A man, left for dead, possessed, wild-eyed, dirty and bleeding, drives his foes before him and emerges from darkness while screaming out the words of a children’s book. Because no matter what happens, no matter what kind of day he’s had, this man is always home for story time. Because Some Things Are Important.
This is the image that brought me to tears, on a plane somewhere far away from my children. It’s absurd and silly and heartwrenching all at once. It’s the kind of thing Terry Pratchett managed to pull off, page after page, book after book. Terry could have been perfectly successful as a fantasy parodist; a teller of silly tales. But he decided to be so much more than that. There is more insight into the human condition in a Pratchett novel than on whole shelves of philosophy texts.
Goodbye Mr. Pratchett. Thanks for keeping me sane on so many flights, in so many bleak hotel rooms. Thanks for reminding me to love humanity because of their pettiness and stupidity and not just in spite of it. Thanks for Sam Vimes and Granny Weatherwax and Lord Vetinari and all the other wonderful characters who I sometimes forget are made-up. Thank you for everything.