Oh, Mr. Pratchett. You were a diamond, too.
And now comes the time for the wearing of the lilac…
It’s a bit of irony that I think would amuse Terry Pratchett: after all of his advocacy for assisted suicide and the right to die, he passed away in his sleep.
He wrestled Alzheimer’s to the ground – and won.
Happy are those who live life on their own terms, all the way to the last day.
Godspeed, Sir Terry, and thanks for all the books, and all the worlds you shared; flat ones atop elephants and a ginormous, improbable turtle, deep ones, in the nap of the carpet, crumbly ones, well dug into dirt, high ones in Dunmanifestin or the Ramtops, and little ones inside our hearts, patrolled by verbose frogs, illogical blue men and irascible – and far more importantly, incorruptible watchmen. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? You. Always. And you showed us how to watch ourselves.
Boy, were you loved, and will be missed and mourned so very much.