[In the following excerpt, West argues that a seasonal novel such as Hogfather examines complex issues in addition to being a basic Christmas story.]

Speaking of strong affection, it's that time of year again. Pratchett time.

It's also a month away from Christmas at this writing, which makes Hogfather, the latest Pratchett offering, particularly timely. There isn't, so to speak, a Christmas tradition in Discworld—I mean, in a city like Ankh-Morpork, where suicide is defined as saying the wrong thing in the wrong place and, for example, ticking off a bunch of stupid but highly violent trolls, it's highly unlikely that you'd find someone who'd want to climb up on a wooden lower case “t” and have himself killed for the betterment of those around him.

But people will be people, and traditions will arise. Thus it is with Hogswatch night, when the Hogfather climbs aboard a sled pulled by flying pigs—flying wild pigs—with presents for the children and, well, you get the picture.

Now, Death is perhaps getting a tad sentimental. That's not his problem. What is: Someone has hired an assassin to do in the good old Hogfather, a feat which should technically be impossible, given the lack of his corporeal existence.

But this particular assassin gives assassins the willies. To be fair to him, he probably became an assassin because his name, “Teatime,” drove him crazy (his parents aren't mentioned; justifiable homicide if he got rid of them as payback for the name, if you ask me), and as a crazy person he's actually quite creepy. Pratchett does many things in his books, but he rarely creates a character whom you constantly expect to do something unpleasant just for the … not fun of it, not precisely, because he's not the type of person who understands what fun is, but just because killing people is so natural to him.

Is the Hogfather real? Well, no. Can he be killed? Well, yes.

And in order to thwart the beings who would most benefit from the Hogfather's death, Death is sporting a beard, getting around by flying pig instead of the usual horse, and practicing the jolly sound of Ho Ho Ho. Although this is the most decidedly seasonal of Pratchett's books that I can recall (and keeping in mind what my memory is like), it's not a “special Christmas Discworld novel”; it's a Discworld novel that also happens to have a few things to say about the spirit of the holiday season, and why that frustrating over-commercialized spirit still means something.

There's something ironic about Death being the guardian of life as we know it, but Discworld is like that. Besides, while saving something less tangible than a life—which I think would, strictly speaking, be beyond Death's purview—he makes the Hogwatch rounds, getting into the seasonal spirit by visiting everyone's favorite Ankh-Morpork hot spots. The Watch shows up (and Nobby Nobs gets to visit the Hogfather and ask for his very own Hogswatch present—which is almost worth the price of admission). Death's niece, Susan, trying her hardest to live a normal life, does her best to avoid him, and the children she's governing—well, governessing—teach him a thing or two about monsters.

Pratchett's not a preacher, but he's got such a lovely way with words it's almost impossible not to listen to what he's saying along the way. As usual, this comes recommended.