Book Review: Feet of Clay, by Terry Pratchett

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Review:

Since Terry Pratchett passed away recently, I’ve decided to post a review of the last book of his I read. To be fair, all his books are great – you really can’t go wrong! The reason his writing is loved around the world is because his stories and world-building are not only creative, but he’s really clever too. His books are easy to pick up and read but he challenges your thinking and perspective of the world. His novels will open your mind!

Feet of Clay is the nineteenth book in the Discworld series, but like all the Discworld novels it can be read as standalone. This entry deals with the curious nature of golems, relics of an ancient civilisation that were built to work and cannot stop working. It also deals with an assassination-esque attempt (you’ll understand what I mean if you read it) on the Patrician who rules the city. Terry Pratchett knows how to make a seriously complicated tale simple for a reader’s consumption. He juggles so many subplots that all come together so amazingly well, it’s impressive to read even if you’re one of the few who can’t like his stories. Why do people feel the need to place their faith in a king? Why are people afraid of something that has never hurt them? Terry Pratchett raises all the important questions societies need to ask themselves, all the while spinning a ripping whodunit yarn (and mocking the genre in the process).

Delightfully tongue-in-cheek, this is one of those rare stories where you are entertained and you learn a thing or two. We’ve lost a great man, and it’s time to read his books!

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Feet of Clay, by Terry Pratchett

Discworld #19

Book Length: 416 pages

Fantasy Satire (Adult Fiction)

According to the Blurb:

‘Sorry?’ said Carrot. ‘If it’s just a thing, how can it commit murder? A sword is a thing’ – he drew his own sword; it made an almost silken sound – ‘and of course you can’t blame a sword if someone thrust it at you, sir.’

For members of the City Watch, life consists of troubling times, linked together by periods of torpid inactivity. Now is one such troubling time. People are being murdered, but there’s no trace of anything alive having been at the crime scene. Is there ever a circumstance in which you can blame the weapon not the murderer? Such philosophical questions are not the usual domain of the city’s police, but they’re going to have to start learning fast…