Fantasy Art and Studies 8: Tribute to Terry Pratchett / Fantasy humoristique

EDITO

Sir Terry Pratchett a quitté ce monde en 2015, à l’âge de 66 ans. Il laisse derrière lui une vaste bibliographie, dont sa fameuse série Les Annales du Disque-monde qui a élevé la Fantasy humoristique au rang d’art. En tant que telles, les œuvres de Pratchett font partie des meilleures œuvres de Fantasy de la fin du XXe siècle et du début du XXIe. Sans surprise, elles ont imprimé leur marque sur la Fantasy actuelle, invitant auteurs et lecteurs à tourner en dérision les codes de la Big Commercial Fantasy tout en démontrant que la Fantasy peut être un miroir déformant de notre monde. Les univers et les personnages de Fantasy de Pratchett mettent en évidence les travers de la société occidentale, ses contradictions et les problèmes auxquels le monde moderne est confronté.

Les auteurs et les chercheurs de ce numéro hommage, introduit par un poème signé par l’actuelle récipiendaire de la bourse Sir Terry Pratchett Memorial, reconnaissent l’influence et l’originalité de la fiction de Pratchett, à travers 8 nouvelles par de nouvelles voix de la Fantasy française, qui rivalisent pour offrir d’excellents exemples de Fantasy humoristique aux personnages hauts en couleur, et 4 articles analysant les œuvres de Pratchett et ses adaptations. Les personnages de Catherine Loiseau regrettent le bon vieux temps où héros et vilains faisaient leur boulot correctement, dans un récit en accord avec l’humour de Pratchett. Caroline Duvezin-Caubet examine le recours aux notes de bas de page dans Les Annales du Disque-monde, soulignant que la vision et les idées politiques de Pratchett ne sont pas si progressistes. Dans la nouvelle d’Eric Morlevat, qui contient des notes de bas de page, un troll se révèle plus sage que les humains. François Bienvenu nous entraîne dans un monde régi par des magiciens pas si sages. Nicolas Auvray, pour sa part, s’intéresse à l’influence des règles algébriques sur le fonctionnement de la magie chez Pratchett, montrant que l’humour de Pratchett est souvent basé sur des théories scientifiques réelles. Par contraste, la nouvelle de Charlotte Efe fait appel à un humour pince-sans-rire basé sur la science des statistiques, tandis que Jordi Vila Cornellas nous emmène en Bretagne où des mages sont en compétition pour le poste d’archimage.

Au-delà de la magie et de l’humour, la fiction de Pratchett a aussi des liens avec le théâtre. C’est pourquoi Catherine Magalhaes et Maria Arvaniti examinent les adaptations théâtrales du Disque-monde.

Puis, Gabriel Féraud imagine un Seigneur Ténébreux confronté à une révolution sociale au moment même où ses troupes s’apprêtent à submerger le monde. Les personnages de Paul Vialart doivent assurément beaucoup aux membres du Guet d’Ankh-Morpork. Et Morgane, l’intrépide héroïne de Jonathan Jubin, est un bel exemple de femme forte et intelligente entourée par des pirates plus bêtes que méchants.

Enfin nous terminons ce numéro avec un entretien avec Patrick Couton, le talentueux traducteur français du Disque-monde, et le nouveau chapitre de la BD de Guillaume Labrude.

Bonne lecture !

Sir Terry Pratchett left this world in 2015, at the age of 66. He left behind a vast set of Fantasy works, including his widely acclaimed Discworld Series which has raised Light Fantasy to the level of art. As such, Pratchett’s works must be considered as some of the finest Fantasy works of the late 20th century and the early decades of the 21st century. Unsurprisingly, they have made their mark on current Fantasy fiction, inviting authors and readers alike to look at the codes of Big Commercial Fantasy with a humorous glance while demonstrating the potential of Fantasy to act as a distorting mirror of our world. Pratchett’s Fantasy settings and characters emphasize the foibles of Western society, its contradictions and the issues faced by the modern world.

The authors and scholars of this tribute issue, introduced by a poem by the current recipient of the Sir Terry Pratchett Memorial scholarship, acknowledge the influence and the originality of Pratchett’s fiction, with 8 short stories by new voices of French Fantasy, who compete to offer amazing examples of Light Fantasy full of colourful characters, and 4 papers analysing Pratchett’s works and adaptations. Catherine Loiseau’s protagonists mourn the good old time when heroes and villains did their job properly, in a story in line with Pratchett’s humour. Caroline Duvezin-Caubet examines the use of footnotes in the Discworld Series, observing that Pratchett’s vision and political ideas may not be that progressive. In Eric Morlevat’s story, which makes use of footnotes, a troll happens to be wiser than human beings. François Bienvenu introduces us to a place run by wizards who are not so wise. Nicolas Auvray, for his part, considers the influence of algebraic rules on the way magic works in Pratchett’s fiction, showing that Pratchett’s humour is often based on actual scientific theories. In contrast, Charlotte Efe’s narrative relies on a dry humour based on the science of statistics, whereas Jordi Vila Cornellas takes us to Brittany where three wizards compete for the archmage position.

