
Did Terry Pratchett really write classics?
The news that Terry Pratchett's 2002 novel Night Watch has joined the ranks of the Penguin Modern Classics series may seem, to the Pratchett uninitiated, something of an eyebrow-raiser. Penguin has proudly announced that the book 'which draws on inspirations as far ranging as Victor Hugo and M*A*S*H, is… a profoundly empathetic novel about community, connection and the tenacity of the human spirit' and that it was 'written at the height of Pratchett's imaginative powers'. All this may very well be true. But many people, even those millions well disposed towards Pratchett, might be asking another question: why this book, and why now?
During his lifetime, Pratchett built on the legacy of another great British fantastical author, Douglas Adams, by creating his own universe, Discworld, in which many of his books are set. They have sold over 80 million copies, and even Pratchett's death in 2015 has done little to stem the enthusiasm. At one point, he was the most shoplifted author in Britain, so desperate were his teenaged admirers to get their hands on his stories. And his books have mostly remained books rather than being transformed into big-budget Hollywood spectacles. Pratchett once said that a film studio was interested but he was told to 'lose the Death angle', which would be tricky, given that Death is a major recurring character throughout the series.
I've always enjoyed the Pratchett books and consider him one of the more amiable and less self-consciously literary knighted authors that Britain has produced. The writer Imogen West-Knights summed up Pratchett's admirers as she searched for a description of a certain kind of Briton:
English, Terry Pratchett fan, sardonic humour, left wing-ish, leather jackets, maybe long hair, maybe folk music, Bill Bailey, real ale, usually middle age+. Warhammer adjacent. Likes swords but doesn't necessarily own one?
If I have any disagreement with his elevation to the ranks of the Penguin Modern Classics, then, it is less to do with Pratchett's own writing and more a sense of uncertainty as to what defines a modern classic. There is no stated definition on Penguin's website, and when I interviewed Henry Eliot, the former creative editor of Penguin Classics, a few years ago, he told me that: 'The Modern Classics series gathers the greatest books of more recent times, books that have challenged convention, changed the world or created something new. They are books that speak powerfully to the moment – and time will tell if they speak for more than that.'
I would argue that Night Watch, although a book loved by Pratchett's many fans, is hardly something that 'challenges convention' or has 'changed the world'. Pratchett created something new in his Discworld series, and the love that his admirers hold for his works is testament to their enduring success. Personally I was surprised that Penguin didn't opt to publish 1987's Mort, the first Discworld novel to feature Death and the one usually regarded as Pratchett's single greatest achievement, or simply to come out with the entire series of Discworld books in one go.
Pratchett was always a self-effacing figure and would probably have shrugged at the Classics label
There are many deep-pocketed admirers of the author who would have ordered the entire canon in this new edition, although I can imagine that the effort involved in putting together 40-something painstakingly annotated novels may have been exhausting. This Penguin Classics edition also includes a foreword by Pratchett's PA and biographer Rob Wilkins, and an introduction and annotated notes by two Terry-o-philes, Trinity College Dublin's Dr Darryl Jones and the University of South Australia's Dr David Lloyd.
Despite all that effort in making Night Watch appear to be a classic, even Pratchett would not have claimed that every one of the books was a masterpiece. Yet the nature of Penguin Modern Classics is that when they go all in on an author, they generally have to publish the entire works. Which means, for instance, that Evelyn Waugh's wildly unsuccessful Catholic fantasia Helena must be given the same serious literary treatment as the far more deserving A Handful of Dust.
If Night Watch is successful – and only a fool would think that it won't be – then presumably there will be more Discworld editions over the coming years. Pratchett was always a self-effacing figure and would probably have shrugged at the Classics label (although he was evangelical about the fantasy genre, which he argued was done down by snobbish literary critics).
