I’ve just seen the news and it is indeed a sad day in the world of literature. Terry Pratchett, author of the renowned Discworld books, has died at the age of 66 following a lengthy battle with Alzheimer’s. I honestly don’t know what to say… I am just genuinely miserable right now.
My relationship with the disk is a fairly recent one as things go. I attempted to read one of the books years ago whilst at school, plucking one from off the library shelves, I think it was The Fifth Elephant, but somebody saw me and got all arsey and said I should start at the beginning with The Colour of Magic. Stupidly I listened. I should have told them to bugger off in all honesty. Many will tell you that the first Discworld book is far from the best (And I would agree) so it is probably no wonder that I didn’t get far in before giving up. It wasn’t until I was at university that I finally did pick up a Discworld book. I’d heard a lot about Nightwatch and how good it was supposed to be so I went and got myself a copy. Blow me it was good. And ever since, every so often I’ve dived headlong back to the Disc. Just this morning I was thinking of picking up Sourcery but opted instead for Thomas Hardy… I haven’t started it yet so I now might just change my mind.
Terry was one of the finest writers Britain, nay the world, has ever produced. He’s certainly up there with the likes of Dickens and the aforementioned Thomas Hardy. He was certainly one of the best writers in Britain today. You can keep your J.K Rowlings and your Ian Rankins… It was Terry who was the king. His works were full of wry humour and wit and his talent for storytelling shone through on every page. His world shall live on, certainly. And he shall never be forgotten.