When I first read the news of Sir Pratchett’s death, I genuinely though it was a joke. Like the weird scam articles you often find on the Internet. But then I checked the BBC website and it was there, under the ‘Breaking News' section.
It’s the third brilliant mind that I love and respect who passed away this year, and every time I could not believe that happened. I have always considered them as constants in my life, quite like the fictional characters whose life they’d given and shared with me and many other people.
For the past two days I’ve been trying to put together what I feel in words. I haven’t had much success even yet.
Sir Pratchett has always been in my life, kind of like some old distant uncle whom you’ve never met but heard so much of. I read ‘The Light Fantastic’ when I was seven years old and it was so different from everything of the fantasy genre that it grabbed me so hard and still hasn’t let go. Of course, I had to have more and luckily the bookstore next door had a row full of his books and it was my little heaven. Cliché as it sounds, his books taught me many things and formed my view of the world: my views on religion, faith, happenstance, life and that maybe it’s alright to take the mickey out of things we really shouldn’t.
And for the past few days all my social media feeds have been full of condolences, quotes and pictures. I’m no expert but I have the feeling he would have hated it. Or it could be my total unwillingness to accept his death. I know I’ll have to at some point. But not now.
For now I’ll entertain myself with the mental image of Death asking him for an autograph after they meet in the afterlife.