The Color of Magic

“[T]wo figures were watching [the burning of Ankh-Morpork] with considerable interest.

The taller of the pair was chewing on a chicken leg and leaning on a sword that was only marginally shorter than the average man. If it wasn’t for the air of wary intelligence about him it might have been supposed that he was a barbarian from the Hubland wastes.

His partner was much shorter and wrapped from head to toe in a brown cloak. Later, when he has occasion to move, it will be seen that he moves lightly, catlike.”

These two are Bravd the Hublander and The Weasel. They are based on Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, a pair of adventurers created by Fritz Leiber. Leiber’s characters appeared in a series of sword and sorcery stories and novelettes which were eventually collected into books. The collections form a picaresque style of novel in which a protagonist undergoes a series of adventures that don’t mount to a climax in the conventional way.

Like Bravd and Weasel, Rincewind and Twoflower also parallel Fafhrd and the Mouser, undergoing a series of adventures in a picaresque style. The author suggests that the parallel is deliberate when he mentions that Rincewind dislikes most heroes, except for Bravd and The Weasel.

“‘But magic of a kind, I think. Not the usual sort. I mean, it can turn gold into copper while at the same time it is still gold, it makes men rich by destroying their possessions, it allows the weak to walk fearlessly among thieves, it passes through the strongest doors to leach the most protected treasuries. Even now it has me enslaved—so that I must follow this madman willynilly and protect him from harm. […]

‘What is it called then, this mighty magic?’

Rincewind shrugged. ‘In our tongue it is called reflected-sound-as-of-underground-spirits.’”

This is the magic of economics, which Rincewind has come to recognize. He doesn’t understand how it works, but he has seen that it has the power to destroy the greatest city in the world. The “magic” he describes relates to the relative value of currency. Three coppers to Broadman the innkeeper is a generous sum. To Twoflower, three large gold coins—enough to buy the entire city block—seems a small sum, not because Twoflower is rich but because Ankh-Morpork is so poor. Economics also made Broadman rich when he destroyed his own property for an insurance payout (though Broadman did not survive to enjoy his windfall).

“‘I see,’ said the Patrician sweetly. ‘You feel, perhaps, that it would be a marvelous thing to go to the Counterweight Continent and bring back a shipload of gold?’

Rincewind had a feeling that some sort of trap was being set.

‘Yes?’ he ventured.

‘And if every man on the shores of the Circle Sea had a mountain of gold of his own? Would that be a good thing? What would happen? Think carefully.’

Rincewind's brow furrowed. He thought. ‘We'd all be rich?’”

This is another example of Pratchett's commentary on economics, which is the primary theme of Part 1. Rincewind, like many people, has the shortsighted idea that if everybody had a lot of money, they would all be rich. He doesn't consider that if everybody is rich, then “rich” loses meaning, and the cost of living rises to absorb the available wealth.

“The Watch were always careful not to intervene too soon in any brawl where the odds were not heavily stacked in their favor. The job carried a pension, and attracted a cautious, thoughtful kind of man.”

This is irony and relates to the theme of self-interest. In a city as lawless as Ankh-Morpork, as long as the fighting is between rival guilds or among people who fight for a living, they are technically taking care of their own business, and the Watch need not be involved. When the newly-formed Merchants’ Guild grows in power, the businessmen see that rampant violence is bad for business and exert pressure on the other guilds to shape up. Often that pressure comes in the form of heavily-armed trolls.

Medieval society on Roundworld saw a similar rise in the merchant class who put pressure (albeit with fewer trolls) on the nobility, generating more freedom and greater economic mobility for the under-classes. This quote also acts as Pratchett’s social commentary on modern law enforcement.

“At the Temple of the Seven-Handed Sek a hasty convocation of priests and ritual heart-transplant artisans agreed that the hundred-span high statue of Sek was altogether too holy to be made into a magic picture, but a payment of two rhinu left them astoundedly agreeing that perhaps He wasn't as holy as all that.”

A satirical jab at religion suggesting that there is a degree to which even very devout believers can adjust their beliefs to accommodate self-interest. Critics of religion have noted that it is surprising how often the will of the gods coincides with the convenience of their worshipers. In this instance, worshipers of the Seven-Handed Sek are quickly persuaded by Twoflower’s wealth.

“‘Well, if you must know, I thought he didn’t mean magic. Not as such.’

‘What else is there, then?’

