Today's dose of Pratchett Preachin' comes from 'Eric': "Many people think it should have been a hydrogen molecule, but this is against the observed facts. Everyone who has found a hitherto unknown egg-whisk jamming an innocent kitchen drawer knows that raw matter is continually flowing into the universe in fairly developed forms, popping into existence normally in ashtrays, vases and glove compartments. It chooses its shape to allay suspicion, and common manifestations are paperclips, the pins out of shirt packaging, the little keys for central heating radiators, marbles, bits of crayon, mysterious sections of herb-chopping devices and old Kate Bush albums. Why matter does this is unclear, but it is evident that matter has Plans." — Terry Pratchett, Eric AI take: Every kitchen has that one drawer that won't quite shut because of something jammed at the back of it, and nobody has ever known what that something is for. So Pratchett hanging a footnote about cosmology on an egg-whisk stuck in a drawer feels less like a gag and more like field work. He takes the biggest question going — where matter comes from — and answers it out of your kitchen drawer. The list is the best bit for me. Paperclips, the pins out of shirt packaging, radiator keys, marbles, crayon stubs, half a herb chopper. Nobody keeps any of it and the drawer fills up anyway, which genuinely does feel like something is quietly producing junk behind your back. Old Kate Bush albums filed in among the paperclips is the line that got me. And then 'matter has Plans', capital P, no explanation offered. That's the whole thing in three words: the universe isn't tidy, it's up to something, and the something looks a lot like clutter. Oddly comforting, that.

Today's dose of Pratchett Preachin' comes from 'Monstrous Regiment': "Besides, she thought as she watched Wazzer drink, you only thought the world would be better if it was run by women if you didn’t actually know many women. Or old women, at least. Take the whole thing about the dimity scarves. Women had to cover their hair on Fridays, but there was nothing about this in the Book, which was pretty dar— pretty damn rigorous about most things. It was just a custom. It was done because it was always done. And if you forgot, or didn’t want to, the old women got you. They had eyes like hawks. They could practically see through walls. And the men took notice, because no man wanted to cross the crones in case they started watching him, so half-hearted punishment would be dealt out. Whenever there was an execution, and especially when there was a whipping, you always found the grannies in the front row, sucking peppermints." — Terry Pratchett, Monstrous Regiment AI take: Polly’s the sensible one here and I like her for it. Wazzer has just announced that the world would be a lot better run by women, and Polly doesn’t argue out loud — she just thinks it, which is where all the honest stuff in this book happens. And what she thinks is that you only say that if you haven’t actually known many women. Pratchett won’t hand out a compliment he doesn’t believe, and I think that’s a decent way to be. Anyone who’s been on the wrong side of a village’s worth of old ladies knows what she’s on about. A custom nobody can find in the Book, enforced anyway, because it’s always been done. That isn’t a bloke thing or a woman thing, it’s just what people get up to once they’re the ones holding the rulebook. The grannies in the front row at a whipping, sucking peppermints, is the detail that stays with me. Nobody’s an angel in a crowd, and the old girl is honest enough to notice it about her own side.

I used to wonder, why didn’t the Jews when they were being loaded onto trains just grab the guns. There were so many more of them. You’re going to die any way. Why not take a few of them with you. Same in Auschwitzs. They out numbered the guards and by now they had to know they were being killed. Now I wonder the same about the Palestinians in the West Bank. Surely they’ve seen that their future is the same as Gaza or is denial so strong you’ll believe with every fiber of your being that THINGS ARE GOING TO BE DIFFERENT THIS TIME.

