The author died at home, surrounded by his family, "with his cat sleeping on his bed."
"How can we ever know the difference we make to the soul of the earth? Where the infinite stillness of the earth meets the passion of the human eye, invisible depths strain towards the mirror of the name.
In the word, the earth breaks silence. It has waited a long time for the word. Concealed beneath familiarity and silence, the earth holds back and it never occurs to us to wonder how the earth sees us. Is it not possible that a place could have huge affection for those who dwell there?
Perhaps your place loves having you there. It misses you when you are away and in its secret way rejoices when you return. Could it be possible that a landscape might have a deep friendship with you? That it could sense your presence and feel the care you extend towards it? Perhaps your favorite place feels proud of you.
We tend to think of death as a return to clay, a victory for nature. But maybe it is the converse: that when you die, your native place will fill with sorrow. It will miss your voice, your breath and the bright waves of your thought, how you walked through the light and brought news of other places.
Perhaps each day our lives undertake unknown tasks on behalf of the silent mind and vast soul of nature. During its millions of years of presence perhaps it was also waiting for us, for our eyes and our words. Each of us is a secret envoi of the earth."
- John O'Donohue
7 comments:
Wonderful words; almost wistful, perhaps. I wonder whether there is any basis for them in fact. An enjoyable read.
"AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER."
How fittingly strange that I had just last week (for the first time) blogged about him and Alzheimer's.
That's a sweet tribute to our departed author. Such valuable gifts he leaves us with, disguised as pulp fiction, low-brow adventure stories. The best.
Safe Journey Sir Terry.
HHB
Tom, Nimble,
Via Crow, via Whiskey River.
Frex,
I thought about that.
HHB,
I wonder if his heaven looks a bit like the streets of Ankh Morpork, with trips via Iron Girder out to Lancre and the Quirm shore.
i thought of you when i found out. it's good knowing others out there loved him too.
as with the passing of douglas adams, we lost a writer of great humour and compassion for the silly human race.
pc,
I still get sad about Douglas Adams. And Jim Henson (Kermit is a zombie ever since.) And Gilda Radner. Such brilliant lights, burned out.
And I don't know if I'd've even liked any of them personally, but I was never going to find out no matter how long they lived. They touched my life, and they have a claim to my grief.
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