The Colour Of Magic, Terry Pratchett

Back in the before times, before the Pandemic, when people still entered bookshops without the accoutrements of protection against aerosolised nastiness, I chanced upon a beautiful hardback version of the novel which kicked off the Discworld Cycle. The joyful use of language therein was an element to this which had been forgotten in this mind further down the gravity well carved by entropy. Re-reading the passages contained, worked like a spell, which saw a return to a younger self, able to retread the boards of the quay at Ankh-Morpork as Twoflower began his holiday, in the city within which all human life was, even if only so briefly if it chose the wrong street to walk down.

The pocket sized hardback, a simple premise contained; amongst the usual denizens of a high fantasy realm, a moneyed tourist travels. This concept allowed for the construction of a travelogue which took in the sweep of the reality which Pratchett had wrought. Rather than dirgy fantasy, this then, included comedy and commentary, with elements of slapstick merged through the sublime Luggage, unkillable, implacable, a juggernaut, and made of more magical Sapient Pearwood than Rincewind the Wizard thought existed in the entirety of the city.

Sir Terry Pratchett wrote over 40 books in the cycle, and there are links to the Colour of Magic and all his extraordinary output there.