The review elegantly captures Pratchett’s ability to distill human dignity from Victorian squalor through sharp, character-driven dialogue. It serves as a sophisticated reminder that his social commentary remains just as potent in historical realism as it is in high fantasy.
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DodgerAdded:
Welcome to 52 book reviews and recommendations.
Today, we're doing Terry Pratchett.
But, I'm taking the sneaky way out of avoiding Discworld because I'm I'm just pushing that into the future because basically I can just put all of Discworld on the channel.
So, we're doing Dodger.
I It's not And it's not really fantasy or sci-fi.
It's set in a Dickensian London.
I was reading a book another book and I was just going to sit down one evening and keep reading my book, but I couldn't find it.
I'd misplaced the book and it was gone.
But, I wanted to read something, so I just went to my bookcase.
Started looking through all the Discworld books as I always do when I just want to pick something up and start reading something again.
And I remembered I also had Dodger.
For those of you that don't know of Terry Pratchett, Terry Pratchett wrote the Discworld series which I consider to be some of the best stuff out there.
Occasionally, he would write books outside of the Discworld universe and this is one of them which is um again called Dodger. I've been saying Dodger a lot.
Let's just read the back.
Dodger is a tosher, a sewage scavenger living in the squalor of Dickensian London. Everyone who is a nobody knows him. Anyone who isn't anybody doesn't.
He used to know his future. It involved a lot of brick lined tunnels and plenty of filth. But, when he rescues a young girl from a beating, things start to get really messy.
Now, everyone who is anyone wants to get their hands on Dodger.
So, I've I've probably read everything that Terry Pratchett has written. Not quite, but pretty much.
And this is a little bit more laid back.
Um Terry Pratchett is usually very funny.
This is also very funny, but it's kind of again like it's a little bit pulled back.
And it's just a really well-written book about Dodger, who's a tosher. Uh he's uh >> [gasps] >> kind of living in the slums in Dickensian London and goes down into the sewers finding, you know, uh bits and bobs, money, or whatever that sort of washes down the drains in the rain and you toss around and you find your living down there. One day, he stops two men from beating up a girl, pretty much. And from there on, there's this adventure story that takes us through a sort of imaginary uh Victorian London which is kind of why it's I guess called Dickensian London and not Victorian London. And we get to meet uh and see this kind of squalor through pretty comedy-singed eyes.
Um Let's just Let's just read.
I mean, this is this is how much Terry Pratchett has written.
The rain poured down on London so hard that it seemed that it was dancing spray. Every raindrop contending with its fellow for supremacy in the air and waiting to splash down. It was a deluge.
The drains and sewers were overflowing, throwing up, regurgitating as it were, the debris of muck, slime, and filth, the dead dogs of dead rats, cats, and worse, bringing back up to the world of men all those things that they thought they'd left behind them.
Just clinging, gurgling, and hurrying towards the overflowing and always hospitable river Thames. Bursting its banks, bubbling and churning like some nameless soup boiling in a dreadful cauldron. The river itself gasping like a dying fish.
But, those in the know always said about the London rain that try as it might, it would never ever clean that noisome city because all it did was show you another layer of dirt.
And on this dirty night, there were appropriately dirty deeds that not even the rain could wash away.
A fancy two-horse coach wallowed its way along the street. Some piece of metal stuck near the axle causing it to to be heralded by a scream. And indeed, there was a scream, a human scream this time as a door coach was flung open and a figure tumbled out into the gushing gutter which tonight was doing the job of a fountain. Two other figures sprang from the coach cursing in a language that was as colorful as the night was dark and even dirtier. In the downpour fitfully lit by the lightning, the first figure tried to escape but tripped, fell, and was leaped upon with a cry that was hardly to be heard in all the racket, but which was almost supernaturally counterpointed by the grinding of iron as a drain cover nearby was pushed open to reveal a struggling and skinny young man who moved with the speed of a snake.
"You let that girl alone!" he shouted.
There was a curse in the dark and one of the assailants fell backwards with his legs kicked from under him. The youth was no heavyweight, but somehow he was everywhere throwing blows, blows which were augmented by a pair of brass knuckles, always a helpmate for the outnumbered.
Outnumbered one to two as it were, the assailants took to their heels while the youth followed raining blows. But, it was London and it was raining and it was dark and they were dodging into alleys and side streets frantically trying to catch up with their coach so that he lost them. And the apparition from the depths of the sewers turned round, headed back to the stricken girl at Greyhound speed.
He knelt down and to his surprise, she grabbed him by the collar and whispered in what he considered to be foreigner English, "They want to take me back.
Please help me."
The lad sprang to his feet, his eyes all suspicion.
On this stormy night of stormy nights, it was opportune that the two men who themselves knew something about the dirt of London were walking or rather wading along this street. Hurrying home with hats pulled down, which was a nice try, but simply didn't work because in this torrent, it seemed that the bouncing water was coming as much from below as it was from above. Lightning struck again and one of them said, "Is that someone lying in the gutter there?" The lightning presumably heard because it sliced down again and revealed a shape, a mound, a person as far as the men could see.