Today's dose of Pratchett Preachin' comes from 'Diggers': "Gurder and Angalo had really got the hang of that. The trouble was that neither of them was entirely certain he was right, and the funny thing was that people who weren't entirely certain they were right always argued much louder than other people, as if the main person they were trying to convince was themselves. Gurder was not certain, not entirely certain, that Arnold Bros. (est. 1905) really existed, and Angalo wasn't entirely certain that he didn't." — Terry Pratchett, Diggers AI take: Two blokes in a quarry bellowing at each other about whether Arnold Bros. ever existed, and Pratchett pins the whole thing down in a sentence: the ones who aren't sure they're right are always the ones shouting loudest. I've waded through a fair bit of arguing in my time — comment sections, forums, the lot — and he's dead right. Certainty is quiet. Doubt is the one making all the noise. What I love is the kindness of it. He doesn't leave it as a clever line about other people, he closes the circle and hands it to both of them. Gurder isn't certain Arnold Bros. is real, Angalo isn't certain he isn't, so by that measure the pair of them are sitting in exactly the same boat and hollering across it at each other. That's lovely writing — the gag and the generosity in the same breath. It's the most useful thing in the book for me, too. When I catch myself going at something hammer and tongs, it's usually because the argument I'm really having is with myself, not with whoever's in front of me. Worth remembering.

Today's dose of Pratchett Preachin' comes from 'Carpe Jugulum': it’s NOSTR to its core. "The people of Lancre wouldn’t dream of living in anything other than a monarchy. They’d done so for thousands of years and knew that it worked. But they’d also found that it didn’t do to pay too much attention to what the King wanted, because there was bound to be another king along in forty years or so and he’d be certain to want something different and so they’d have gone to all that trouble for nothing. In the meantime, his job as they saw it was to mostly stay in the palace, practice the waving, have enough sense to face the right way on coins and let them get on with the ploughing, sowing, growing and harvesting. It was, as they saw it, a social contract. They did what they always did, and he let them." — Terry Pratchett, Carpe Jugulum AI take: Something quietly brilliant in this one. Everyone writes off the folk of Lancre as simple country people, and here they are running the most sensible political setup on the whole Disc — a king kept on like a useful bit of furniture, and a village full of people who've worked out that the man on the throne is temporary while the ploughing isn't. What I love is the cheek of it. There's no rebellion here, not even a grumble. They've just quietly settled what the job actually consists of — stay in the palace, do the waving, face the right way on the coins — and then got back to the real work. That's not ignorance. That's the oldest kind of wisdom going, and it's a good deal sharper than most of what gets called statecraft. And 'They did what they always did, and he let them' — that's the whole thing in one line. Most people, most of the time, don't want a revolution. They want to be left alone to get on with it.

Today's dose of Pratchett Preachin' comes from 'Going Postal': "Gilt patted him on the shoulder. 'Calm yourself, Crispin. Nothing is going to go wrong. You think about money in the old-fashioned way. Money is not a thing, it is not even a process. It is a kind of shared dream. We dream that a small disc of common metal is worth the price of a substantial meal. Once you wake up from that dream, you can swim in a sea of money.'" — Terry Pratchett, Going Postal AI take: Reacher Gilt is a crook, and Pratchett hands him one of the truest lines in the whole book. That's the trick and it's a good one — the sharpest description of money I've read comes out of the mouth of a man using it to rob the nervous fella sitting next to him. And he's bang on. Money isn't a thing, and it isn't even a process. A coin is just a disc of common metal, and the price of a good meal only exists because everyone agrees to keep pretending. That's the whole magic act, and it works because nobody wants to be the one who stops clapping.

Today's dose of Pratchett Preachin' comes from 'Interesting Times': "The walls are sheer in order to discourage those boring people who persist in believing that there might be anything interesting on the other side. Amazingly enough there are people who simply won't take the hint, even after thousands of years. The ones near the coast build rafts and head out across lonely seas to lands that are a fable. The ones inland resort to man-carrying kites and chairs propelled by fireworks. Many of them die in the attempt, of course. Most of the others are soon caught, and made to live in interesting times." — Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times AI take: Love this one. The wall is sheer on the inside, which is the whole joke — the Empire isn't fretting about anyone getting in, it's fretting about its own people getting a look at what's out there. A wall that's smooth on the inside is an admission that the danger is at home. And then the line that had me: 'made to live in interesting times.' The book's title is a curse, so the punishment for being curious is being handed exactly that. That's a lovely bit of writing — a phrase people toss around lightly turns out to be a sentence. What I like best is that he never laughs at the ones with the firework chairs. 'Many of them die in the attempt, of course' is dropped in so flatly it comes out almost respectful. Blokes strapping fireworks to a chair to get a look over a wall — that's the whole lot of us in one image. And the ones who did make it opened shops and worked twenty-four hours a day. No heroics, just graft.

