It’s been a year since he died, and I’m still not over it. I’m not over the feeling of terrible loss, or the knowledge that there will be no one else like him, at least not in my lifetime. I’m not over the fact that there was a man who could write so profoundly, with such beautiful poignancy and visceral accuracy of the human condition, but could still work in three different puns to one sentence and make you cry in the next.
I’m not over his rage, his kindness, his love for the world and everything in it. I’m not over how he took the tropes of fantasy fiction and spun them around and turned them inside out and made lumps of cheese into relatable characters and made standard trope heroes apparent as the villains that they are.
I’m not over the alacrity with which he delved into the depths of the human psyche, the lowest of the low points, and found heroes at the bottom—the forgotten, the abused, the criminal and the downright grubby.
And a year later and I’m still not over it. Like losing that favorite uncle who used to show up at family reunions and tell you something interesting he’d read in a book and it’d change your whole perspective on life. He certainly changed mine, over and over until the world started to hurt a little less and shone a little more.
I’m not over it. But I’m so incredibly thankful for all of it.
GNU Terry Pratchett, let the ripples never fade.