Beyond the presence of magic and humour, Pratchett’s fiction also has links with theatre. Hence Catherine Magalhaes and Maria Arvaniti both examine the stage adaptations of the Discworld novels.

In turn, Gabriel Féraud imagines a Dark Lord faced with a social revolution at the very moment when his forces are about to submerge the world. Paul Vialart’s characters definitely owe to Pratchett’s Ankh-Morpork City Watch. And Morgane, the intrepid heroine of Jonathan Jubin’s story, stands as an example of a strong and clever woman surrounded by more stupid than dangerous pirates.

Finally we close this tribute issue with an interview with Patrick Couton, the gifted French translator of the Discworld, and a new chapter of Guillaume Labrude’s comics.

Enjoy!

Viviane Bergue

Sommaire

MIND HOW YOU GO

LE BON VIEUX TEMPS

FEET OF CLAY: FOOTNOTES AND AUTHORITY IN TERRY PRATCHETT’S DISCWORLD SERIES

À QUI, CE COIN DE PARADIS ?

HUBRIS OU LA COLÈRE DES MAGICIENS

SYMÉTRIES ET OPPOSITIONS LOUFOQUES DANS LES ANNALES DU DISQUE-MONDE

NOTE ELFIQUE N°537498 – PRÉSENCE IMPROMPTUE D’UN DRAGON

LE ZUGZWANG DE L’ARCHIMAGE

« LE DISQUE ENTYER N’EST QU’UN THÉÂSTRE1 »

HOLDING A WOSSNAME UP TO FANTASY: STAGING TERRY PRATCHETT’S WYRD SISTERS

LES ROIS NOUS SAOULAIENT DE FUMÉE

ENQUÊTE DE SENS

LA CHASSE AU TRÉSOR : ENSEIGNEMENTS ET FORTUNES DIVERSES

ENTRETIEN AVEC PATRICK COUTON

PROCHAIN NUMÉRO PROCHAIN NUMÉRO FABULEUX

POÈME

MIND HOW YOU GO

Freyja Stokes

Freyja Stokes was born in 1985, around 2 years after the publication of the first Discworld novel. Her lifelong love of Fantasy in general and the Discworld in particular has given her a permanently warped sense of humour, and also led to her becoming an early-career researcher at the University of South Australia where she is currently the Sir Terry Pratchett Memorial Scholar. Her research focuses on the Discworld as a framework for vernacular theory.

Freyja Stokes est née en 1985, environ 2 ans après la publication du premier roman du Disque-monde. Sa passion impérissable pour la Fantasy en général et le Disque-monde en particulier lui a donné un sens de l’humour tordu permanent, et l’a aussi conduite à entamer une carrière de chercheuse à l’Université d’Australie-Méridionale où elle est l’actuelle récipiendaire de la bourse Sir Terry Pratchett Memorial. Ses recherches sont centrées sur le Disque-comme cadre théorique vernaculaire.

The Internet has shared this image around, emblazoned with the words we are the grand-daughters of the witches you could not burn and … I like it. It has a neatness to it, it is accessible: a piece of portable rebellion I can fit in my pocket. Hell, it could even be true.

Maybe.

Probably not. But it does make a good story. And any witch worth her salt knows all about the power in stories. Stories are the intersection of patterns, and choices, and if you can learn to grasp them just right, stories can be steered.

So, I choose. Here and now, I choose to make myself the witch.

I am finally growing into my rage.

Hold me under the water and I will grow gills, will breathe deep so I can spit salt-water back in your face. I will not drown my voice for you.

Pile the kindling at my feet, I will strike the match myself and laugh as your crocodile tears and wrung hands blister from the heat. You will feel the force of my fire, my fury, and you will know fear. I will not char my skin for you.

I will pile the stones on my own chest. My heart has carried heavier burdens, has been crushed before. I will weave the winds to reinflate my monde ribs, call down lightning to jump-start the beating - my beating heart is a battle-cry and it will not be extinguished.

I am growing into my rage.

You taught me to fear the beast, the wolf, the woods. You told me to put my faith in the woodsman and never question why the first answer was always the axe, something that could be stitched up neatly with a moral and a monster, but I choose compassion.

I choose the kind of kindness that knows the difference between want and need, I choose to care enough to ask questions, to ask why you cast them as the monster in the first place.

I choose the kind of compassion that can be ugly, that can leave open wounds, but will always do first what needs to be done and damn the cost. I will balance on the knife’s edge and make those choices that need to be made. That is part of the job. I can stitch myself back together again when I am done.

I will walk through the woods, fearless, because I know that I am the scariest thing in here. And I will open my arms to my familiars, seek out a place for them where you cannot touch them with your cruelty ever again - you will have to go through me first, and I am learning how to make myself immovable. I am learning that coven is just another word for family, that family is the strength to say enough is enough.

So, enough.