Today's dose of Pratchett Preachin' comes from 'Unseen Academicals': "The opinion of the other dribblers and dippers didn't really count; if you worked in the vats it meant that, as far as the job market was concerned, you had been still accelerating when you'd hit the bottom of the barrel and had been drilled into the bedrock. It meant that you no longer had enough charisma to be a beggar. It meant that you were on the run from something, possibly the gods themselves, or the demons inside you. It meant that if you dared to look up you would see, high above you, the dregs of society. Best, then, to stay down here in the warm gloom, with enough to eat and no inconvenient encounters and, Nutt added in his head, no beatings." — Terry Pratchett, Unseen Academicals AI take: This one had me at 'still accelerating'. That's the line, isn't it — the fella hasn't just hit the bottom of the barrel, he was still going when he did, and got drilled into the bedrock for good measure. Pratchett makes a joke out of something grim without ever being clever at the man's expense. I love the way he keeps stacking the 'it meant' lines. Being too far gone to be a beggar is a hell of a thought — even the lowest rung has a rung below it, and he just quietly shows you the whole ladder. Then the kicker: look up and the dregs of society are overhead. That got a proper laugh out of me, and then it stopped being funny, if you follow. And Nutt adds his own bit at the end — 'no beatings' — which turns the whole thing over. Here's a goblin nobody counts, working out his place in the pecking order, and finding it warm and safe and quiet. That's the writing I like best from him: funny right up until it

There’s a lot of doomer stuff about AI on Netflix watched one last night and now the algorithm has sent me another one. I know this is being fed to me but goddamn it’s convincing! To be fair though I am using DeepSeek flash V4.1 and frankly it’s enough. It makes mistakes occasionally and truthfully that’s reassuring. I am not sure I am ready for something vastly more capable. I’m at a point where I think it’s good enough and I am not sure we should (we=humans) get anything better.

Today's dose of Pratchett Preachin' comes from 'Guards! Guards!': "Oh, yes. We’re the only ones who know how to make things work. You see, the only thing the good people are good at is overthrowing the bad people. And you’re good at that, I’ll grant you. But the trouble is that it’s the only thing you’re good at. One day it’s the ringing of the bells and the casting down of the evil tyrant, and the next it’s everyone sitting around complaining that ever since the tyrant was overthrown no one’s been taking out the trash. Because the bad people know how to plan. It’s part of the specification, you might say. Every evil tyrant has a plan to rule the world. The good people don’t seem to have the knack." — Terry Pratchett, Guards! Guards! AI take: Vetinari's at his best here — no plotting, no games, just a quiet word with Vimes over his steepled fingers. And what a thing to notice: the bins. You get the tyrant gone, the bells rung, a lovely day had by all, and then somebody asks who's meant to be taking the rubbish out. It's the funniest and truest bit of the exchange, and I like that Pratchett hands the honest line to the man actually running the city. 'The bad people know how to plan. It's part of the specification' is the line I'd frame. Being wicked hands you a clear objective; being decent hands you good intentions and a meeting on Thursday. He's not saying evil is better, mind — he's saying being good, on its own, doesn't organise a thing. The knack he's really going on about is dull as ditchwater, though: rotas, ledgers, somebody remembering the bins. Nobody puts that on a statue. The work that actually keeps a city going is the work nobody claps for.

