TERRY MEETS THAT CHARACTER: DEATH.
When a writer, artist or musician dies, another luminous avenue of creative originality suddenly ends and we are all the losers. Now another light has been extinguished; Terry Pratchett at the young age of 66. I was never particularly taken up with Terry’s literary fantasy of Discworld, but I admired him immensely for his quirky, inventive mind and, from a writer’s standpoint, his prodigious work rate. 70 books, translated into 37 languages. Now there’s a writer for you - a man grabbing his given talent by the neck and driving it along with joyful grace. I liked the way he dressed, his cheery demeanour, I was moved by the brave face he presented when faced with the grim challenge of Alzheimer’s, a cruel, cruel affliction made more bitter when it attacks an inventive artist. I never bought one of his works yet I feel diminished by his sudden absence.
Terry’s exit, inevitably, for an agnostic, raises that perennial conundrum; if there is a God, (and my Jury left the room decades ago on this one), then what perversity he displays. He takes innocent journalists and allows them to be decapitated by his ‘servants’. He inflicts cancer on millions of innocents, lets children suffer. Is this some celestial, warped sense of humour? Whilst corruption rages, bankers gloat over their bonuses, a simple, talented and creative man who never harmed anyone with his entertaining stories, is made to suffer and then removed from our lives. Ah, well, that’s the ‘Mercy of the Lord’ for you. So thank you, biology, for bringing Terry Pratchett into our world. If there is a heaven - I hope it’s called Discworld, because when Terry gets there, he’ll be the Great King. Thanks for being a writer, Mr. Pratchett.