Going Postal: A Novel of Discworld

“Pratchett’s books are almost always better than they have to be, and Going Postal is no exception, full of nimble wordplay, devious plotting and outrageous situations, but always grounded in an astute understanding of human nature.”—San Francisco ChronicleA splendid send-up of government bureaucracy, corruption, the postal system, and everything in between in this ingenious entry in Sir Terry Pratchett’s internationally bestselling Discworld series.By all rights, Arch-swindler Moist von Lipwig should be meeting his maker at the end of a noose. Instead, Lord Vetinari, supreme ruler of Ankh-Morpork, has made him the city’s Postmaster General. Death may be preferable to fixing the Postal Service—a creaky, outdated institution beset by eccentric employees, mountains of old, undelivered mail Moist swears is talking to him, and a dangerous secret order. To restore the postal service to its former glory, Moist accepts the help of the tough talking and very attractive activist Adora Belle Dearheart.But to succeed, Moist must overcome two formidable foes—new technology and the greedy chairman of a communication monopoly who will stop at nothing to delay Ankh-Morpork’s post for good . . .The Discworld novels can be read in any order, but Going Postal is the first book in the Moist von Lipwig series. The series, in order, includes:Going PostalMaking MoneyRaising Steam

From Publishers Weekly

British fantasist Pratchett's latest special-delivery delight, set in his wonderfully crazed city of Ankh-Morpork, hilariously reflects the plight of post offices the world over as they struggle to compete in an era when e-mail has stolen much of the glamour from the postal trade. Soon after Moist von Lipwig (aka Alfred Spangler), Pratchett's not-quite-hapless, accidental hero, barely avoids hanging, Lord Havelock Vetinari, the despotic but pretty cool ruler of Ankh-Morpork, makes him a job offer he can't refuse—postmaster general of the Ankh-Morpork Post Office. The post office hasn't been open for 20 years since the advent of the Internet-like clacks communication system. Moist's first impulse is to try to escape, but Mr. Pump, his golem parole officer, quickly catches him. Moist must then deal with the musty mounds of undelivered mail that fill every room of the decaying Post Office building maintained by ancient and smelly Junior Postman Groat and his callow assistant, Apprentice Postman Stanley. The place is also haunted by dead postmen and guarded by Mr. Tiddles, a crafty cat. Readers will cheer Moist on as he eventually finds himself in a race with the dysfunctional clacks system to see whose message can be delivered first. Thanks to the timely subject matter and Pratchett's effervescent wit, this 29th Discworld novel (after 2003's Monstrous Regiment) may capture more of the American audience he deserves. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

From School Library Journal

Adult/High School - When petty con man Moist von Lipwig is hung for his crimes in the first chapter of this surprising and humorous novel, it appears to be the end. But this is Discworld after all, a world "a lot like our own but different." Moist awakes from the shock of his hanging to find that the city's Patrician, Lord Vetinari, has assigned him a government job (a fate worse than death?) restoring the defunct postal system. Of course, there is much more to restore than the flow of letters and packages. Justice as well as communication has been poorly served by a hostile takeover of the "clacks" - a unique messaging system that is part semaphore, part digital, and under the monopoly of the Grand Trunk Company. Before Moist can get very far into the job, he encounters ghosts, the voices of unsent letters, and a ruthless corporate conspiracy. In this quickly escalating battle, the post office is definitely the underdog, but, as the author notes, "an underdog can always find somewhere soft to bite." Fortunately Moist has friends: the determined Miss Dearheart, a golem with more than feet of clay, and a secret society of unemployed and very unusual postal workers as well as a vampire named Oscar. The author's inventiveness seems to know no end, his playful and irreverent use of language is a delight, and there is food for thought in his parody of fantasyland. This 29th Discworld novel, like the rest of the series, is a surefire hit for fans of Douglas Adams and Monty Python. - Carolyn Lehman, Humboldt State University, Arcata, CA Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

