There was a time when I was an avid reader Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels, but no longer. It could be that I’m getting older and more discerning, but while there is plenty of evidence for the former, there is very little for the latter. Whatever the cause, I no longer buy the latest Pratchett as soon as it is released in paperback and I just happened to pick up Snuff: (Discworld Novel 39) while I was perusing the shelves of our local library.
Snuff is typical of the later Discworld books in that it lacks the joyous anarchy and playfulness that used to typify the series and at times it becomes rather preachy. It isn’t a bad book. The story is entertaining enough and serves well enough as bed time reading. However, it has nothing of the profundity of the opening chapter of Reaper Man or the sheer lunacy of Soul Music.
At his best, Terry Pratchett is a comic genius; I still return to read the earlier Discworld novels from time to time. I don’t suppose I’ll ever bother to pick up Snuff again.