Secrets of the Wee Free Men and Discworld (20 page)

BOOK: Secrets of the Wee Free Men and Discworld
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Time Waits for No One
If you were in, say, Armethalieh in Mercedes Lackey/James Mallory's Obsidian Trilogy series, you'd measure time by bells (“See you in half a bell, dude”), specific days (Light's Day), or by wars and epochs (the time of Great Queen Vielissiar Farcarinon; the Great War). In other fantasy series, time is regulated in a similar way (the Third age of Middle-earth and the calendar according to the “Shire-reckoning” of Tolkien's
Lord of the Rings
).
In our world, we measure time by ages and eras (Ice Age, Napoleonic era, Victorian era), the Gregorian calendar (rather than the Julian calendar named after Julius Caesar), B.C.-A.D. demarcations (thanks to Venerable Bede, an eighth-century monk scholar who first used A.D.), and by how long we have to wait in line at Starbucks or the grocery store (“That took ages!”).
In Discworld, there's a hodgepodge of ways to measure time.
Calendars and Almanacs
Societies of our world have differing calendars (Gregorian, Hindu, Chinese, Japanese) in which the names of months or even the number of days in a month vary. But in a place like Discworld, where centuries and years are marked by animals, food items, or inexplicable terms (the Century of the Fruitbat, the Year of the Intimidating Porpoise, Century of the Anchovy, the Year of the Impromptu Stoat, Third Ning of the Shaving of the Goat), and the months have such names as Grune, Ick, Spune, and Offle, you've got to expect some weirdness.
The naming of years and centuries in Discworld reminds us of the Chinese calendar, a calendar with a sixty-year cycle based on the moon phases, the sun, and conjunctions of planets. As you know, in China the years follow a cycle of animal names (year of the dragon, year of the ox). You've probably seen a chart of them on a placemat wherever you go for dim sum. And although some of us born in years like the year of the rat could wish that the year bore the name of a cooler animal (such as the year of the tiger), it certainly beats being born in the Year of the Impromptu Stoat.
Terms like the Third Ning, although made-up, remind us of the different dynasties in the history of China—part of the era/epochbased way of measuring time.
You probably know a year in Discworld can last for eight hundred days and runs through eight seasons, rather than the usual four. (If you don't know, you do now.) Imagine what you'd do with all of that time. Take two summer vacations?
Almanacs also record the moon phases.
Poor Richard's Almanack,
developed by Benjamin Franklin, lists the times of sun and moon risings and planetary configurations. In Discworld (especially the Chalk and the Ramtops), an annual almanac called the
Almanack And
Book Of Dayes
(
Equal Rites, Lords and Ladies, The Wee Free Men
) is used to gauge the weather and serves as bathroom tissue. Quite handy.
Holidays and Special Days
Our holidays and special days tell us a lot about who we are as a people and what we believe in. We celebrate Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, Martin Luther King Day, Kasmir Pulaski Day (a Chicago holiday), New Year's, Groundhog Day, Valentine's Day, and hold events like Oktoberfest and elections. In Discworld, they also celebrate New Year's, along with such holidays as Hogswatch, Soul Cake Tuesday, and Fat Lunchtime—like Fat Tuesday in our world. And then there are Troll New Year, Chase Whiskers Day, and Sektoberfest, a two-week event involving a beer festival, like Oktoberfest. Pratchett describes these and other holidays in
Terry Pratchett's Discworld Collector's Edition 2005 Calendar
and
Discworld's Ankh-Morpork City Watch Diary
.
In Discworld, certain rituals help mark the seasons, holidays, and such special occasions as weddings. There's the Morris dance, which comes from the traditions of the British Isles. In our world, the Morris is danced at the beginning of spring and summer. It's been around since at least the fifteenth century. Seven dancers, usually male, wear white clothes, bells, and clogs. In
Wintersmith,
the usual Morris dance occurs in May, to usher in the summer; and in
Reaper Man,
it ushers in the spring. As we mentioned in
chapter 5
, Jason Ogg and Lancre Morris men gather to dance for the king's wedding on Midsummer's Eve. But then there's the Dark Morris—a Pratchett creation. Danced without bells, it ushers in the winter in
Wintersmith.
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
.)
But Is It … 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 Dermott—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.

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