oloriel | "Perhaps the magic would last. Perhaps it wouldn't. But then, what does?"

Sir Terry Pratchett wasn't the writer who taught me to love stories (that was Astrid Lindgren). He wasn't the one who made me love fantastic worlds (that was Michael Ende). He wasn't the one who made me love the workings of language (that was J.R.R.Tolkien). But, in writing his immensely entertaining, insightful and brilliant Discworld books, he taught me that comedy could be serious, and that the most serious of issues could be addressed with a sense of humour. I can't say with certainty that it's Pterry's fault that I can't stand stories that I feel take themselves too serious; but I really can't stand them, and it might well be.

In past years, I had the impression that Pterry's books were getting rather more bitter. There was still humour in them, but it was no longer as clever as it had once been, sometimes softening the punches with a smart line, sometimes driving a painful point home even more acutely. The brilliance could still be glimpsed, but only occasionally and only through fat black clouds. I put this down to "the embuggerment", which probably was the reason behind it. If you know your mind is turning against you, that can spoil the best sense of humour. If you see your time dwindle and you have so many things to address, you no longer refine every single sentence. It was understandable, and so sad.

I feel like in my mind, I actually said goodbye to Terry Pratchett after I had finished reading Snuff. So when I read yesterday's news, there was no huge wave of sadness, no punch in the gut, no pain of the newly bereaved. Rather, it was a twinge of sadness, like a fist that briefly squeezes your heart and then lets go again: It felt to me as if he had been dead for a couple of years already, moved to the back of my mind, until something reminded me of him.
I bit my lips, and nodded, and breathed, and life went on.

Terry Pratchett was a secular humanist and, as far as I know, of the firm opinion that when life's over, it's over. So I'll refrain from wishing him that he is now in a place without illness and bitterness, where he can tell brilliant stories to an entertained and enlightened audience for ever and ever.
(For myself, though, I really wish he is, and I wish I'll meet him there someday. Though not too soon.)