Pratchett Terry

Tiffany Aching put one foot wrong, made one little mistake... And now the spirit of winter is in love with her. He gives her roses and icebergs, says it with avalanches and showers her with snowflakes — which is tough when you're 13, but also just a little bit... cool. And just because the Wintersmith wants to marry you is no excuse for neglecting your chores. So Tiffany must look after Miss Treason, who's 113 and has far too many eyes, learn the secret of Boffo, catch Horace the cheese, stop the gods from seeing her in the bath — 'Crivens!' Oh, yes, and be helped by the Nac Mac Feegles — whether she wants it or not. But if Tiffany doesn't work it all out, there will never be another springtime.

Koom Valley? That was where the trolls ambushed the dwarfs, or the dwarfs ambushed the trolls. It was far away. It was a long time ago. But if he doesn't solve the murder of just one dwarf, Commander Sam Vimes of Ankh-Morpork City Watch is going to see it fought again, right outside his office. With his beloved Watch crumbling around him and war-drums sounding, he must unravel every clue, outwit every assassin and brave any darkness to find the solution. And darkness is following him. Oh... and at six o'clock every day, without fail, with no excuses, he must go home to read 'Where's My Cow?', with all the right farmyard noises, to his little boy. There are some things you have to do.

Pourquoi remettre ni lendemain ce que l'on peut faire le jour même? Le très très vieux moine Lou-Tsé et son apprenti Lobsang en savent quelque chose puisque c'est à eux qu'incombe la tâche de gérer le temps et de le distribuer au mieux, veillant ainsi au bon déroulement de l'Histoire. Jusqu'au jour où Jérémie, maître horloger d'Ankh-Morpok reçoit une mystérieuse commande pour construire une horloge de verre parfaite. Celle-ci pourra tout simplement arrêter le temps et mettre fin au Chaos. Ah, cela ne serait-il pas le rêve des Contrôleurs que le Disque-Monde insupporte par ses activités incessantes? Le temps est compté pour Lou-Tsé! Mais la Mort va s'en mêler, attirant dans son sillage les cinq Cavaliers de l'Apocalypse — oui, c'est une longue histoire...

Octogénaire, borgne, chauve et édenté, Cohen le Barbare, le plus grand héros de tous les temps, réussira-t-il à tirer Deuxfleurs et Rincevent des griffes de leurs poursuivants? Question capitale, car le tissu même du temps et de l'espace est sur le point de passer dans l'essoreuse. Une étoile rouge menace de percuter le Disque-Monde et la survie de celui-ci est entre les mains du sorcier calamiteux: dans son esprit (très) brumeux se tapit en effet le... huitième sortilège! La suite de l'épopée la plus démente de la fantasy, avec, dans les seconds rôles, une distribution prestigieuse: le Bagage, l'In-Octavo, Herrena la harpie, Kwartz le troll, Trymon l'enchanteur maléfique et, naturellement, La Mort...

Eric is the Discworld's only demonology hacker. The trouble is, he's not very good at it. All he wants is the usual three wishes: to be immortal, rule the world and have the most beautiful woman fall madly in love with him. The usual stuff. But what he gets is Rincewind, the Disc's most incompetent wizard, and Rincewind's Luggage (the world's most dangerous travel accessory) into the bargain. Terry Pratchett's hilarious take on the Faust legend stars many of the Discworld's most popular characters in an outrageous adventure that will leave Eric wishing once more — this time, quite fervently, that he'd never been born.

The sea has taken everything. Mau is the only one left after a giant wave sweeps his island village away. But when much is taken, something is returned, and somewhere in the jungle Daphne — a girl from the other side of the globe — is the sole survivor of a ship destroyed by the same wave. Together the two confront the aftermath of catastrophe. Drawn by the smoke of Mau and Daphne's sheltering fire, other refugees slowly arrive: children without parents, mothers without babies, husbands without wives — all of them hungry and all of them frightened. As Mau and Daphne struggle to keep the small band safe and fed, they defy ancestral spirits, challenge death himself, and uncover a long-hidden secret that literally turns the world upside down. Internationally revered storyteller Terry Pratchett presents a breathtaking adventure of survival and discovery, and of the courage required to forge new beliefs.