"Good heavens, Charlie, it's a girl.
Soaked to the skin and thrown into the gutter, I imagine." said one of them.
"Come on." "Hey, you. What are you doing, mister?" By the light of a pub window which could barely show the darkness, the aforesaid Charlie and his friend saw the face of a boy who looked like a young lad no more than 17 years old, but who seemed to have the voice of a man.
A man, moreover, who was prepared to take on both of them to the death. Angus steamed off him in the rain and he wielded a long piece of metal he carried on. "I know your sort.
Oh, yes, I do, coming down here chasing the skirt, making a mockery of decent girls. Blimey, desperate, weren't you, to be out on a night such as this?"
The man who wasn't called Charlie straightened up. "Now, see here, you. I object most strongly to your wretched allegation. We are respectable gentlemen who, I might add, work quite hard to better the fortunes of such poor wretched girls and indeed, by the look of it, such as yourself."
The scream of rage from the boy was sufficiently loud that the doors of the nearby pub swung open causing smoky orange light to illuminate the ever-present rain. "So, that's what you call it, is it, you smarmy old gits?"
The boy swung his homemade weapon, but the man called Charlie caught it and dropped it behind him. Then, grabbed the boy and held him by the scruff of his neck. "Mr. Mayhew and myself are decent citizens, young man, and as such, we surely feel it is our duty to take this young lady somewhere away from harm."
Over his shoulder, he said, "Your place is closest, Henry. Do you think your wife would object to receiving a needy soul for one night? I wouldn't like to see a dog out on a night such as this."
Henry, now clutching the young woman, nodded. "Do you mean two dogs by any chance?" The struggling boy took immediate offense at this and with a snake-like movement was out of the grip of Charlie and once again spoiling for a fight. "I ain't no dog, you nobby sticks, nor ain't she. We have all our pride, you know. I made my own way, I does. All kosher, straight up." The man called Charlie lifted the boy up by the scruff of his neck so that they were face to face. "My, I admire your attitude, young man, but not your common sense." he said quietly. "And mark you, this young lady is in a bad way. Surely, you can see that. My friend's house is not too far away from here and since you have set yourself up as her champion and protector, why then, I invite you to follow us there and witness that she will have the very best of treatment that we can afford. Do you hear me?
What's your name, mister? And before you tell it to me, I invite you to believe that you are not the only person who cares about a young lady in dire trouble on this dreadful night.
So, my boy, what's your name?"
The boy must have picked up a tone in Charlie's voice because he said, "I'm Dodger. That's what they call me on account of I'm never there. I know you see what I mean. Everybody in all the boroughs knows Dodger."
"Well then," said Charlie, "now we have met you and joined that august company, we must see if we can come to an understanding during this little Odyssey man to man. He straightened up and went on. Let us move Henry to your house and as soon as possible because I fear this unfortunate girl needs all the help we can give her.
And you my lad, do you know this young lady?
He let go of the boy who took a few steps back. No governor never seen her before in my life. God's truth and I know everybody on the streets. Just another runaway happens all the time so it does. I don't bear thinking about it.
Am I to believe Mr. Dodger that you not knowing this unfortunate woman nevertheless sprang to her defenses like a true Galahad?
Dodger suddenly looked very wary. Well, I might be I might not. What is it to you anyway? Who the hell is this Galahad cove?
Charlie and Henry made a cradle with their arms to carry the woman. As they set off Charlie said over his shoulder, you have no idea what I just said, do you Mr. Dodger? Well, Galahad was a famous hero.
Never mind. You just follow us like the knight in soaking armor that you are and you'll see fair play for this damsel.
Get a good meal and let me see coins jingled in the darkness. Yes, two shillings and if you do come, you'll perhaps improve your chances of heaven which is not a place often concerns you.
Understand? Do we have an accord? Very well.
Something that I so greatly admire about Terry Pratchett's writing is his way to just write conversations that give you a very good kind of descriptions about the people that you're dealing with. It's very rarely any sort of descriptive this was that kind of person. They dressed like this blah blah blah. They just everything just takes place in conversations that for some reason because of masterful writing just becomes so very clear and I just love that. But if you've never read Pratchett and you're not you know, you might know of the Discworld but it's not your cup of tea then this could be a way of reading Terry Pratchett.
If you've read Terry Pratchett and you thought it was all about the Discworld maybe you could read this as well just as another Terry Pratchett book. But for anyone it's it's just a nice read. It's a little bit sort of just simpler and I could say lighter in a way maybe than the Discworld books and the kind of sort of you're in a hammock during summer. You want a nice book to read.
I'd recommend Dodger by Terry Pratchett.
Thank you for watching. Please like and subscribe.
And if you want to help the channel out or just well um refill my coffee coffee cup then you can give me a tip down in the comments there's a a link where you can go buy me a coffee.
Had to pay for this one myself. Anyway, bye. See you in the next one.
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