Pterry

Long, long ago, and far, far away, I once read fantasy by the trilogy-load. Paperbacks, so easy to carry and read in corners. I'd grown tired of mysteries, never cared much for scifi, and romance - feh. So, I read fantasy, whatever came to hand. Often, this meant the second or third book in a series, and I began to weary of the exuberant conventions, always superlatives, always the most dire magic, destruction of worlds and miraculous rescues - that are never resolved enough to stop another book. And they all hinge upon each other.

I'd immersed myself in Lord of the Rings between 7th & 12th grades, an escape, and an education. I've never gone back to read them again. (I'm not interested in the movies, although I saw the first one against my inclination.) It spawned many others to write multi-volume sagas of magic and dragons, and for a while, I thought that was wonderful.

I don't know which one became the last, when I vowed to never read another part of a trilogy (or more), but the decision was made. I still read funny ones, Robert Aspirin, and Steven Brust (although even those... .)

So, The Colour of Magic became the antidote. Parodying a genre I still held affection for. Fell utterly under his spell in Equal Rites, Esk and Granny in particular moved into my head and never left. The rest stumbled in randomly, none needing the previous story to be a complete story. The characters flowed in and out, the jokes bled from one book to the other, but none depended on previous knowledge. I certainly never read them in order. A new book would sweep me up, preventing sleep until the final page.

They were funny, but serious, never taking themselves too seriously. And filled with puns and allusions and cranky characters with strange names, innumerable cleverly twisted phrases. Plots that cascaded trippingly to satisfying endings with (half)brick jokes attached, sometimes in a wizzard's sock.

I think Men at Arms was when I first realized he'd become a skilled novelist, hiding his deeply held opinions behind Nobby and Colon's silliness. The stories sluiced through him like our world's memes poured through Discworld.

DEATH, though, got in everywhere. Compassionate and disinterested, intensely curious and deeply patient, an extraordinary idea, strangely, fleshed out and given life. Children and cats knew not to be afraid of DEATH, the message being that Death is not fearsome, however final. A character with a fatal flaw, taken to a literal extreme, as was Pterry's wont.

He'd been wrapping up as many loose ends as he could, resolving as many of the stray plots, giving his characters good places to be, as much for their sakes as for ours. Putting his affairs in order, caring for all of us.

I weep a little, not out of sadness - that would be inappropriate. He had a good death, before the ravages of dying could strip him of everything. He didn't have to end it himself, in extremity of suffering. He created a world, gave us novel after novel, character after character.

Instead, it's a sense of importance, of passing, a wave of grief and gratitude. I've wept at every death I've ever witnessed, even when I simply attended the organ procurement, and they were in some sense already dead. I've cried a little at every birth, as well. That transformation, first breath or last, is powerful. Not sobbing nor wailing, but a few quiet tears, they just appear.

He spoke to me, and I love his writing, and will read it for many years to come.