Terry Pratchett died.


The Color of Magic was the first book I ever read. I’m not really sure how old I was, I must have been very young, since I barely understood the book or its contents. But I did know immediately that I would have to read ever single book he would write.
Everything was a bit to the left, just a tiny bit twisted. There was magic in the world of Discworld, but it was a different kind of magic. Sure there were wizards and gods, but they were on equal grounds with everything else in the world. Even the wildest characters felt grounded in their own little realms, because that’s how we are in the real world. We see the world in wild ways, but are equal in our wildness. Pratchett pulled on the strings of absurdity, he showed us how to find the finite little moments of magic that exist around us. Or at least how to imagine them to be there.
And in the end, what’s the difference?

“All right,” said Susan. “I’m not stupid. You’re saying humans need… fantasies to make life bearable.”

REALLY? AS IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE.

“Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little—”

YES. AS PRACTICE. YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THELITTLE LIES.

“So we can believe the big ones?”

YES. JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING.

“They’re not the same at all!”

YOU THINK SO? THEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THENSHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET—Death waved a hand. AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME…SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED.

“Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what’s the point—”

MY POINT EXACTLY.”

RIP Sir Terry, I hope Death was like you wrote him to be. You said: “No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away…” You will be immortal.

 

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