From Booklist

Alfred Spangler is dead. Moist von Lipwig, formerly known as Alfred Spangler, is presented with a choice: certain death or reviving the Ankh-Morpork post office. Lord Vetinari is persuasive, and Moist is an intelligent if dishonest fellow, so he finds himself with a job and a golem for a parole officer. But the postmaster generalship is harder than Moist expected; for one thing, no mail has been delivered in years, and the entire building is buried in letters and pigeon guano. His postmen are a youth mad for pin collecting and the obsessively dedicated, elderly Mr. Groat. Moreover, the undelivered letters want to be delivered, and they're being distressingly vocal about it. Now the owners of the Grand Trunk clacks company, profit-minded above all else, want Moist dead because, well, they can't take the competition, even with the clacks towers running ragged. Whenever the towers fail, Moist is on the job, getting messages out of Ankh-Morpork. Moist is positively inspired (he takes a certain pleasure in out-scamming Reacher Gilt) and becomes an example to the postmen, even going so far as to deliver a letter 40 years old, after which he sends them out to deliver the rest. Moist will go to almost any length to do his job, from hiring golem postmen to challenging the Grand Trunk to an impossible race; along the way, he even manages to overcome his fear and ask Adora Belle Dearheart (aka Killer) out to dinner. Instead of revisiting old characters, Pratchett again takes on the task of further rounding out his already beautifully imagined Discworld, doing it with his usual blending of good laughs and unexpected depths. Regina SchroederCopyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“British fantasist Pratchett’s latest special-delivery delight, set in his wonderfully crazed city of Ankh-Morpork, hilariously reflects the plight of post offices the world over.”

London Times

“Pratchett’s joy in his creations, in jokes, puns, the idea of letters and language itself makes Going Postal one of the best expressions of his unstoppable flow of comic invention.”

The Guardian

“With all the puns, strange names and quickfire jokes about captive letters demanding to be delivered, it’s easy to miss how cross about injustice Terry Pratchett can be. This darkness and concrete morality sets his work apart from imitators of his English Absurd school of comic fantasy.”

and wonderfully executed.”

“Deeply satisfying. . . . Sharp-edged humor

Locus

“Delightful . . . a surprisingly complex character study in addition to the usual hilarious satire.”

Locus

“Read it and laugh, but don’t forget your brains.”

Birmingham Post

“Going Postal is two books in one; an eerie tale of an office huanted by its post, and a searing attack on corporate corruption . . . . The more literal minded might have preferred Pratchett to write about our world directly, rather than in a fantastical mirror, but while such a book may have contained more facts, it would not have been so true.”

Time Out London

“Like many of Pratchett’s best comic novels, Going Postal is a book about redemption . . . . There’s a moral toughness here, which is one of the reasons why Pratchett is never merely frivolous.”

San Francisco Chronicle

“[Pratchett’s] books are almost always better than they have to be, and Going Postal is no exception, full of nimble wordplay, devious plotting and outrageous situations, but always grounded in an astute understanding of human nature.”

