Reaper Man: The demise of Death

Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett

Reading Reaper Man in light of Terry Pratchett’s recent passing was particularly poignant. It is a book all about death, both figuratively and literally speaking. DISCWORLD fans will be familiar with the character of Death, who this book is largely about. Then, of course, there are the blustering wizards of the Unseen University in Ankh-Morpork, but that is not to say that readers new to the Discworld can’t pick this up as a stand-alone novel. So, what happens when Death is sacked? Utter chaos, apparently…

The mystical forces of the universe (who very specifically have no personalities or individual qualities to them) are not happy. Death has become too much of a character (a he, not an it) and it is simply not proper for the impersonal forces of the universe to have a personality. So Death is out of the job. He is given his own hourglass in which time is (rapidly) running out. Having never actually lived before now, Death goes off to enjoy the experience.

Meanwhile, elderly wizard Windle Poons has died —  except that without Death, he can’t move on, so has no choice but to return to his body. Thus Windle Poons, unlike Death, has more time on his hands than he’s ever had before. He happily goes along with the other wizards’ suggestion of burying him alive and staking him through the heart (though when the other wizards forget to bring the actual stake, they have to make do with a stick of celery).

The juxtaposition between these two storylines in Reaper Man is completely absorbing. Death’s time is finite, Windle Poons’ infinite, but both learn lessons they could never have imagined. Windle Poons is noticing the world for what feels like the first time, and everyone in it. He is paying attention. He is living like he never did when he was actually alive.

Death, on the other hand, is running out of time and as a result becoming more and more human. He is living under the alias of Bill Door at the farmhouse of Miss Flitworth, an old widower, and putting his scythe to the more traditional use of reaping the harvest. He has dreams and experiences sarcasm, friendship and fear.

And so chaos unfolds. Without Death to lead spirits away, there is an excess of life on the Discworld. Snow globes begin to pop up out of nowhere and transform into sentient shopping trolleys with a tendency toward evil. Sound nuts? It is, really. And that is one of the few pitfalls of the book: the plot has a slight tendency to drift. Yet Pratchett has a wicked eye for the absurd, and while traditionalist readers will be poking holes in the storyline, other will get on board the romp through the chaos.

Structure or no, the story zips along with flair, and one thing cannot be denied: Pratchett does write excellent sentences. Full of puns, parody and witticisms, Pratchett’s prose sure does pack a punch. The dialogue fizzes with humour and wit at a pace that will leave readers breathless.

The storyline of Death (a.k.a. Bill Door) and Miss Flitworth is truly moving, but most poignant perhaps are the lessons we can learn about life in this book. “No-one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away,” Pratchett writes. “The span of someone’s life, they say, is only the core of their actual existence.” Those words are especially true of Pratchett’s own legacy. Discworld is alive and kicking and will continue to be so for years to come.