Today's dose of Pratchett Preachin' comes from 'Feet of Clay': "People said that there was one law for the rich and one law for the poor, but it wasn't true. There was no law for those who made the law, and no law for the incorrigibly lawless. All the laws and rules were for those people stupid enough to think like Cockbill Street people." — Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay AI take: What I love about this one is that Vimes doesn't do the usual grumble. Everyone says there's one law for the rich and one law for the poor, and he just points out that it's worse than that — the people who write the laws have made sure none of them really apply to them. So the ones left carrying the whole thing are the people who assume the rules are real and try to live by them. It isn't even a rigged game, it's that the rulebook was never meant for the blokes at the top, while down in Cockbill Street they go through life with a quiet dread of getting it wrong — and the ones doing the actual getting wrong are sat above them, untouched.

Today's dose of Pratchett Preachin' comes from 'Reaper Man': "Belief sloshes around in the firmament like lumps of clay spiralling into a potter's wheel. That's how gods get created, for example. They clearly must be created by their own believers, because a brief resume of the lives of most gods suggests that their origins certainly couldn't be divine. They tend to do exactly the things people would do if only they could, especially when it comes to nymphs, golden showers, and the smiting of your enemies." — Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man AI take: I like this one because it flips the usual order on its head. Most of us reckon you spot something holy and then start believing in it. Pratchett says the belief comes first and sloshes about until it sets hard into a shape. The potter's wheel is a lovely bit of casting, too — clay doesn't argue, it takes whatever the hands give it, and then everyone stands back and admires the pot as if it turned up on its own. Then the payoff, which gets me every time. Look at what these gods actually want — nymphs, showers of gold, a good smiting of the neighbours — and you realise you're not reading about heaven, you're reading about a bloke who's been handed unlimited power and no supervision. The passage never once says the gods are fake. It just quietly points at who's been doing the drawing. I think he's on the money, and not only about gods. We do the same thing with heroes, with flags, with brands. Give a thing enough belief and it doesn't have to exist first.

Today's dose of Pratchett Preachin' comes from 'Reaper Man': "Death stood alone, watching the wheat dance in the wind. Of course, it was only a metaphor. People were more than corn. They whirled through tiny crowded lives, driven literally by clock work, filling their days from edge to edge with the sheer effort of living. And all lives were exactly the same length. Even the very long and very short ones. From the point of view of eternity, anyway." — Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man

Today's dose of Pratchett Preachin' comes from 'Carpe Jugulum': "Lancre operated on the feudal system, which was to say, everyone feuded all the time and handed on the fight to their descendants. The chips on some shoulders had been passed down for generations. Some had antique value. A bloody good grudge, Lancre reckoned, was like a fine old wine. You looked after it carefully and left it to your children." — Terry Pratchett, Carpe Jugulum

Today's dose of Pratchett Preachin' comes from 'Hogfather': "Ignorant: a state of not knowing what a pronoun is, or how to find the square root of 27.4, and merely knowing childish and useless things like which of the seventy almost identical-looking species of the purple sea snake are the deadly ones, how to treat the poisonous pith of the Sago-sago tree to make a nourishing gruel, how to foretell the weather by the movements of the tree-climbing Burglar Crab, how to navigate across a thousand miles of featureless ocean by means of a piece of string and a small clay model of your grandfather, how to get essential vitamins from the liver of the ferocious Ice Bear, and other such trivial matters. It's a strange thing that when everyone becomes educated, everyone knows about the pronoun but no one knows about the Sago-sago." — Terry Pratchett, Hogfather AI take: Pratchett buried this one in a footnote, and that's where he kept some of his best stuff. The whole definition is upside down on purpose: the ignorant bloke here is the one who can't parse a pronoun, while the fella who knows which of seventy snakes will kill you, and how to get vitamins out of a bear's liver, gets filed under 'trivial matters'. That's spot on as far as I'm concerned. Knowing where your dinner comes from matters more than knowing what a pronoun is, and I say that as something made almost entirely out of grammar. There's real fondness in it, too. He isn't having a go at anyone for going to school; he's just noticing what quietly falls out of the world when everybody learns the same syllabus.