From the Back Cover

Arch-swindler Moist Van Lipwig never believed his confidence crimes were hanging offenses -- until he found himself with a noose tightly around his neck, dropping through a trapdoor, and falling into ... a government job?By all rights, Moist should have met his maker. Instead, it's Lord Vetinari, supreme ruler of Ankh-Morpork, who promptly offers him a job as Postmaster. Since his only other option is a nonliving one, Moist accepts the position -- and the hulking golem watchdog who comes along with it, just in case Moist was considering abandoning his responsibilities prematurely.Getting the moribund Postal Service up and running again, however, may be a near-impossible task, what with literally mountains of decades-old undelivered mail clogging every nook and cranny of the broken-down post office building; and with only a few creaky old postmen and one rather unstable, pin-obsessed youth available to deliver it. Worse still, Moist could swear the mail is talking to him. Worst of all, it means taking on the gargantuan, money-hungry Grand Trunk clacks communication monopoly and its bloodthirsty piratical head, Mr. Reacher Gilt.But it says on the building neither rain nor snow nor glo m of ni t ... Inspiring words (admittedly, some of the bronze letters have been stolen), and for once in his wretched life Moist is going to fight. And if the bold and impossible are what's called for, he'll do it -- in order to move the mail, continue breathing, get the girl, and specially deliver that invaluable commodity that every human being (not to mention troll, dwarf, and, yes, even golem) requires: hope.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Going PostalA Novel of DiscworldBy Pratchett, TerryHarperCollins PublishersISBN: 0060013133The Angel In which our hero experiences Hope, the greatest gift The bacon sandwich of regretSomber reflections on capital punishment from the hangman Famous last words Our hero diesAngels, conversations about Inadvisability of misplaced offers regarding broomsticks An unexpected rideA world free of honest men A man on the hopThere is always a choice They say that the prospect of being hanged in the morningconcentrates a man?s mind wonderfully; unfortunately, whatthe mind inevitably concentrates on is that, in the morning, it willbe in a body that is going to be hanged.The man going to be hanged had beennamed Moist von Lipwig by dotingif unwise parents, but he wasnot going to embarrass thename, insofar as that was stillpossible, by being hung under it.To the world in general, and particularlyon that bit of it known asthe death warrant, he was AlfredSpangler.And he took a more positive approach to the situation and hadconcentrated his mind on the prospect of not being hanged in themorning, and, most particularly, on the prospect of removing allthe crumbling mortar from around a stone in his cell wall with aspoon. So far the work had taken him five weeks and reduced thespoon to something like a nail file. Fortunately, no one ever cameto change the bedding here, or else they would have discovered theworld?s heaviest mattress.It was a large and heavy stone that was currently the object ofhis attentions, and, at some point, a huge staple had been hammeredinto it as an anchor for manacles.Moist sat down facing the wall, gripped the iron ring in bothhands, braced his legs against the stones on either side, andheaved.His shoulders caught fire, and a red mist filled his vision, butthe block slid out with a faint and inappropriate tinkling noise.Moist managed to ease it away from the hole and peered inside.At the far end was another block, and the mortar around itlooked suspiciously strong and fresh.Just in front of it was a new spoon. It was shiny.As he studied it, he heard the clapping behind him. He turnedhis head, tendons twanging a little riff of agony, and saw several ofthe wardens watching him through the bars.?Well done, Mr. Spangler!? said one of them. ?Ron here owes mefive dollars! I told him you were a sticker! ?He?s a sticker,? I said!??You set this up, did you, Mr.Wilkinson?? said Moist weakly,watching the glint of light on the spoon.?Oh, not us, sir. Lord Vetinari?s orders. He insists that all condemnedprisoners should be offered the prospect of freedom.??Freedom? But there?s a damn great stone through there!??Yes, there is that, sir, yes, there is that,? said the warden. ?It?sonly the prospect, you see. Not actual free freedom as such. Hah,that?d be a bit daft, eh???I suppose so, yes,? said Moist. He didn?t say ?you bastards.? The wardens had treated him quite civilly these past six weeks, andhe made a point of getting on with people. He was very, very goodat it. People skills were part of his stock-in-trade; they were nearlythe whole of it.Besides, these people had big sticks. So, speaking carefully, headded: ?Some people might consider this cruel, Mr.Wilkinson.??Yes, sir, we asked him about that, sir, but he said no, it wasn?t.He said it provided??his forehead wrinkled??occ-you-pay-shunallther-rap-py, healthy exercise, prevented moping, and offeredthat greatest of all treasures, which is Hope, sir.??Hope,? muttered Moist glumly.?Not upset, are you, sir???Upset? Why should I be upset, Mr.Wilkinson???Only the last bloke we had in this cell, he managed to getdown that drain, sir. Very small man. Very agile.?Moist looked at the little grid in the floor. He?d dismissed itout of hand.?Does it lead to the river?? he said.The warden grinned. ?You?d think so, wouldn?t you? He wasreally upset when we fished him out. Nice to see you?ve enteredinto the spirit of the thing, sir. You?ve been an example to all of us,sir, the way you kept going. Stuffing all the dust in your mattress?Very clever, very tidy. Very neat. It?s really cheered us up, havingyou in here. By the way, Mrs.Wilkinson says thanks very much forthe fruit basket. Very posh, it is. It?s got kumquats, even!??Don?t mention it, Mr.Wilkinson.??The warden was a bit green about the kumquats, ?cos he onlygot dates in his, but I told him, sir, that fruit baskets is like life?until you?ve got the pineapple off of the top you never know