Death, for the most part, isn’t particularly funny. When thousands around the world deeply mourn the loss of their loved ones, we remember that there was a time, before death knocked the wind out of us, that we laughed hard. We also know that we might laugh again in the future. How, though, do we get from here to there?
Terry Pratchett, who would have turned 72 this month, would perhaps have known how. The author, who wrote over 70 books, including more than 40 novels in his Discworld series, seemed to understand how humour can take readers to a place where they can deal with death, and he took them there with his characteristic sharp wit. Death — the big, cat-loving fellow with a scythe, a thundering voice and a penchant for capital letters — was a vital presence in the Discworld books, first appearing in Mort. In the novel, Mort is hired to assist Death in ushering souls into the next realm. However, unlike the usual icy, hooded reaper, Pratchett’s Death is an erratic figure who goes through a gamut of markedly human experiences — being inebriated, dancing with abandon and even pining for happiness. It would be greatly unlike Pratchett to adhere to the stereotypical idea of the Grim Reaper. His Death not only dresses up as Santa Claus but is also deeply fascinated with the human lives he puts out. He might boom, “COWER, BRIEF MORTALS”, but no one will quake in their boots.
There is no dearth of darkness, of course — it is one of the many reasons why Death is in almost all the Discworld novels. A character in Snuff — where goblins, as sentient beings, are routinely kidnapped and killed by hate-filled humans — delivers a classic Pratchett-like aphorism: “... some of the most terrible things in the world are done by people who... genuinely think... that they’re doing it for the best, especially if there is some god involved”. All of it could be greatly depressing if not for Pratchett’s biting wit that helps keep readers’ heads above water. And the most compelling thing about his satire was his refusal to lose empathy for his characters, no matter how awful they are. A writer of satire would perhaps be making a grave mistake if he were to be derisive; Pratchett was well aware of that. When Death, in Hogfather, said, in his usual capital letters, “HUMAN BEINGS MAKE LIFE SO INTERESTING”, he was certainly echoing his creator.
Pratchett was poking fun at death and the human condition long before his illness was diagnosed — he lost the battle to Alzheimer’s in 2015 — and his failing health made him a dedicated advocate of assisted dying. Most remarkable, however, was his ability to talk about dying with ease and humour. He once said, “[E]veryone should have a good death... The ideal death... is what was the ideal Victorian death: you know, your grandchildren around you, a bit of sobbing — because, after all, tears are appropriate on a deathbed — and you say goodbye to your loved ones.”
The same man also wrote, “[N]o one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away”. At the time of writing, would he have known how the ripples created by the life he lived would be felt for years after his passing?
