An immensely readable survey of the great man's life and works, striking a good balance between revisiting old favourites and supplying new information (or new to me, at any rate, as someone who's a big fan but has never really engaged with fandom per se). Burrows has the sense to know that, while you can't necessarily write a 'comic biography' as such (not least because they all end the same way, and this one sadder than some – I still cry at those last tweets), a life of Terry Pratchett without jokes of its own would never do. And yes, some of the best ones are in the footnotes. I was particularly fond of the information that when Pratchett was a child, his mum named the family tortoise Phidippides after the runner of the original marathon: "Terry was raised with a working definition of irony plodding slowly around the back garden eating lettuce." But for all that, and the "summer's day that never ended" aspects of a childhood which would go on to inspire some of the loveliest bits of Good Omens, you also have the sort of brutal and dismissive schooling to which our glorious leaders would doubtless love to return, where "a boy was beaten so hard with his own T-square it actually broke, and he was forced to stay behind for several evenings to make a new one". Where a doctor's note excusing boys from games would see them shovelling coal in the boiler room instead, and where a headteacher would quite happily rely on his instincts to sort boys aged 6 or 7 into 'sheep' and 'goats' – terms he'd use in front of them, unabashed. Pratchett, thanks to the unstinting support of his family, being the only child in his year to confound the predictions by passing the 11+, and then go on to confound them even more thoroughly over the next half-century.
The basic outlines of the story from there are familiar, but Burrows has done a great job of filling it out, and also of pointing out the holes. He acknowledges from the off that Pratchett was prone to polishing his anecdotes, and has put a great deal of work into cross-referencing them with the available facts, noting where they don't seem to stand up in their best-known form, but doing so without it feeling the least bit mean. After all, it's understandable why Pratchett would do this; we all do to some extent, even those of us who aren't storytellers on anything like the same level. And it's not as if Pratchett was one of those writers with a hugely dramatic life, all affairs and addictions; he married young, stayed faithful, had a series of pre-success jobs where he'd always do his best to be at a desk, and only very occasionally end up having to deal with a dead body or radioactive swan. Then, after ticking along as a fairly minor author for a handful of books, Nigel Hawthorne read one on Radio 4 and Pratchett quietly became the country's bestselling writer. One of the most interesting strands of the book is Pratchett as an early example of the now widespread phenomenon where stuff is still treated as cult and infra dig even once it's demonstrably the mainstream and also dead good, the bookshops who still wouldn't shelve him with the 'proper' bestsellers he outsold, the articles which insisted there was still a stigma attached to reading him and in doing so perpetuated it. Pratchett all the while trying not to bite, yet often not entirely succeeding because as many who knew him note, he didn't suffer fools, and that sort of snobbish short-sightedness is a very British type of foolishness, close kin to the other failings he'd skewer in his work.
It's the work that's at the heart of this, obviously. How "Discovering The Lord of the Rings, like discovering extreme music, religious fundamentalism and sex" will always hit hardest in your teens, but how Pratchett would then pick at the genre's conventions in different ways right from his earliest attempt at a long piece, the much-revised Carpet People. Gradually realising "how desperately battles and kings should be avoided", coming up with moral taxonomies that authors far more 'literary' could never hope to match, like the immortal passage about treating people as things. Burrows laments not having more space to address all the books, and if few are likely to regret the relegation of The Unadulterated Cat to a footnote, I was surprised there wasn't more on Jingo, surely a key text in this. Or that, when talking about the very specific and partial softening of some of Pratchett's views on religion, there's no mention of the parallel with one of the bits I always found most impressive in the whole of Pratchett's work, where in Carpe Jugulum Granny Weatherwax questions the reformed Omnian and one of the series' moral centres points out the downside of one of its most agenda-led earlier books, the broadside against fundamentalism in Small Gods, and it feels like a valid continuation of an intellectual inquiry rather than the horrible late Wordsworth flatulence which normally results when an ageing writer gets gentler about religion. Still, for all the limits of space, there is plenty on most of the books, their themes and techniques as much as the surface stuff that first grabbed us, and if I don't agree with all of it (I'm a much bigger fan of Sourcery, for one thing) I can nevertheless see it's all solid analysis.
No writer works in isolation, of course, and Burrows also examines the ecosystem Pratchett came out of, as well as the ones which would grow up around him. There's the influence of the local bookshop selling import SF to cover for their main trade in porn - an ecological niche which survived at least into the noughties, somehow. There's the love of local hero GK Chesterton, who'd prove an important point on which Pratchett would bond with the first person ever to interview him, a young jobbing journalist called Neil Gaiman – who at that point was the one wearing the hat (though there are a surprising number of pictures of a bare-headed Terry Pratchett in here, it must be said). Without whom Pratchett might have stuck with his original plan to put Discworld on the back burner after Equal Rites and get started on what was eventually to become The Long Earth, had Gaiman not said he'd love to read a book about Death... There's the whole side-story of Josh Kirby, whose lively art was such a part in conveying the spirit of early Discworld, for all that it was frequently completely inaccurate in its details, to the extent that Pratchett's bizarre German publisher would basically slap any Josh Kirby picture on any Pratchett book, but who turns out to have also worked in lots of other styles earlier in his career – who knew? It's in the more peripheral stuff that such few errors as I noticed tend to creep in, though they're generally fairly minor ones of emphasis, like using 'sword and sorcery' as a catch-all for fantasy after describing a bunch of high fantasy the young Terry had been reading, or the make-up of a typical issue of Analog. Beyond that I could only point to a few repetitions and homophones, and those classic subbing bugbears 'Revelations' and 'Meatloaf', and hopefully in the interval between my reading the Netgalley ARC and the finished edition coming out, those will have been fixed. And set against those, so many gems, from the Serbian literary empire founded on one fan's desire to get Pratchett translated, to the Pratchett-specific craft terms 'sherbet lemons' and 'cigarettes'. There's the meeting between Terry Pratchett and Roald Dahl when neither was yet a bestselling novelist, to the extent that Pratchett introduces Dahl to readers as "the husband of Oscar-winning actress Patricia Neal". There's the realisation that most people who've read Reaper Man will have read the paperback, and so not got the benefit of its best typographical trick, which apparently was fouled up there. There's Pratchett's 1996 interview with Bill Gates about the future of the Internet, where Gates is the naive optimist and Pratchett, far too familiar with human nature, foresees the present hell of fake news. Above all there's the reminder of just how good Pratchett was, and how missed he is. Maybe it was him going in 2015, not Bowie the next year, that marked our crash into the wrong trouser-leg of time?
(Disclaimer: I do know the author a bit, and his other half better. But I could definitely have got away socially with enthusing less than this if it weren't a dead good read)