Earlier this evening, I was speeding through my Twitter feed when I came upon terrible news.
I grew up on a steady diet of Discworld novels, spending my teenage (and post teenage) years devouring tome after tome of Terry Pratchett’s finest (that is to say, every single one of his books). Even now, he’s my instant go-to answer whenever anyone asks me for my favourite author.
There was no one who wrote like him. He never had to set up elaborate punchlines or hit below the belt for laughs, relying rather on fantastic wordplay and an impeccably executed deadpan that generated more side-splits per page for me than other comedy writers (or even comedians) had in their entire careers. For once, I’m not being hyperbolic.
Plus, he was amazing at making the weirdest but most lovable cast of characters I’ve ever had the fortune to read about.
While he had been battling Alzheimer’s for quite a long time, Pratchett always felt like one of those fixtures in the world who would never leave us – steadily resting in a little nook somewhere idyllic – I’d imagine – churning out book after book that would delight readers the world over.
Farewell, Sir Pratchett. You might be gone from this world, but you will never be gone from Discworld – and our hearts. Condolences to the Pratchett family. RIP.