I can’t remember precisely when I was introduced to Terry Pratchett. I think it was my first year of university, when I was 18 – but it might have been the year before or a year later. Certainly by the time I left university I was regularly devouring his books as they were published, and now have almost all the Discworld novels on my shelves (I am missing only the most recent).
Not long after I started to read them, my Nana also got into Terry Pratchett. My Nana was never one for being overly hidebound, and she loved his satirical humour and pithy insights into the world. I remember a telephone conversation I had with her about the most recent Pratchett that she had read (though alas I cannot remember which one) just a couple of months before she died – at a time when she was very much facing her own impending curtain-call. We talked about our favourite bits, and what reminded us of earlier books, and we chuckled and laughed before moving onto the next part of our conversation.
At death’s door, Terry’s writing still had the capacity to invigorate the spirit.
That door has now opened for Sir Terry himself. He will be missed, but his writings will live on.
Requiescat in pace