The Colour of Magic

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If I had a penny for every time someone asked me where I got the idea of the Discworld, I’d have—hang on a moment—£4.67.

Anyway, the answer is that it was lying around and didn’t look as though it belonged to anyone.

The world rides through space on the back of a turtle. It’s one of the great ancient myths, found wherever men and turtles were gathered together; the four elephants were an Indo-European sophistication. The idea has been lying in the lumber rooms of legend for centuries. All I had to do was grab it and run away before the alarms went off.

Since this is a reprint by popular demand—gosh—of the first book in a series that will, eventually, contain at least ten, there’s a very good chance that you already know what happens after this book, which is more than I did when I wrote it.

The Discworld is not a coherent fantasy world. Its geography is fuzzy, its chronology unreliable. A small travelling circle of firelight in a chilly infinity has turned out to be the home of defiant jokes and last chances.

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