Enough of keep calm, of be patient, stay civil, of play nice and bite your tongue. Enough of smile for me sweetheart when you don’t even know my fucking name. My name is a talisman. My heart is not sweet, and it is not yours for consumption.

Midnight has been hanging in my closet gathering dust for too long, but it was always there. I carried it from place to place, never intending to need it.

But now, at long last, I am growing into my rage.

I will take up the cloak and the hat, I will weave the stars into them and fasten them in place with the moon, and if it makes you feel better, well, you can call me bitch, call me crone, cunt, slut, hag, whore, whatever epithet you think will bandage back together your beliefs. Whatever lets you believe I am the boogie-man, whatever you think will banish your uncertainties.

I am not here to convince you to like me. I have work to do.

Call me witch. A witch’s job, after all, is to come when called. Our job is to see first what is actually there, and I want you to know that we see through your bullshit. But we both know what scares you most is that we see you for what you are.

Call me too big for my boots. Well, all that tells me is I need bigger fucking boots. These boots were made for digging in, for growing roots and refusing to take even one step backwards, refusing to yield ever again. We are witches, and we are growing into our rage, and we will not wither. Given time even grass roots can crack concrete.

We are growing things.

This is not your garden anymore and you are trespassing here.

You thought you planted weakness, but even flowers can kill you if you handle them without respect. You thought you planted control, but we are the fairy-tale woods, we are a forest, and a jungle, and wild things live here. We have flourished here in spite of you, and our roots run deep enough to hold us together.

And when the days grow long, and cold, we will pass down midnight, the hat, the cloak, the night sky, to our children, to our children’s children. They will inherit our world, our stories, not yours.

And we will tell them that midnight is their legacy, we will teach them how to draw down the winds and call up the seas, and how to care for growing things.

We choose this. We have chosen this. We have made ourselves the witches. We know all about the power in stories and we can make it true.

In time, our grandchildren will tell stories of witches, and of how we refused to be burned.

An Explanation (or "I can’t

be having with this")

Discworld fans will probably recognise a few pieces of imagery and turns of phrase in the poem above. That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t really explain why it matters beyond being a nod to a much-beloved author. To really explain how this poem relates to the work of Terry Pratchett, I first need to talk a little bit about the context in which it was written, so that means a quick tour of my childhood, my relationship to the Discworld, and to the Discworld’s witches.

I grew up surrounded by fantasy and science fiction, fairy tales, and most importantly, a lot of books that I had ready access to. I don’t recall when I first encountered the Discworld. It was, I think, somewhat before I picked up Pierce and probably after I had moved on from Dahl, but by the time I actually remember reading about Rincewind’s escapades I already knew the story. Of course, that could well be an artefact of how the Discworld itself is built out of culturally entrenched stories and folklore.

As a young and, by definition, foolish child I didn’t understand that you are not supposed to take stories seriously, or that fantasy wasn’t real literature. So, being the sort of child I was, and with the helpful indulgence of a parent who was happy to share their own love of escapist and genre fiction with me I devoured everything I could get my hands on (to the consternation of several of my teachers) and then proceeded to think about it very carefully¹. As I grew up, I developed my sense of self, ideas about morality and justice and ethics, my understanding of the world at large, and the larger world in my own head, out of what I was learning. And a lot of what I was learning came from fiction. I could, in fiction, find and experiment with ideas and philosophies I couldn’t find anywhere else, and if I didn’t quite know what to do with an idea, I’d usually tuck it away to come back to later.

The Discworld has remained something I have come back to over and over again, and I still seem to get something different out of it every time. Lately I have been finding myself drawn to the witches, and to what they have to tell me about anger and choices. I think I can remember reading Equal Rites for the first time, though I’m not quite sure when that was. I’d like to say that it struck some chord within me, but mostly I was missing the series of (humorously) unfortunate events in the Rincewind books. It wasn’t until Wyrd Sisters that I really started paying much attention to the witches, and even that probably had more to do with the animated movie. Even so, Pratchett’s witches were a well-placed elbow in the direction that my perception of witches as characters and tropes in fiction developed.

Anger has been on my mind a lot in the last couple of years. There has been a lot for me to be angry about. But it was hard to shake the feeling that being observably angry was, somehow, wrong. As though no point would be taken seriously if not stated in it a soothing voice and from an artificially detached point of view. It’s a strange exercise to reconstruct what something meant to your younger self; the contemporary you has a tendency to creep in and re-arrange the mental furniture, so to speak. Looking back, I think that the witches of Lancre were my first encounter with the idea that anger is not something to be overcome or denied or resisted. Anger wasn’t an evil. It didn’t have to exist to the exclusion of empathy or compassion. It could be the appropriate response to a situation. And, importantly, under the right circumstances it could be useful. It has taken me a long time to wrap my head around that.

Like a lot of children, especially those who are raised as girls, I had grown up with the idea that strong displays of any² emotion was inappropriate, embarrassing, and (worst of all) attention-seeking. Girls in particular are supposed to be nice, to be passive and self-effacing. We are supposed to want everyone to like us. Here I was as an