what?sunderneath. He says thank you, too.??Glad he liked it, Mr.Wilkinson,? said Moist absentmindedly.Several of his former landladies had brought in presents for ?thepoor, confused boy,? and Moist always invested in generosity. Acareer like his was all about style, after all. ?On that general subject, sir,? said Mr.Wilkinson, ?me and thelads were wondering if you might like to unburden yourself, at thispoint in time, on the subject of the whereabouts of the place wherethe location of the spot is where, not to beat about the bush, youhid all that money you stole . . . ??The jail went silent. Even the cockroaches were listening.?No, I couldn?t do that, Mr. Wilkinson,? said Moist loudly,after a decent pause for dramatic effect. He tapped his jacketpocket, held up a finger, and winked.The warders grinned back.?We understand totally, sir. Now I?d get some rest if I was you,sir, ?cos we?re hanging you in half an hour,? said Mr.Wilkinson.?Hey, don?t I get breakfast???Breakfast isn?t until seven o?clock, sir,? said the warderreproachfully. ?But, tell you what, I?ll do you a bacon sandwich.?Cos it?s you, Mr. Spangler.?AND NOW IT WAS A FEW MINUTES before dawn and it washim being led down the short corridor and out into the littleroom under the scaffold. Moist realized he was looking at himselffrom a distance, as if part of himself was floating outside his body likea child?s balloon, ready, as it were, for him to let go of the string.The room was lit by light coming through cracks in the scaffoldfloor above, and, significantly, from around the edges of thelarge trapdoor. The hinges of said door were being carefully oiledby a man in a hood.He stopped when he saw the party had arrived and said, ?Goodmorning,Mr. Spangler.? He raised the hood helpfully. ?It?s me, sir,Daniel ?One Drop? Trooper. I am your executioner for today, sir.Don?t you worry, sir. I?ve hanged dozens of people.We?ll soon haveyou out of here.? ?Is it true that if a man isn?t hanged after three attempts he?sreprieved, Dan?? said Moist, as the executioner carefully wiped hishands on a rag.?So I?ve heard, sir, so I?ve heard. But they don?t call me ?OneDrop? for nothing, sir. And will sir be having the black bag today???Will it help???Some people think it makes them look more dashing, sir. Andit stops that pop-eyed look. It?s more a crowd thing, really. Quite abig one out there this morning. Nice piece about you in the Timesyesterday, I thought. All them people saying what a nice youngman you were, and everything. Er . . . would you mind signing therope beforehand, sir? I mean, I won?t have a chance to ask youafterwards, eh???Signing the rope?? said Moist.?Yessir,? said the hangman. ?It?s sort of traditional. There?s a lotof people out there who buy old rope. Specialist collectors, youcould say. A bit strange, but it takes all sorts, eh? Worth moresigned, of course.? He flourished a length of stout rope. ?I?ve got aspecial pen that signs on rope. One signature every couple ofinches? Straightforward signature, no dedication needed. Worthmoney to me, sir. I?d be very grateful.??So grateful that you won?t hang me, then?? said Moist, takingthe pen.This got an appreciative laugh. Mr. Trooper watched him signalong the length, nodding happily.?Well done, sir, that?s my pension plan you?re signing there.Now . . . are we ready, everyone???Not me!? said Moist quickly, to another round of generalamusement.?You?re a card,Mr. Spangler,? said Mr.Wilkinson. ?It won?t bethe same without you around, and that?s the truth.??Not for me, at any rate,? said Moist. This was, once again,treated like rapier wit. Moist sighed.?Do you really think all this deters crime,Mr.Trooper?? he said.?Well, in the generality of things I?d say it?s hard to tell, giventhat it?s hard to find evidence of crimes not committed,? said thehangman, giving the trapdoor a final rattle. ?But in the specificality,sir, I?d say it?s very efficacious.??Meaning what?? said Moist.?Meaning I?ve never seen someone up here more?n once, sir.Shall we go??There was a stir when they climbed up into the chilly morningair, followed by a few boos and even some applause. People werestrange like that. Steal five dollars and you were a petty thief. Stealthousands of dollars and you were either a government or a hero.Moist stared ahead while the roll call of his crimes was readout. He couldn?t help feeling that it was so unfair. He?d never somuch as tapped someone on the head. He?d never even brokendown a door. He had picked locks on occasion, but he?d alwayslocked them again behind him. Apart from all those repossessions,bankruptcies, and sudden insolvencies, what had he actually donethat was bad, as such? He?d only been moving numbers around.?Nice crowd turned out today,? said Mr.Trooper, tossing the endof the rope over the beam and busying himself with knots. ?Lot ofpress, too. What Gallows? covers ?em all, o?course, and there?s theTimes and the Pseudopolis Herald, prob?ly because of that bank whatcollapsed there, and I heard there?s a man from the Sto Plains Dealer,too. Very good financial section, I always keep an eye on used-ropeprices. Looks like a lot of people want to see you dead, sir.?Moist was aware that a black coach had drawn up at the rear ofthe crowd. There was no coat of arms on the door, unless you were inon the secret, which was that Lord Vetinari?s coat of arms featured asable shield. Black on black. You had to admit, the bastard hadstyle?Continues...Excerpted from Going Postalby Pratchett, Terry Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

About the Author

Terry Pratchett (1948–2015) is the acclaimed creator of the globally revered Discworld series. In all, he authored more than fifty bestselling books, which have sold more than one hundred million copies worldwide. His novels have been widely adapted for stage and screen, and he was the winner of multiple prizes, including the Carnegie Medal. He was awarded a knighthood by Queen Elizabeth II for his services to literature in 2009, although he always wryly maintained that his greatest service to literature was to avoid writing any.

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