The Turtle Moves, But Still Weeps #GNUTerryPratchett
A year ago today my favorite author, my greatest soul comfort when I retreat into a book, walked across the sand with Death.
I wrote about it that day. I also cried my eyes out so hard I almost threw up. My sister called from Austria in the middle of it and thought someone in the family had died, and she was a bit perplexed as to why I was this upset about an author. Especially since I hadn’t met him in person or anything.
I’ve cried several times since then—when my copy of The Shepherd’s Crown arrived, when we watched Hogfather at Christmas, when I was at a stoplight the other day and my thoughts went from a quote to the book and the reminder I have all the books I’ll ever have from him now. I wept in bed this morning when the hashtag #GNUTerryPratchett wafted into my feed.
Pratchett was, and is, all I wanted to be in life. That brilliant and varied an author. That stellar a parent. That sharp of a colleague. I did, a bit, want to meet him, but as his friend Neil Gaiman said, if you meet your heroes, they’re not your heroes anymore, they’re real people. Though part of my love of Pratchett was he seemed the most real of all the real people.
I still haven’t read The Shepherd’s Crown. I don’t know when I’ll be able to. I considered it briefly in bed, thinking perhaps that’s what I should do on the anniversary of his death. It was just a flash, though. The book remains on my shelf, waiting. I’m not ready for that goodbye.
I receive the clacks message, and I pass it on, not logged, to be turned around at the end of the line.
Sir Terry, may your name be spoken forever.