I have been seriously hit by the passing of Sir Terry Pratchett.
Like, I spent some time reading reports and tributes today and I just started bawling. I cried more than I did when my own grandfather died.
Probably because I felt like I knew him better.
It’s just so very shitty that his brain – of all brains – had to be hit by “the embuggerance” of Alzheimer’s. Such a talented, fascinating, amazing person.
I would estimate that a good 10-20% of my childhood was spent in the Discworld. At least. And I’ve read Good Omens more times than I could count. These stories and characters shaped and reflected so much of who I am – my sense of humour, my ethics, my interests.
He was such an inspiring person in the flesh too. I went to a talk of his at a writers’ festival many years back and we bonded over our shared love of Sheri S. Tepper at the signing afterward. He signed one of my favourite books – Small Gods – with “The Turtle Moves!” alongside his big swirly autograph. From everything I’ve been reading the last few days he made the effort to connect with people all the time.
I had to throw that copy of Small Gods out a little while ago.
It had been stashed in a box (of course) in the laundry and got wet and mouldy. The pages were all stuck together and it was stained and stinky. I don’t regret letting it go (from memory I have another signed book somewhere – most likely in a damn box!) but I am extra pissed off at myself for letting it get into that state in the first place.
I’ll always have the memory of it though. And I just need to open one of his books to feel connected again – not that I’ll be able to do that without crying for a while yet!
Grief is so weird.
I hope Death lived up to your expectations, Sir Pratchett. Please give Binky a cuddle for me.
(Thanks, xkcd. Nailed it.)