I don’t write about contemporary authors often, but today I have to. Terry Pratchett has died. I never knew him personally. I never even had the chance to meet him at a signing, and I’ll regret that. To those who did know and love him, I want to say how sorry I am for your loss.
Terry Pratchett’s work meant the world to me. His novels were a professional inspiration and a personal solace. If I was sick, or feeling down, or something terrible had happened to me, I could always open a Terry Pratchett novel. Whether I’d read it before or for the first time, opening one of his books felt like stepping into a good friend’s home. The furniture might be different. There may be some unfamiliar guests. But the deep familiarity and sense of unconditional welcome remained the same. I’d read his work to feel less alone. I’d read it to feel loved. I’d laugh out loud. His words, his observations, and his humor gripped me. By the time I turned that last page, by the time I’d shut that book, the world would seem every so slightly brighter to me and more beautiful. I can’t say much as to whether or not a single author can change the world, but I know that his works changed me.
Professionally, his skill as a satirist was unparalleled, especially within the realm of speculative fiction. His skill at writing well-drawn characters and a compelling, quick-paced plot will continue to astonish me every time I return to one of his books.
Neil Gaiman wrote an essay in the Guardian about Terry Pratchett’s humor coming not from jollity, like many suppose, but out of anger. I buy that. I can even venture to say that I understand it. Such driven anger comes from love. You have to love something profoundly before you can get that angry about it. You have to love it in order to care that much. You have to love it in order to observe it that closely. His sharp witticisms about human nature, progress, politics, and genre fiction could not have come about without relentless observation. And that deep attention to the world, that passion and anger, came from caring.
Not many people can care that deeply. Not many people are brave enough to really look at what they love honestly and critically. Not many people have the integrity, the openness, the courage, to share their passion. Much less to do it so vividly. His rarity as a writer came from, I think, his rarity as an individual.
Again, I say this as a reader and a writer, as someone who had familiarity with the work but not the man: The world has suffered an extraordinary loss at his passing. To those who knew him personally, I can only say again: I am so, so sorry.