Sam Vimes is a man on the run. Yesterday he was a duke, a chief of police and the ambassador to the mysterious, fat-rich country of Uberwald. Now, he has nothing but his native wit and the gloomy trousers of Uncle Vanya (don't ask). It's snowing. It's freezing. And if he can't make it through the forest to civilization there's going to be a terrible war. But there are monsters on his trail. They're bright. They're fast. They're werewolves — and they're catching up. Sam Vimes is out of time, out of luck and already out of breath.

When Tiffany Aching — young witch — steps into a dance she shouldn't, the spirit of winter falls in love with her. He gives her roses and icebergs, says it with avalanches and showers her with snowflakes — and suddenly winter is all around her. All the time. With the help of the Nac Mac Feegle, first met in The Wee Free Men, and a bit of advice from witches Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg, Tiffany must put the mess right — or there will never be another springtime...

Susan had never hung up a stocking. She'd never put a tooth under her pillow in the serious expectation that a dentally inclined fairy would turn up. It wasn't that her parents didn't believe in such things. They didn't need to believe in them. They know they existed. They just wished they didn't. There are those who believe and those who don't. Through the ages, superstition has had its uses. Nowhere more so than in the Discworld where it's helped to maintain the status quo. Anything that undermines superstition has to be viewed with some caution. There may be consequences, particularly on the last night of the year when the time is turning. When those consequences turn out to be the end of the world, you need to be prepared. You might even want more standing between you and oblivion than a mere slip of a girl — even if she has looked Death in the face on numerous occasions...

'Anything you do in the past changes the future. The tiniest little actions have huge consequences. You might tread on an ant now and it might entirely prevent someone from being born in the future'. There's nothing like the issue of evolution to get under the skin of academics: especially when those same academics are by chance or bad judgement deposited at a critical evolutionary turning point when one wrong move could have catastrophic results for the future. Unfortunately in the hands of such an inept and cussed group of individuals, the sensitive issue of causality is sadly only likely to receive the same scant respect that they show to one another...

This is where the dragons went. They lie... not dead, not asleep, but... dormant. And although the space they occupy isn't like normal space, nevertheless they are packed in tightly. They could put you in mind of a can of sardines, if you thought sardines were huge and scaly. And presumably, somewhere, there's a key... Guards! Guards! is the eighth Discworld novel — and after this, dragons will never be the same again!

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.

What happens after death is now less of a philosophical question than a question of actual reality. On the disc, as here, they need Death. If Death doesn't come for you, then what are you supposed to do in the meantime? You can't have the undead wandering about like lost souls. There's no telling what might happen.

In the beginning was the Word And the Word was: Hey, you! For Brutha the novice is the Chosen One. He wants peace and justice and brotherly love He also wants the Inquisition to stop torturing him now, please.

The alchemists of the Discworld have discovered the magic of the silver screen. But what is the dark secret of Holy Wood hill? It's up to Victor Tugelbend (Can't sing. Can't dance. Can handle a sword a little.) and Theda Withel (I come from a little town you've probably never heard of) to find out. Moving Pictures, the ninth Discworld novel is a gloriously funny saga set against the background of a world gone mad!

It seemed an easy job. After all, how difficult could it be to make sure that a servant girl doesn't marry a prince? But for the witches Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and Magrat Garlick, travelling to the distant city of Genua, things are never that simple. Servant girls have to marry the prince. That's what life is all about. You can't fight a Happy Ending At least — up until now.

1916: the Western Front. Private Percy Blakeney wakes up. He is lying on fresh spring grass. He can hear birdsong, and the wind in the leaves in the trees. Where has the mud, blood and blasted landscape of No Man's Land gone? 2015: Madison, Wisconsin. Cop Monica Jansson is exploring the burned-out home of a reclusive (some said mad, others dangerous) scientist when she finds a curious gadget — a box containing some wiring, a three-way switch and a... potato. It is the prototype of an invention that will change the way Mankind views his world for ever. And that is an understatement if ever there was one...