Yet I can't help thinking that Penguin has done something similar to what the Folio Society has been doing over the past few years, and published a book that they know will cater to a fervent fanbase and sell in considerable quantities thanks to the added material. The question of literary excellence therefore becomes a secondary one. This is understandable – it's fine – but the brand is called Penguin Modern Classics, rather than Penguin Modern Notables. I am unconvinced that this particular instalment in the much-loved series lives up to its grandiose billing it.
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The Independent
an hour ago
- The Independent
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And as the world's elite raise glasses of champagne behind velvet ropes, the locals will be raising something else entirely: placards, voices and a warning from the heart of their ancient, beloved home – that cities like Venice don't belong to the richest man in the world, no matter how sparkly the ring.


New Statesman
an hour ago
- New Statesman
Bruce Springsteen faces the end of America
Photo montage by Gaetan Mariage / Alamy When I met Patti Smith soon after Donald Trump's first victory, she said she'd ended up next to him at various New York dinners over the years, back in the Seventies, when he was pitching Trump Towers. 'We were born in the same year, and I have to look at this person and think: all our hopes and dreams from childhood, going through the Sixties, everything we went through – and that's what came out of our generation. Him.' Smith's sing-song voice was in my head at Anfield Stadium in Liverpool on one of the final nights of Bruce Springsteen's Land of Hope and Dreams tour. Springsteen was born three years after Trump and will also have sat at many New York dinners with him. 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We thank the British people for their support…' Clearly few in the US are speaking out like this on stage, and Trump has responded by calling Springsteen a 'dried-out prune of a rocker (his skin is all atrophied!)' and threatening some kind of mysterious action upon his return. Springsteen, the heartland rocker, was never exactly part of the counter-culture, though he did avoid Vietnam by doing the 'basic Sixties rag', as he put it, and acting crazy in his army induction. Yet he has become a true protest singer in his final act. He wears tweed and a tie these days, partly because he's 75 and partly, you suspect, to convey a moral seriousness. When I last saw him, two years ago, I thought I saw some of Joe Biden's easy energy. Well, Bruce still has his faculties. The feeling is: listen to the old man, he has something to say. Springsteen's late years have been something to behold. At some point in the last decade he stopped dyeing his hair and started to talk in a stylised, reedy, story-book voice. The image of the America he seemed to represent shifted back from Seventies Pittsburgh to Thirties California: the bare-armed steelworker became the Marlboro Man, and in 2019 there was a Cowboy album, Western Skies, with an accompanying film in which he was seen on horseback. His autobiography Born to Run revealed recent battles with depression. And it is depression you see tonight in Liverpool – in the wince, the twisted mouth, the accusing index finger; in his entreaty to Liverpool's fans to 'indulge' his sermon against the American administration, delivered night after night, to scatterings of applause. It is a depression I recognise in older American friends who fear they're going to the grave with everything they knew and loved about their country disappearing. But depression is also the stuff of life, of energy. Springsteen has been particularly angry since the early Noughties, since the second Bush administration, but this is his moment somehow, and his song of greedy bankers – 'Death to My Hometown' – is spat out with new meaning in 2025, an ominous abstraction. The father-to-son speech in 'Long Walk Home' feels different in this politically charged world: 'Your flag flying over the courthouse means certain things are set in stone/Who we are, what we'll do and what we won't'). A furious version of 'Rainmaker' ('Sometimes folks need to believe in something so bad, so bad, they'll hire a rainmaker') is dedicated to 'our dear leader'. As much as I admire Springsteen and seem to have followed him around and written about him for years, the Land of Hope and Dreams tour made me realise I hadn't fully known what he was for. When I saw him in Hyde Park in 2023, the first 200 yards of the crowd were given over to media wankers like me, with the paying fans at the back: every single person I had ever met in London was there, mildly pissed up and whirling about with looks of mutual congratulation. Springsteen had become, to the middle classes and above, a global symbol of right-thinking, summed up by his long stint on Broadway at $800 a ticket. His dull podcast with Barack Obama was the American version of The Rest Is Politics with Rory Stewart and Alastair Campbell: men saying stuff you want them to say, to confirm what you already think about stuff (Obama was in awe of Bruce). Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe Politics was easy for Springsteen when politics consisted of external events happening to innocent people, rather than something taking place on the level of psychology, in a movement of masses towards a demagogue. The job he adopted, back in the Seventies, was to set a particular kind of American life in its political and historical context: to tell people who they were, and why they mattered. His appeal as a rock star always lay less in his words than in how sincerely he embodied them: his extraordinary outward energy, his mirroring of his audience, his apparent concern with others over himself. After 9/11, someone apparently rolled down a window and told him, 'We need you now,' so he wrote his song 'The Rising' from the viewpoint of a doomed New York fireman ascending the tower. A recent BBC documentary revealed he'd donated £20,000 to the Northumberland and Durham Miners Support Group during the strikes of 1984 – rather as he donated ten grand to unemployed steelworkers in Pittsburgh the previous year. His self-made success and songs about freedom were the Republican dream, but when Reagan tapped him up for endorsements it was a right of passage for Springsteen as a Democrat rocker to rebuff them (I'm pretty sure they tried to play 'Born in the USA' at Trump rallies too). He is quoted as saying that the working-class American was facing a spiritual crisis, years ago: 'It's like he has nothing left to tie him into society any more. He's isolated from the government. Isolated from his job. Isolated from his family… to the point where nothing makes sense.' Now, Trump has taken Springsteen's people (the Republicans were doing so long before Trump), and the interior life of the working man that Springsteen made it his job to portray has been exploited by someone else. 'For 50 years, I've been an ambassador for this country and let me tell you that the America I was singing about is real,' he says, possessively, on stage. Springsteen, like Jon Bon Jovi, sees his fans as workers. The distances travelled, the money spent, the babysitters paid for: that's what the three-hour gigs are all about. It is part of the psyche of a certain generation of working-class American musician to consider themselves in a contract with the people who buy their records. It is not a particularly British thing – though time and again I am impressed by the commitment required to see these big shows, especially when so many punters are of an age where they would not longer, say, sleep in a tent: £250 a night for a hotel, no taxis to the stadium, a huge Ticketmaster crash that leaves hundreds of fans outside the venue fiddling with their QR codes while Bruce can be heard inside singing the opening lines of 'My Love Will Not Let You Down'. Yet the relationship between a rock star and his fan is not a co-dependency: the fan is having a night out, but the rock star needs the fan to survive. It is hard to underestimate the psychological shift Springsteen might be undergoing, in seeing the working men and women of America moving to a politics that is repellent to him. He has not played on American soil since Trump's re-election and it is likely that this kind of political commentary there will turn the 'Bruuuuuce' into the boo. A Springsteen tribute act in his native New Jersey was recently cancelled (the band offered to play other songs, and the venue said no). Last week, a young American band told me they won't speak out about the administration on stage because they're not all white and they're afraid of getting deported. It is the job of the powerful to do the protesting, and, like Pope Leo, Springsteen's previous good works will mean nothing if he doesn't call out the big nude emperor now. The Maga crowd will still come to see him, of course, and yell the 'woah' in 'Born to Run' just as loud as everyone else does – perhaps because music is bigger than politics, or perhaps because politics is now bigger than Bruce. Though his political speeches in Liverpool (it's UK 'heartland' only this tour: no London gigs) feel slightly out of step with a city that has its own problems, it seems fair enough for Springsteen to be telling the truth about America to a crowd who's enjoyed their romantic visions of the country via his music for 50 years. But their own personal communion is suspended tonight, and the song 'My City of Ruins' has nothing to do with 9/11 any more: 'Come on… rise up…' In the crowd, a very old man is sitting on someone's shoulders. Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band play Anfield stadium, Liverpool, on 7 June 2025 [See also: Wes Anderson's sense of an ending] Related