Rincewind began to feel really wretched. ‘I don't know,’ he said. ‘A better way of doing things, I suppose. Something with a bit of sense in it. Harnessing—harnessing the lightning, or something.’”

Rincewind dreams of a more logical world, one in which labor-saving devices, unlike magic, actually save labor. As he explains to the imp, it takes as much energy to learn and use a spell as to do a thing the “hard” way. Despite Rincewind’s dissatisfaction with the disorganized nature of magic, the magicians of the Disc study magic in much the same way that scientists study the natural laws of Roundworld, employing a version of the scientific method. This treatment establishes magic as a fundamental and quantifiable aspect of Rincewind’s world.

“‘Stands to reason,’ said Rerpf. ‘People robbing and murdering all over the place, what sort of impression are visitors going to take away? You come all the way to see our fine city with its many points of historical and civic interest, also many quaint customs, and you wake up dead in some back alley or as it might be floating down the Ankh, how are you going to tell all your friends what a great time you’re having? Let’s face it, you’ve got to move with the times.’”

This moment signals the organization of the merchant class. Self-interest in this case leads to mutual cooperation. Up to now, the criminal guilds have had things very much their own way, largely because they are well-organized. The merchants provide a powerful counterforce which, over the course of the next 40 books, imposes a civilizing influence on Ankh-Morpork.

“It has been remarked before that those who are sensitive to radiations in the far octarine—the eighth color, the pigment of the Imagination—can see things that others cannot.”

This line is spoken directly by the narrator, offering background information for the upcoming scene. Rincewind, who can see into the far octarine, can see Death. On the other hand, Rincewind is not particularly inclined toward imagination, though he can certainly imagine all the horrible things that might possibly go wrong in any given situation.

“‘I know. That’s the trouble.’ Rincewind sighed again. It was all very well going on about pure logic and how the universe was ruled by logic and the harmony of numbers, but the plain fact of the matter was that the Disc was manifestly traversing space on the back of a giant turtle and the gods had a habit of going round to atheists’ houses and smashing their windows.”

As an atheist, Pratchett had a distinct and humorous perspective on religion (as he does on everything else). This passage reflects his views on the relationship between science and religion, as does the following quote: ‟[Humans are] shaped by the universe to be its consciousness. We tell the universe what it is. In my religion, the building of a telescope is the building of a cathedral” (Terry Pratchett, Source: Guardian Fri 18 Dec 2009 19.19 EST key).

“‘The Soul Eater. His number lyeth between seven and nine; it is twice four,’ Rincewind quoted, his mind frozen with fear. ‘Oh no. Where’s the Temple?’

‘Hubward, towards the center of the forest,’ said the dryad. ‘It is very old.’

‘But who would be so stupid as to worship Bel—him? I mean, devils yes, but he’s the Soul Eater—’

‘There were–certain advantages. And the race that used to live in these parts had strange notions.’

‘What happened to them, then?’

‘I did say they used to live in these parts.’”

Part 2 satirizes the stories of H.P. Lovecraft and his circle, particularly his Cthulhu mythos which featured a number of repellent godlike entities with a nasty inclination to destroy the world and eat their followers. One of the great unanswered questions of the Lovecraftian oeuvre is why anybody would worship such creatures. Note that the dryad doesn’t specify what advantages might accrue to the cult members.

Robert Howard, the creator of Conan the Barbarian (the prototype for Hrun the Barbarian), was a prominent member of the Lovecraft circle and contributed several elements to the “Cthulhu mythos’ created by Lovecraft. Howard wrote several mythos-type stories, but his greatest personal contribution to fiction was the introduction of the sword and sorcery genre.

“The First Men, shortly after their creation, understandably lost their temper. And great and pyrotechnic were the battles that followed—the sun wheeled across the sky, the seas boiled, weird storms ravaged the land, small white pigeons mysteriously appeared in people’s clothing, and the very stability of the Disc (carried as it was through space on the backs of four giant turtle-riding elephants) was threatened. This resulted in stern action by the Old High Ones, to whom even the gods themselves are answerable. The gods were banished to high places, men were re-created a good deal smaller, and much of the old wild magic was sucked out of the earth.”

