One of the many wonderful things about Sir T is his basic love of humanity, that no matter how far down we dig ourselves, there is always a hero, a Vimes or Sybil or Librarian with a handy ladder, but there is little such joy in this book although there are glimpses with the cannonball bird and the frisbee octopus which alas are catalogued and listed instead of joyfully embraced and described, and instead of the possibility of freedom, we have female victims, HAL and 2001, weed addicts, and terra-ism.
An amazing concept of endless parallel worlds in which some humans can just step somehow devolved into this depressing mess, and concur completely with previous reviewers that the entire first half is redundant. It's almost painful to hear Sir Terry's voice in this dreadful book he does have a dark side, and I much prefer his Discworld series to his juvenilia, but this simply can't have had much of his input.
It's sprinkled through this mess like curls of dark chocolate throughout a tall stack of cardboard. I adore the prose of Pratchett, which is the only thing keeping the review from being 'one star'. Bits of Pratchett like chocolate chip on cardboard
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