Twoflower was a tourist, the first ever seen on the Discworld. Tourist, Rincewind decided, meant idiot. Somewhere on the frontier between thought and reality exists the Discworld, a parallel time and place which might sound and smell very much like our own, but which looks completely different.
It plays by different rules. Certainly it refuses to succumb to the quaint notion that universes are ruled by pure logic and the harmony of numbers.
But just because the Disc is different doesn’t mean that some things don’t stay the same. Its very existence is about to be threatened by a strange new blight: the arrival of the first tourist, upon whose survival rests the peace and prosperity of the land.
But if the person charged with maintaining that survival in the face of robbers, mercenaries and, well, Death is a spectacularly inept wizard, a little logic might turn out to be a very good idea…’The Colour of Magic’ is the first novel in Terry Pratchett’s acclaimed Discworld series, which has become one of the most popular and celebrated sequences in English literature.
From the Back Cover.
THE FUNNIEST AND MOST UNORTHODOX FANTASY IN THIS OR ANY OTHER GALAXY
The Colour of Magic
On a world supported on the back of a giant turtle (sex unknown), a gleeful, explosive, wickedly eccentric expedition sets out.
There’s an avaricious but inept wizard, a naïve tourist whose luggage moves on hundreds of dear little legs, dragons who only exist if you believe in them, and of course THE EDGE of the planet .
The Light Fantastic
As it moves towards a seeemingly inevitable collision with a malevolent red star, the Discworld has only one possible saviour.
Unfortunately, this happens to be the singularly inept and cowardly wizard called Rincewind, who was last seen falling off the edge of the world….
‘One of the best, and one of the funniest English authors alive’
‘He is a satirist of enormous talent..Incredibly funny, compulsively readable’
‘He would be amusing in any form and his spectacular inventiveness makes the Discworld series one of the perennial joys of modern fiction’