The Haanta Series venerates Sir Terry Pratchett #RIP

Another star burns bright and streaks into the murk of the unknown.

Sixty-six for such a man of such literary distinction is far too short of a stint on our little swirling blob, drifting aimlessly in the gravitational sludge of the universe. And yet, in all that aimless swirling, there are microcosms that Sir Terry discovered, from people living in carpets to alchemists failing miserably and succeeding accidentally, from thieves and assassins to hogfathers and even Death. His excavations of these paracosms and his sharing it with us is perhaps what we will all miss, but I still contest that sixty-six years is far too short. It does not matter that he left us with countless works; it only matters that we will have no more of them. It is abominable to leave us to flounder about, shamelessly fumbling over so unconquerable a legacy. Never again will the world see such prodigious literary efforts, never again will we be delighted by such fabulous hats, such exquisite smoking jackets, such poignant humour, such candour, such cultivated wizardly looks, such owlish eyebrows. He was some kind of magus, a guardian of a literary reliquary which he would open a few times a year and allow us to see the treasures he cherished. Such pedantic apotheosis is reached by so few, and when parishioners are left without their guiding star, we can only desperately cling to the last intimations of a passing titan.

In his last phrases, Sir Terry wrote himself as walking away with Death, one of his inimitable characters who frequented many of his books. I like to think that since Death's first appearance in 1986, he and Sir Terry had become good friends, the latter nurturing the former until it was time for latter to make his glorious exit. There is a consolation in thinking that Sir Terry went from this world into the one he created. It is all my aspiration that he is gone to Discworld. He will have an enormous time of it if he has. Fantasy authors have the luxury of slipping into the worlds we summon, and there is solace in knowing that Sir Terry got to glory in his in this life as well as the next.

His sermons about dying with dignity and assisted death, and the amount he gave to dementia research will certainly be just as lasting as his literature. Even now, the science world is making discoveries and conjuring cures for a most terrible affliction, one my own grandfather died from. It is a disease that, when it does strike, brings fear, frustration, sadness, and indignation, and as an author, one who has so many to look after, be they characters or readers, to live with the notion that one will one day forget all of it is a fate insupportable. We will stamp out this atrocious disease which robs people of their character, their memory, their dignity. It is only a matter of time now, but most unfortunately, and perhaps unfairly, we could not figure it out quickly enough for the Merlin of our generation, the literary sage of our time.  

"Stories of imagination tend to upset those without one," as he once said, and while I cannot think of how his works should have offended anybody, I am certain he would smile in knowing that they had.