Mighty battles! Revolution! Death! War! (and his sons Terror and Panic, and daughter Clancy). The oldest and most inscrutable empire on the Discworld is in turmoil, brought about by the revolutionary treatise. What I did on My Holidays. Workers are uniting, with nothing to lose but their water buffaloes. Warlords are struggling for power. War (and Clancy) are spreading throughout the ancient cities. And all that stands in the way of terrible doom for everyone is: Rincewind the Wizard, who can't even spell the word 'wizard'... Cohen the barbarian hero, five foot tall in his surgical sandals, who has had a lifetime's experience of not dying... and a very special butterfly.

An aura of mean-minded resentfulness is thick in the streets of Ankh-Morpork. Insurrection is in the air. The Haves and Have-Nots are about to fall out all over again. The Have-Nots ant some of their own magic. But magic in the hands of amateurs is a dangerous thing. The City Watch is the last line of defence against such unnatural goings-on. But when even the Watch have trouble telling Right from Wrong, you know that Law and Order ain't what it used to be. But that's all about to change.

'When you start believing in Spirits, you start believing in demons, and then before you know where you are, you're believing in Gods. And then you're in trouble.' Reality is all very well in small doses. It's a perfectly conventional and convenient way of neutralising the imagination. But sometimes when there's more than one reality at play, imagination just won't be neutralised, and the walls between realities come tumbling down. Unfortunately there's usually a damned good reason for there being walls between them in the first place. To keep things out. Things who want to make mischief and play havoc with the natural order...

The Discworld: a world bursting with magic, a land of contrasts and extremes that floats through space on the backs of four elephants standing on a giant turtle. In the bustling metropolis of Ankh-Morpork, the oldest city on the Disc, you can find every luxury and perversion known to man or dwarf- and a fair few yet to be properly invented; in the ancient empire of Klatch there are fifteen words for assassination. The kingdom of Lancre may be small, but in this case size definitely isn't everything; in the dark country of Uberwald, things do go bump in the night. The inhabitants of Discworld are even more unforgettable than the places. There are witches and wizards — Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and Magrat Garlick (now a Queen, of course), and those in training (willingly or otherwise): Agnes Nitt, Tiffany Aching; Archchancellor Mustrum Ridcully, the Librarian, Rincewind, the Bursar: all play their part. There are great heroes, like Cohen the Barbarian and his Silver Horde, Sam Vimes, Captain Carrot and the men of the City Watch... and there are the ordinary folk like Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, Foul Ole Ron, the Igors. And there's Death, and his increasingly extended family. The Discworld might have started out in the imagination of its Creator, Terry Pratchett, but over the past 30 or more books, it has taken on a life of its own. Here, artist Paul Kidby, steered by the author's words, takes his own voyage through the Disc, revealing, in glorious colour and intricate black and white, the cornucopia of characters that have won the hearts of millions of adoring readers the world over.

Die Revisoren der Realität wollen mit einer gläsernen Uhr die Zeit für immer anhalten, um eine endgültige Ordnung herzustellen. Da also den Bewohnern der Scheibenwelt ihr letztes Stündlein zu schlagen droht, entsenden die Geschichtsmönche den 900-jährigen Lu-Tze und seinen Gehilfen Lobsang zur Rettung des Universums nach Ankh-Morpork. Doch als sie eintreffen, wird die Uhr mittels eines Blitzschlags aktiviert. Das Leben erstarrt. Zum Glück können die beiden auf einen Vorrat an gespeicherter Zeit zurückgreifen. Sie sind entschlossen, das Rad der Geschichte zurückzudrehen...

With witty illustrations from Paul Kidby, this is an artistically presented package guaranteed to tickle the funny bone of all Pratchett fans.

Somewhere in a place so far up there is no down, a ship is waiting to take the nomes home. And one nome, Masklin, knows that they've got to try and contact this ship. It means going to Florida (wherever that is), then getting to the launch of a communications satellite (whatever that is). A ridiculous plan. Impossible. But Masklin doesn't know this, so he tries to do it anyway. And the first step is to hitch a ride on a new kind of truck, a truck with wings — Concorde. The final title in the nome trilogy.