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Sir Terry Pratchett's Death
This piece was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club Symposium. Each month STSC members create something around a theme - this month it was “Death”.
I was 19 years old when I learned that Sir Terry had died. I cried.
Usually, when I hear of celebrity deaths, I do not weep. I go on about my day, unperturbed. Such is life.
Sir Terry's death was an exception, however, because he was exceptional.
That day, March 12th, 2015, I did cry.
I had read many of his books at that point, in Czech (famously great translation) and in English. And all those books brought me joy. They made me love reading. They were and continue to be brilliant.
Every book I've read of his is fun and the crescendo always magically comes together and the loose ends are tied up just right. His writing feels magical, which is apt. Not only is it fun, but it also speaks to the intricacies and idiosyncrasies of human nature.
And so, that's why I wept that day. The world would not see more of his brilliance. His infinite quantity of wisdom portrayed through funky fantastical figures had become finite that day. Even as I think about that, writing these words, I tear up.
To me, this kind of impact is what any of us can really hope for. Sir Terry was a genius and he put his genius into something that millions of people could enjoy, learn from, and get inspired by. He created something so meaningful that its end moves a random 19-year-old living in a tiny Czech village in the middle of the woods to tears.
Anyhow, excuse me, I think I'll go read a book now.