Why I hate the Witch books.
I’m not trying to upset anybody, or make anybody mad. I love Pratchett, I really do. His sense of humor, his characters, his world, his wring. Mostly. Theres just one part of his writing that makes me more angry than words.
I hate the Witch books. I can hardly get through them. Every time I’ve read one I’ve gotten angry, and stopped reading, and even thrown them, or cried. They’re well, written, and meaningful, but I hate them, and I hate everything they stand for.
The witch books, in my opinion, are anti-story. They take everything that is beautiful and enchanting and good about stories and says no, this is a lie. Not only does it insult stories, but it attempts to grind them up, and kill them.
My boyfriend calls me a Magrat, a wet hen (he’s read Pratchett too, obviously, and oddly the witch books are his favorite) maybe I am. I cried when she had to cut up the dress in Witches Abroad. Agnes’ story in Maskerade makes me angry. How dare it be Christine, how dare Agnes not get what was hers by right of narritive? I could barely read Carpe Jugulum for the mockery it made of the vampire mythos. And I just finished reading Wee Free Men.
There’s only one word I can use to describe the Witch books and their philosophy: bleak.
I was raised by stories, I love stories, and I believe in their power. So, when I read Pratchett, through Granny Weatherwax and now through Tiffany abusing stories in the way they do, flaying them and stripping them of all their value. It hurts me, it cuts me deeply, it wounds my very soul.
Because stories do have power, to inspire, ignite passion, give hope, to give color and form to a bleak and meaningless world. I see that power, and I use it, and it bears me up, every day of my life.
And it’s a power Granny Weatherwax will never have.
-Mordax, who is a blue pill
Illegitimis nil carborundum