Another year, another 24 far-too-complicated mornings:
Weirdly this calls to mind the latter half of Adam Neville’s The Ritual:
It’s been a whole year of runny, jumpy, shooty death:
I owe Sir Pratchett an apology. A big one. If you’d asked me to list my favourite authors, he probably wouldn’t be on the list; I’d have forgotten him. In the same way often don’t own copies of my favourite films—because I don’t need to: they’ve become such an important part of who I am, they’re always there; there no need to look again.
But damn it, I’m sorry for taking that for granted.
I started reading this, the 26th Discworld novel, years ago and it’s been sitting on my shelf gathering dust all that time. After hearing about his death several weeks ago I thought I owed it to him to at least finish it; halfway in, I keep wanting to cry.
It isn’t perfect, those moments of high action still have an air of the incomprehensible about them but it’s everywhere else, in those beats between the plot, where he casually passes some remark so incisive, so utterly on the mark it resonates with the very absurdity of existence and, perhaps more importantly, is just bloody funny. Not that crude scatology that passes for ‘comedy’ these days, but all too rare, clever wit.
And now he’s gone.