Pratchett doesn't lie. "Death's garden was big, neat and well-tended. It was also very, very black. The grass was black. The flowers were black. Black apples gleamed among the black leaves of a black apple tree. Even the air looked inky.
After a while Mort thought he could see - no, he couldn't possibly imagine he could see ... different colours of black.
That's to say, not simply very dark tones of red and green and whatever, but real shades of black. A whole spectrum of colours, all different and all - well, black."
Pratchett doesn't lie.
"Death's garden was big, neat and well-tended. It was also very, very black. The grass was black. The flowers were black. Black apples gleamed among the black leaves of a black apple tree. Even the air looked inky.
After a while Mort thought he could see - no, he couldn't possibly imagine he could see ... different colours of black.
That's to say, not simply very dark tones of red and green and whatever, but real shades of black. A whole spectrum of colours, all different and all - well, black."