The eleventh book in the Discworld series. In this one, Death is removed from his duties and made mortal by the auditors for developing a personality. I think this is the first appearance of the auditors, literally faceless bureaucrats of the universe. This is also the story that introduces the Death of Rats, since living creatures start creating new mythological beings to replace the missing Death.
Death takes on the name Bill Door, and becomes a farmhand helping out Mrs. Flitworth. As he is no longer fulfilling his duties, people are no longer dying, which leads to the other main story thread of the oldest wizard Windle Poons becoming a zombie and trying to die properly. Windle Poons meets the Fresh Start Club, a meetup group of unalive people run by a zombie called Reg Shoe. I think he joins the City Watch in a later book.
During the Windle Poons storyline people keep discovering snow globes, which are spread across the city by people picking them up. After this, they develop into shopping trolleys, and then later there is a shopping mall blaring out muzak, which attracts all the living people and enthrals them. These are described as parts of a life form like ants that are competing with the city of Ankh-Morpork.
In the Death storyline, there is a plot point contrasting someone building a “Combination Harvester” which cuts the crops in large swathes, to Death, who goes one by one. I think this is what ties the storylines together, the romance of mythology and communal beliefs, and their importance to individuals. Which leads to the beautiful quote by Death near the end:
LORD, WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR, IF NOT FOR THE CARE OF THE REAPER MAN?
As always, it’s very funny and silly but with lots of interesting insights about humanity and things to think about.
“Huh! Priests!” said Mr. Shoe. “They’re all the same. Always telling you that you’re going to live again after you’re dead, but you just try it and see the look on their faces!”
Picture a tall, dark figure, surrounded by cornfields…
NO, YOU CAN’T RIDE A CAT. WHO EVER HEARD OF THE DEATH OF RATS RIDING A CAT? THE DEATH OF RATS WOULD RIDE SOME KIND OF DOG.
Picture more fields, a great horizon-spanning network of fields, rolling in gentle waves…
DON’T ASK ME I DON’T KNOW. SOME KIND OF TERRIER, MAYBE.
…fields of corn, alive, whispering in the breeze…
RIGHT, AND THE DEATH OF FLEAS CAN RIDE IT TOO. THAT WAY YOU KILL TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE.
…awaiting the clockwork of the seasons.
METAPHORICALLY.
Ridcully was simple-minded. This doesn’t mean stupid. It just means that he could only think properly about things if he cut away all the complicated bits around the edges.
In the Ramtop village where they dance the real Morris dance, for example, they believe that no one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away—until the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life, they say, is only the core of their actual existence.
There was never anything to be gained from observing what humans said to one another—language was just there to hide their thoughts.
YOU ARE AS OLD AS YOU THINK YOU ARE.
“Huh! Yeah? Really? That’s the kind of stupid thing people always say. They always say, My word, you’re looking well. They say, There’s life in the old dog yet. Many a good tune played on an old fiddle. That kind of stuff. It’s all stupid. As if being old was some kind of thing you should be glad about! As if being philosophical about it will earn you marks! My head knows how to think young, but my knees aren’t that good at it. Or my back. Or my teeth. Try telling my knees they’re as old as they think and see what good it does you. Or them.
I’VE NEVER BEEN VERY SURE ABOUT WHAT IS RIGHT, said Bill Door. I AM NOT SURE THERE IS SUCH A THING AS RIGHT. OR WRONG. JUST PLACES TO STAND.