This is the in-world explanation for why the magic of the Discworld seems like fairly tame stuff in the grand scheme of the fantasy genre. Over the course of 41 books, Pratchett seems to put more focus on reflected-sound-of-underground-spirits than many other fantasy elements, and imagination plays a greater role in his stories than even magic. Though Pratchett’s books are undeniably fantasy, they primarily act as vehicles for social commentary and genre subversion.

‟‘We’ve strayed into a zone with a high magical index,’ he said. ‘Don't ask me how. Once upon a time a really powerful magic field must have been generated here, and we’re feeling the after-effects.’

‘Precisely,’ said a passing bush.”

Pratchett set out to create a coherent and consistent system of magic for his universe. Pratchett’s Discworld science treats magic as a species of radiation that can be harnessed and controlled. Many of its effects are reminiscent of Roundworld radiation, including mutation of surrounding plants and wildlife.

“Liessa Wyrmbidder was entirely a magnificent sight. She was also almost naked, except for a couple of mere scraps of the lightest chain mail and riding boots of iridescent dragonhide. In one boot was thrust a riding crop, unusual in that it was as long as a spear and tipped with tiny steel barbs.”

Liessa, in addition to being a nod to Lessa from Anne McCaffery’s Dragonriders of Pern series, is the only scantily-dressed female in the Discworld series. The other women in his books wear practical garb for doing practical things. Some readers have criticized his earlier female characters as being one-dimensional, but Pratchett’s female characters are often more sensible and competent than their male counterparts. With Liessa, Pratchett shows the frustration of social limitations imposed on women. With other characters, in later books, he shows how women are powerful in ways unique to them.

“Rincewind occasionally had nightmares about teetering on some intangible but enormously high place, and seeing a blue-distanced, cloud-punctuated landscape reeling away below him (this usually woke him up with his ankles sweating; he would have been even more worried had he known that the nightmare was not, as he thought, just the usual Discworld vertigo. It was a backward memory of an event in his future so terrifying that it had generated harmonics of fear all the way along his lifeline).”

This is foreshadowing in two senses. It hints to the reader that a fall from a great height lies somewhere in Rincewind’s none too distant future. But in Discworld terms, it acts as something like hindshadowing. On the Disc, the future can affect the past. Thus, a future event (falling over the edge of the Disc) reaches back through time and foreshadows Rincewind’s future, which he interprets as a nightmare.

“Hrun screwed a finger in his ear and inspected it absently.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I expect in a minute the door will be flung back and I’ll be dragged off to some sort of temple arena where I’ll fight maybe a couple of giant spiders and an eight-foot slave from the jungles of Klatch and then I’ll rescue some kind of a princess from the altar and then kill off a few guards or whatever and then this girl will show me the secret passage out of the place and we’ll liberate a couple of horses and escape with the treasure.’”

Pratchett often pokes fun at the tropes of popular fiction either by playing into them with a tongue-in-cheek attitude or by turning them on their heads. In this case, Hrun is telling the reader that the conventions of his life are so consistent that he always knows what the future holds. For readers of the Sword and Sorcery genre in its heyday, these were the storylines they read for, and originality was not necessarily what they wanted.

“Oh well, you see, the truth of the matter is that dragons have never existed as you [and I] understand existence. […] The true dragon […] is a creature of such refinement of spirit that they can only take on form in this world if they are conceived by the most skilled imagination. […] Now Liessa, the most skilled of my children, can barely imagine fifty rather nondescript creatures. So much for a progressive education. She doesn't really believe in them. That’s why her dragons are rather boring—”

These words are spoken by Liessa’s late father, the former lord of the Wyrmberg. Pratchett regards imagination as the thing that makes us human, yet its nature and origin is outside the power of science to explain. Why should some people be, apparently, naturally gifted in that area? Pratchett also gives a nod and a wink to the tendency of older generations to blame the perceived deficiencies of their descendants on whatever constitutes modern theories of education for their time. One has to wonder (imagine) what might constitute a progressive education on the Disc.

“IT WON’T WORK, laughed a voice like the dull toning of a funeral bell, YOU DON’T BELIEVE IN THEM.

Rincewind looked at the terrible mounted apparition grinning at him, and his mind bolted in terror.

There was a brilliant flash.

There was utter darkness.

There was a soft floor under Rincewind’s feet, a pink light around him, and the sudden shocked cries of many people.”

In trying to summon a dragon, Rincewind accidentally manifests himself in the kind of “fantasy” world he dreams of: a place where people have harnessed lightning instead of using untidy and unreliable magic. This is a reversal of a common fictional trope in which a person from the mundane world finds themselves transported into a magic-based fantasy universe.

