Because it’s the Glorious 25th, I am of course thinking of Sam Vimes today.
And the thing about Vimes as a hero is that he’s so extreme in personality, but also so deeply relatable.
Carrot, for example, (and of course it’s not an accident that Carrot is there as comparison) is your typical fantasy hero. And he’s not relatable at all. He’s Good in a way that most people will never be, can never be. There’s something God-touched about his goodness. And his goodness isn’t…super effective. I mean, it is a little. But no, who is it that really creates and continues the sweeping change of Discworld, over and over again? It’s Sam Vimes.
Sam Vimes, who spent most of his life drunk and in a gutter. Who burnt out from his unfair job, unjust world, and unappreciated caring and gave up. For YEARS AND YEARS he gave up.
Until he finally met a situation that was so intense it forced him to care again.
And lord, that is so COMFORTING. That you can fuck up your whole life for a couple decades and then still answer the call when it comes. Save the day and push for changes. Be the sand in the gears of industry, fight impossible odds and win over and over, while complaining about having to do it the whole time.
Vimes as we mostly know him is a character our world desperately needed. Someone who keeps pushing and pushing against overwhelming injustice, even when it seems like the powers that be are stacked so high against you.
But also how much more powerful to say “this character was once a total waste of space.” He was ground down by daily life and constant injustice. But he didn’t stay that way forever.
And god if that’s not inspirational as fuck.
I mean, you could, in some ways, say the same of Moist Von Lipwig.
Or William de Worde. Or Brutha, for that matter. Or Windle Poons. Or–
This is an archetype that Terry loved. Bless him, because we can always use the reminder: be ye never so small, so petty, so insignificant, there still exists a set of circumstances in which you may find yourself presented with an opportunity to do a hard thing. To reach out beyond your comfortable, ground down, stunted mediocrity and build something new. You may find an opportunity to arrest a dragon, or write a letter with a broader audience, or to escort a tortoise, or to sort out why a public servant isn’t doing their job. You may find yourself, unexpectedly, presented with a problem that no one else seems to be doing much about.
And if you choose to try, if you choose to earnestly use your voice and your talents–be they never so humble and small to you–to serve a greater purpose, the ripples of each choice you make can resonate so widely through the world that they shiver through the souls of generations and generations to come. If you try to sort out a hole in the world, as best you can, that is like a butterfly gently wafting its wings in the direction of a greater world.
No matter how small you are at the first step you make. No matter how tired and ground down you are or how many gentle calls you’ve missed to be bigger. You can always listen to the next chance.
And you can always, in doing so, start to tug the world into alignment.
POV: you’re painting some graffiti on a wall when His Grace, the Duke of Ankh, Sam Vimes comes strolling up behind you and leans on your shoulder. He considers it for a moment while he rummages in a pocket for a cigar.
“Letters need to be bigger,” he tells you while he lights a match. “And make sure to underline ‘ALL’ and ‘BASTARDS.’ Wouldn’t want anyone missing the point.”
I love the dynamic in the Discworld fandom on this site, I think it’s mainly because there are a lot of dormant fans, if you will, who’ve read and loved the books for years but haven’t engaged much recently, who sort of reappear whenever a fun post is doing the rounds. It’s fantastic. We get the cozy small fandom vibe without the screaming matches, but also get the popular posts from time to time, y'know?
YEP. In fact for some people it’s Emotions Day right now.
To everyone tagging and commenting with some variation of “Oh, I almost forgot that it’s tomorrow!”
“Damn! Damn! Damn! Every year he forgot. Well, no. He never forgot. He just put the memories away like old silverware that you didn’t want to tarnish. And every year they came back, sharp and sparkling, and stabbed him in the heart. And today, of all days…”
Just a quick little something because I never remember the 25th in time to make anything and how small things matter even if they’re not remembered and how someone, probably bookhobbit, made the connection between Rincewind’s attitude to revolution in Interesting Times and the events of Night Watch.
*
It was a little over nine months after the Agatean People’s Revolution that it hit him. The overpowering sweet scent that dragged Rincewind back over twenty years to when he’d still been young and foolish enough to believe in revolutions.
He stopped and stared at the lilac flowers until even Twoflower noticed that he’d been prattling on to himself and Rincewind was several metres behind.
Rincewind barely flinched when a warm hand touched his.
“Twoflower, what’s today’s date?”
“May twenty sixth. Are you alright?”
“Then I’ve missed it,” Rincewind said, still not looking at him. “Wouldn’t be the first time, nor the third either for that matter. Not much you can do when you’re shipwrecked or running for your life, but I tried. They all tried too bloody hard, the poor sods.”
He plucked a bloom and tucked it into his hatband. Only then did he seem to notice Twoflower was staring at him.
“It was… a long time ago. A symbol of our own revolution, in Ankh Morpork.”
Twoflower didn’t look away. The silence drew more words out.
“I was a student back then, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew what Winder was doing to the city. No, scratch that, I was bloody stupid for wanting to get involved. Not that I even did anything in the end; I don’t think bundling some drunk sod into the back of the university to avoid the hurry-up wagon counts.”
Twoflower squeezed his hand. “Dear chap, small things matter. You should know that. Think of that travelogue I wrote.”
“I’d rather not.” Rincewind played with the fraying hem of his sleeve and stared back into the past. “Ye gods, I couldn’t have been any older than Lotus Blossom is now.”
A breeze scattered lilac petals across the ground. Six thousand miles away, Rincewind knew, the same flowers were falling onto a marble headstone.
Some small, never quite quashed voice whispered, It could have worked. We could have won, the same as we did here. Another part of him, the part which was always counting exits, always looking for concealed weapons, growled back. And we could have, should have lost last year! Anyone with any sense could see we’d have died every bit as slowly as those poor bastards in Cable Street. And we didn’t. We’re here. We’re alive. And if I ever meet the Lady again, I can’t be grateful to her for it.
Rincewind pulled Twoflower close against his skinny chest. “Promise me something?”
“Anything you want.” He tucked his head under Rincewind’s chin.
Every year he forgot. Well, no. He never forgot. He just put the memories away, like old silverware that you didn’t want to tarnish. And every year they came back, sharp and sparkling, and stabbed him in the heart. And today, of all days…
Here’s Vimes-as-Keel de-escalating the riot attempt at the Treacle Mind Road Watchhouse. Such a great scene, where our hero shows himself to be far more heroic by working to avoid violence than by fighting.
“Damn! Damn! Damn! Every year he forgot. Well, no. He never forgot. He just put the memories away, like old silverware that you didn’t want to tarnish. And every year they came back, sharp and sparkling, and stabbed him in the heart. And today, of all days…”
