It still feels a bit erroneous and unreal to think that Sir Terry Pratchett is dead, as if someone has simply botched a worldwide headcount and missed him out. But he is, and that makes me incredibly upset. Tears have been shed, and it hardly seems relevant that I didn’t know the man. I’m an artistic, creative type and we’re often a pretty sensitive bunch. We tend to take it quite hard when our heroes die.
And a hero and a formative influence he was. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t an inspiration, or I didn’t aspire to his level of talent and wit. Pratchett is the reason that I first picked up a pen and started to write my own stories. It’s a source of profound sadness to me that his own story is now at an end.
If I can indulge in a bit of reminiscing I’d like to write a little about how I first became familiar with Sir Terry. It was a long time ago so I probably have some of the details wrong, but that happens quite a bit with memory. Looking back in time inside your own head is a lot like looking at your reflection in a funhouse mirror – it’s an inaccurate picture, oddly misshapen, and things don’t often appear where they should, if they appear at all. Additionally, extra lumps may pop up out of nowhere and it takes someone from the outside looking in to remind you that your eyes aren’t actually in your chin. But this is how I remember it.
In 1992, just before my 13th Birthday, my parents bought me a gift. They knew I was into folklore and fantasy, and I had heard of this Pratchett fellow from some place or other, but had never read him. The gift was the paperback edition of Terry’s then-latest, Witches Abroad. I would go on to learn later that it was the twelfth book in a series, and not even the first story in which the characters appeared, but I didn’t care.
Before I even started the book I knew I was going to enjoy it. Eccentric cover art from Josh Kirby (another sad loss) and an intriguing dedication – a cryptic reference to something called ‘The Hedgehog Song’ – led me into a vivid world of and about stories. From the first footnote there was an idea planted in my head. By the time of the brief altercation between Granny Weatherwax and a suspiciously Gollum-like creature, that idea had transformed me irreversibly and I had made up my idiot childish mind. I wanted to be a writer. Without understanding how hard it would be or the astronomical unlikelihood of success, I knew what would occupy my spare time and thoughts for the rest of my life.
Cheers, Mr. Pratchett. It’s all your fault.
So I devoured Witches Abroad whole within 48 hours. There were things I didn’t understand about it, but I wanted to. I wanted more, and it wasn’t long before I got it via my second Discworld book, The Colour of Magic. Because I had to start at the beginning.
At first I was slightly bemused when Rincewind showed up. I wanted more info on Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and Magrat, not this silly-hatted interloper who was now the star of the show. I think I slightly resented him at first, but I soon thawed and looked on him too with affection. Through Rincewind I started to see Pratchett’s acute eye for character. His ability to cut right to the heart of a character and paint them vividly in my head with a single line of dialogue or one arch observation will always be a source of wonder. But it wasn’t until I hit the Guards! Guards! And Wyrd Sisters era of Discworld that the true extent of Pratchett’s wit and wisdom was thrown into sharp relief.
In between sessions devouring Discworld I delved into more of his worlds. Truckers. Strata. Only You Can Save Mankind. And of course the astonishingly brilliant Good Omens. Each one a pearl in its own right, but Discworld was something special. It bridged the gap between fantasy and humour like nothing I had ever seen before, and by having multiple casts of character to move between each book it never got old or trite or overworn. Each book was entirely self contained – no need to wade through a seven book series to understand what was going on in the final volume here. And more importantly, each book was about something entirely new. And for 250-400 pages, Sir Terry was an authority on and a gateway into a new subject that I might not have known or cared about until that point.
I would read up on the subjects and themes Pratchett explored in his books. Wyrd Sisters got me into Shakespeare. Pyramids made me fascinated by the culture of ancient Egypt. Small Gods encouraged me to look at theology with a more logical, analytical mind. Reaper Man made me wonder about death. And not a single one of them ever told me that using my imagination was a bad thing or something that I should eventually outgrow.
Pratchett and Discworld broadened my horizons. That Discworld's own horizons expanded with each successive book says all that needs to be said about how far that one series by that one magnificent man has taken me. Now he’s gone and I feel slightly lost.
His death feels to me like I've just come in from a break in an especially brilliant lesson given by my favourite teacher, only to find that he has died in the interim. Sorrowful to see his life cut short, but also lamenting that he still had so much knowledge, so much wisdom yet to impart. Knowledge that will forever be lost to me and the rest of the class.
It's a selfish grief, to pity myself for the loss of a great inspiration. He was more than just his books and more than just an author. His philanthropy fast became laudable in its own right, independent of his writing career. His work towards the preservation of the orang-utan species alone was praiseworthy in its significance. His championing for the cause of assisted dying has done much to further that debate. It's now possible that having had such an eloquent voice arguing in favour of it for the last few years, law and legislation may change a little sooner because of him.
And of course, since his diagnosis with Alzheimer's, his work in raising money and awareness for the disease has been invaluable for both those afflicted with it and those seeking to find a cure. I'm sure that the family and friends that he leaves behind feel enormous pride for the courage and conviction he showed in the face of such adversity.
The Alzheimer's itself was a tremendous injustice. For such a vicious degenerative disease to afflict such sparkling intelligence seems like a singular cruelty. But Pratchett himself must have been a little more pragmatic than most about his condition and wouldn't have bemoaned the world or complained about its lack of mercy. This is the same man that in Hogfather wrote Death saying to Susan “take the universe and grind it down to the finest powder and sieve it through the finest sieve and then show me one atom of justice, one molecule of mercy,” and I doubt that his own feelings on the subject were far removed from those of his greatest creation. He understood that they are phantasmal conceits, but he also understood why people sometimes needed them when the world seemed especially unjust or unmerciful.
Ultimately I think that's the finest thing I can say about him. He understood. And what he didn't understand he explored to the best of his ability, tried to answer himself and then offered those answers to the rest of us. Right up until the end. He's a man who never stopped thinking, even when his mind was slowly being taken from him. That made him astonishingly bold and dauntless, and made me admire him all the more.
Pratchett appeared to feel the same. He was, at heart, a cynic and a pessimist. His works were biting and satirical and cut right to the deepest flaws in anything he saw fit to explore. But his prose was never downbeat or bitter and his voice always had an avuncular twinkle, a cheerful and reassuring disposition. It radiated the feeling that for all the bitterness, grimness and despair of life, and despite the universe being an infinite, fathomless place and our role in it brief, insignificant and purposeless, the joy that we can find in it makes it somehow worthwhile. That occasionally, something can come along to cast light upon the shadow, to provide meaning amidst the madness and make it all worth it in the end.
Sir Terry taught me that, so I can't feel wholly sad that class has been dismissed before the lesson was properly over. Instead I'm grateful that he was there at all to teach it.
