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4.6 out of 5 stars
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on March 8, 1999
In yet another installment of the interminable Discworld series, Terry Pratchett describes Ankh-Morpork's war with a better-armed and better-prepared neighbor. Though he was once the funniest author writing, Jingo shows further degeneration in Pratchett's creativity and ability, probably the result of seriously overfarming the series.
Pratchett has reached the stage in his career where no idea is too weak or too small to be made into a novel. The entire plot of Jingo would have merited a two-line reference or a two-paragraph footnote in one of the best books in the series. In fact, it *did* get used briefly in Guards, Guards. And that is where it should have stayed.
The novel drags on through recycled characters and trite plot lines, never really picking up speed, certainly never producing a real laugh. The only consolation prize for the truly determined reader who manages to finish the thing is Pratchett's always masterful command of the language.
Reading each new Pratchett novel is like watching the inexorable process of a terminal illness. Jingo is no exception. At this point, perhaps the only kind thing to do is put the series to sleep.
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