the iron fist of the orc.
—Saruman in The Two Towers137
GADGETS AND WIDGETS
Buzz through a novel by Michael Crichton, Tom Clancy, or Clive Cussler and you’ll usually find enough gizmos to run or destroy a small planet. These are your techno-thriller writers. But would you place Terry Pratchett in that group? You would if you read the Discworld novels closely enough. They’re all about the gadgets.
Technology shows the advancement of a civilization. Some would argue that it also shows its imminent destruction and separates the haves from the have-nots. Whatever the case may be, technology reveals where we are at as a society.
So, what about Discworld? Who would’ve thought that a world without computers or TV, and with watchmen patrolling with bells, would have any kind of technology? But it does. There’s enough technology to almost rival a Tom Clancy or Michael Crichton novel. No, we’re not drunk. Think of The Flintstones, the Hanna-Barbera cartoon series of the 1960s, which featured a prehistoric setting but technology akin to the 1960s—hence the car run “through the courtesy of Fred’s two feet” as the closing song of each episode goes. In Discworld, technology is what Pratchett calls technomancy.
First, let’s look at some of the inventors.
Inventors
Many of us take for granted the labor-saving devices we have, such as the computer, the DVD, the microwave, Ginsu knives, or that thing you throw in the microwave that helps you hang and cook bacon. (You know. That thing.) But they all came from the brain of someone—sometimes the kid just down the street or in your own home, the one who dreams of winning the science fair. Henry Ford, Benjamin Franklin, Mary Phelps Jacob, George Washington Carver, Sara Goode, Thomas Alva Edison, Leonardo da Vinci, and many others left a legacy of innovation. Discworld has several inventors, the most well known of which are Leonard of Quirm and Bergholt Stuttley (Bloody Stupid) Johnson. Judging by Johnson’s inventions, his nickname seems apt.
Leonard of Quirm. Leonard da Quirm or Leonard of Quirm is the Leonardo da Vinci of Discworld. Naturally. He’s a gentle genius with an amazing knack for inventing killing machines, including the gonne (Men at Arms) and flying machines, such as a flappingwing-flying-device (Men at Arms) reminiscent of the ones Leonardo da Vinci (see sidebar here) and Daedalus (the artist/inventor from Greek mythology) invented. Alas, he’s terrible at naming them. He’s so dangerous, he has to be locked up in the Patrician’s Palace for the good of humanity.
Bergholt Stuttley (Bloody Stupid) Johnson. Johnson, an inventor and landscape gardener, parodies Lancelot (Capability) Brown, the renowned eighteenth-century British landscape gardener whose parks decorated England. Although Johnson doesn’t actually appear in any of the Discworld books, being dead and all, his legacy is described. He has a kind of genius, too—a genius for errors. In other words, he’s IN-capable. (Ha, ha!) His inventions, for instance the sorting engine in Going Postal, turn out flawed but still brilliant in other ways. Although this machine was designed to sort mail, it winds up affecting the space-time continuum. Not something you’d want at your local post office—or maybe you would.
Okay, with that said, let’s get on with the stuff.
Communication Pieces
The clacks. Whenever they’re not queuing up at the Post Office, sending pigeons, or consulting Mrs. Cake’s crystal ball, the Discworldians send messages to one another via the clacks—a variation on the telegraph and also the semaphore (optical telegraph) network, which has been in place in our world for, oh, a couple hundred years, especially in France, thanks to semaphore stations set up by French engineer Claude Chappe back in the late eighteenth century.
If you read Going Postal, you know that Adora Belle Dear-heart’s father, Robert, is the one who helps develop the clacks and the Grand Trunk. Unfortunately, he is rooked out of the company by embezzlers and Reacher Gilt. (More on Gilt in chapter 12 .)
The clacks system also involves c-mail like the Internet’s e-mail. How? We’re not sure. It just does.
Speaking tubes. In the Hogfather, Lord Downey makes use of a speaking tube. In this phoneless era, this is undoubtedly the receiver /microphone to an intercom such as those of the late nineteenth century—the kind used to communicate from one room to the next—cutting-edge technology back in the day. (You can see these in use sometimes in old TV shows.) Sometimes you had to blow into them (or at least people thought you had to) for sound to carry through. Even today, with technology so much more advanced, you still see people blowing into micro
phones and asking, “Is this thing on?”
Dis-organizers/PDAs and Iconographs. Vimes has a number of organizers, or Dis-organizers as they are referred to, Dis being an allusion to the name of a city in Dante’s Divine Comedy. Unlike the organizers before PDAs such as Palm Pilots and BlackBerry products came on the scene, Vimes’s Dis-organizers are powered by tiny imps. (More about them in chapter 10.) He starts off with the fifteenfunction imp-powered Dis-organizer—a gift from Sybil (Feet of Clay). In Thud! Vimes gets the Dis-Organizer Mark Five, the Gooseberry—another imp-powered product. We don’t have to tell you that this is an allusion to the BlackBerry and iPod/iTunes (Pratchett’s iHUM). But we did.
As for the iconographs—the magic cameras of Discworld that Pratchett made up—the imps run them as if they were computer chips. Like iconography, which involves the painting of religious icons, the iconograph involves recording images by painting instead of recording them on film. If you’ve seen The Flintstones, you know this is the way of many of that series’ labor-saving devices. Wilma’s camera might simply be a bird painstakingly pecking a picture on a small piece of marble.
Secrets of the Wee Free Men and Discworld Page 19