Terry Prachett is a god damn genius, and all this time I had no idea.
All those years I spent working at Waldenbooks—shunning his books because they were filed among so much other trashy fantasy and Star Wars/Trek fan fiction—when I could have been reading about Discworld and marveling at Prachett’s never-ending supply of wit. (The Mark Twain of our time! Social commentary so sharp your daddy could shave with it! And all packed into hilarious, page-turning, easy-to-digest little packages that read like trash—ie: page-turning—but that resonate like lit.)
And like other obscenely prolific and talented science fiction/fantasy writers before him (coughPKDick), Prachett’s written something like thirty books (at the very least). Do you know what that means?! That means that even when you’ve read a whole stack of his books, there will still be more! And he’s still alive! Which means that even after you’ve read everything he’s ever written (and read it all again), there will still be more! He averages two new books a year! Oh my god! (This is serious people. I only break out the exclamation points in the case of extreme emergency.)
So, in preparation for the long, cold winter months, I recommend that you go to the library immediately and take out every Prachett book they have. You can start anywhere in the series, but Small Gods and The Truth are especially fanfuckingtastic. It’s going to be a long winter this year, but at least you’ll have something to fight the stir-crazies.
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