“It was the King Color, of which all the lesser colors are merely partial and wishy-washy reflections. It was octarine, the color of magic. It was alive and glowing and vibrant and it was the undisputed pigment of the imagination, because wherever it appeared it was a sign that mere matter was a servant of the powers of the magical mind. It was enchantment itself.

But Rincewind always thought it looked a sort of greenish-purple.”

Pratchett held that imagination, not intelligence, is the hallmark of humanity. Imagination, therefore, is what gives the world meaning. As Death says in Hogfather, in a universe full of wonders, only creatures as imaginative as humans could have invented boredom. One might add that only a creature as cynical as Rincewind could reduce the color of imagination to a mere greenish-purple.

“Consider. One day Great A’Tuin may encounter another member of the species chelys galactica, somewhere in the vast night in which we move. Will they fight? Will they mate? A little imagination will show you that the sex of Great A’Tuin could be very important to us. At least, so the Krullians say.”

The Lady—a goddess who, through the novel, plays a game against Fate which uses Rincewind and Twoflower as playing pieces—explains why the Krullians are so intent on discovering Great A’Tuin’s sex. Here, Pratchett reflects on the Roundworld pursuit of the understanding of our own universe: where we came from, what else is around us, and what our future may hold. He also suggests, through the Lady’s commentary, that studying those traditions from which Great A’Tuin is inspired with scientific intent may diminish the beauty of the imaginations from which they originated.

This is not to say that scientific inquiry is bad. Pratchett is merely showcasing what the tangled web of science, religion, and imagination might look like in such a fantastical world as the Disc; it is up to the reader to decide what this situation may reflect in the real world.

“‘We don’t have gods where I come from,’ said Twoflower.

‘You do, you know,’ said the Lady. ‘Everyone has gods. You just don’t think they’re gods.’

Pratchett often plays with the ideas of religion and the relationship between imagination, belief, and reality. Gods wax and wane and change their nature according to the amount of belief bestowed on them. Pratchett never goes into detail about the “gods” of the Agatean Empire. However, they might very well have an unrecognized God of echo-gnomics.

“‘Sometimes I think a man could wander across the Disc all his life and not see everything there is to see,’ said Twoflower. ‘And now it seems there are lots of other worlds as well. When I think I might die without seeing a hundredth of all there is to see it makes me feel,’ he paused, then added, ‘well, humble, I suppose. And very angry, of course.’”

Twoflower’s hunger to see everything in the universe is one expression of imagination. He is able to imagine that wonders exist which he has not yet seen, and his desire to see them translates into frustration because he knows his ability to adventure is limited. Rincewind’s lack of interest in seeing the universe, in turn, stems from too much ability to imagine everything that might possibly go wrong with the endeavor. Twoflower is noticeably impaired in that arena.

“‘We know all about you, Rincewind the magician. You are a man of great cunning and artifice. You laugh in the face of Death. Your affected air of craven cowardice does not fool me.’

It fooled Rincewind. ‘I—’ he began, and paled as the nothingness-stick was turned towards him. ‘I see you know all about me,’ he finished weakly, and sat down heavily on the slippery surface.”

The irony here is obvious. The quotation relates to the theme of self-interest and the nature of the picaresque protagonist. Rincewind has managed to skate through his adventures on sheer luck after being forced to go along with Twoflower. Being a social outsider, people misread him according to their own understanding and expectations. Later, Marchesa adds that the magicians of Krull know that Rincewind can’t actually perform any magic, but “anyone who survives all that he has survived—most of which was brought on himself by his tendency to think of himself as a wizard—well, he must be some kind of a magician” (207).

“‘You amuse me,’ said the Lady. ‘I have a sentimental streak. You’d know that, if you were gamblers. So for a little while I rode in a frog’s mind and you kindly rescued me, for, as we all know, no one likes to see pathetic and helpless creatures swept to their death.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rincewind.”

By pathetic creatures, the Lady is, of course, referring to the frog, but Rincewind interprets her comment to apply to himself as well. The Lady sees something in him that he does not recognize in himself. There is in him a core of human decency usually smothered under cowardice and self-interest. The frog is also a fairytale trope: The protagonist helps a creature in need and is rewarded for his or her altruism by assistance in his or her quest.