MerilynSawicki394
出典: くみこみックス
Boris Johnson's candidacy for mayor of London could have come straight from a Terry Pratchett novel: a lovable buffoon with no discernible accomplishments becomes a leading contender for just those very qualities (ie buffoonery, Liverpool-bashing - is there anything else?). Bullyingly jovial, faintly sinister and with no apparent plans for the city except to promise the exact opposite kind of tyranny as the current tyrant-incumbent, all that remains is for him to be revealed as a multi-tentacled demon to make a jolly good Discworld novel. Vote for him, it may yet happen.
If you've never read Discworld , then perhaps you're unaware that what started out as a very funny fantasy spoof quickly became the finest satirical series running. It has dealt with - among many other topics - racism, sexism, journalism, death, war, the army, the Inquisition, the ambiguous nature of good and evil, and the uncomfortable power of narrative, all in novels that are smart, hilarious and humane. Come to think of it, if you've never read a Discworld novel, what's the matter with you?
Making Money is the second of the series to feature conman Moist van Lipwig. Introduced in Going Postal, Moist was narrowly saved from hanging by Lord Vetinari, the ruthlessly efficient despot of Ankh-Morpork ("Do I need to wear a badge that says tyrant?"), and put in charge of rejuvenating its moribund postal service. Beneath the delightful silliness and the slendidly awful puns lay a startlingly savage attack on the greed of privatisation. The scurrilous investors in Ankh-Morpork's communications system were an obvious attack on a denationalised rail service, cutting corners and endangering lives, all the while offering meaningless platitudes about "improved directives" and apologies for the inconvenience of being killed.
In Making Money, Moist moves on to the Royal Mint. Banks in Ankh-Morpork are failing, and who better to give them a shot in the arm than an admitted thief and smooth-talking showman? "The city bleeds, Mr Lipwig," says Vetinari, "and you are the clot." The satirical punches are exchanged for a more thoughtful, philosophical approach. What is money? Is it really nothing more than the agreement we all make about it? Is it therefore really nothing more than a form of showmanship?
Things, of course, do not go smoothly. The bank's chairman is an excitable little dog called Mr Fusspot, left 51% of the shares in the deceased chairwoman's will. The chief clerk of the bank, Mr Bent, hates Moist on sight as a committer of that worst of sins: silliness. There is suspicion, in fact, that Mr Bent may indeed be a vampire. He is not; he is something much worse. And in the basement, a Mint worker has managed to build The Glooper, an analogy engine that represents the economic life of the city through water-filled glass tubes. But analogies have power in Discworld, and The Glooper may now be controlling the city rather than vice versa.
