Why I Can't Stop Crying Over Terry Pratchett
Yesterday hit me hard. Here's why.
I read my first Discworld book when I was 13. That was 13 years ago.
It all started just as I was at the beginning of my fantasy phase - I had just discovered the vast world of manga and anime beyond "Pokemon" and "Sailor Moon," was already fangirling hard over "Harry Potter" and slogging my way through Tolkien. An older friend from a school club noticed this rapid descend into geekery and decided to faciliate it by recommending "The Colour of Magic." "It's a special kind of fantasy," he'd told me, "and not to everyone's tastes, but try and see if you like it."
I did.
I soon learned that "The Colour of Magic" was by no means the best Discworld book - if anything, it's probably the weakest since Pratchett was still getting the hang of this new world and what he could do with it. But I was enthralled anyway. Having read a few fantasy novels I could get my hands on in the local library, I had already been growing a bit sceptical of the genre and its repetetive tropes, but this, now, this was something sparkly and new and, most of all, funny. It was a story with countless scathing parodies of the genre scattered on the pages, about a walking magnet for bad luck, incompetent and cowardly and so very flawed, who only saves the world by chance and by not being able to run fast enough - or in the right direction. Rincewind is the very definition of the reluctant hero, but his jaded view of the world is not the only one we get because there's also Twoflower, an optimistic dreamer whose power to dream is mocked, yes, but also proves strong enough to bring ACTUAL FUCKING DRAGONS to life. I still remember how thrilled I was when I was reading those passages, how energized, how moved. And now that I think about it, this balance of cynicism and hope is something that appears in Pratchett's books again and again and again in a beautiful, human balance.
I couldn't read the books in order because my library only had a few of them, so after "Colour" I had to jump straight to "Reaper Man." And I think it was that novel that ultimately convinced me that yes, I want to read more of this author, because not only did it make me laugh out loud - I still snicker at the exchanges between the Unseen University faculty - but it also made me cry. And think. I did a lot of thinking back then, about the power of words and writing, about life, and most of all about Death, because you can't go through "Reaper Man" and NOT think about those things. It's just that kind of a book.
Continuing my haphazard order of reading I then jumped to "Saurcery," then "Mort," then "Pyramids" and "Moving Pictures," and only then did I return to "The Light Fantastic" to see how "Colour actually ended (had to borrow it from the Pratchett-reccing friend because the library didn't have it). At that point there were no more Pratchett books for me to borrow and I just couldn't get enough, so I started saving up for them from my pocket money and asking for Pratchett books for every birthday, every Christmas, and begging for them whenever I could drag any of my parents within a mile of a bookstore. I knew I had to read them all, and own them all, because those were the kind of books I knew I would reread over and over. My collection began to fill up the shelves just as my love and adoration grew, and soon, inevitably, Pratchett started to seep in into my own writing, as anyone who's read my old Teenage Goth era fics can confirm. I was absolutely in love with Pratchett the Writer, I wanted to be like him, and I'm not ashamed to admit I tried to imitate his style at every opportunity even when I didn't quite grasp what it was that made it so unique and powerful in the first place.
Now, I think I do. And I think I understand the workings behind those books a little better. But even as a teenager I was moved to tears by the beauty of the lessons those books carried, lessons that were subtle and that turned the cogs in my brain without me even noticing. Lessons about writing, yes, about characterization, about the impact of single paragraphs, about watching the world for inspiration, about humour, about distance and moderation and style. (I'm not saying these lessons stuck. I'm still learning them, and I believe I will for long, long years to come.) But also lessons about right and wrong vs. good and bad, about injustice, about class struggles, about the value of the simple things in life, about human nature, about pain and joy and Death. And anger. Anger most of all. Neil Gaiman's piece on the subject captures it better than I ever could, but Pratchett's anger still influenced me more than I can tell, and helped me be angry at the right things.
Like gender inequality. Because reading Discworld only confirmed what I was already noticing in primary school - that the world was not fair, and especially not fair to women. The cardboard cutouts of female characters I was unfortunate to keep finding over and over again in fantasy books bored and sickened me, but in Pratchett, even in very early Pratchett, I found women I could actually enjoy reading about. I still remember how pleased I was with Liessa, and then there were Ptraci, Conina, Princess Kelly and Ysabell, and of course Esk, the first girl to be admitted into Unseen University in a book called "Equal Rites" - and how much more obviously feminist can you get?
Pratchett gave us a wonderful collection of female protagonists. Susan has always been one of my favourites, and then we have Angua, Cheery Littlebottom wih her revolution of dwarven femininity and Sally the progressive vampire, and Sybil Ramkin with her dragon sanctuary and ideas about domesticity, and Rosie Palm with a state-sanctioned guild of sex workers (sorry, Seamstresses), and the entire Monstrous Regiment plus a good portion of the Borogravian army, and, of course, the witches.
The witch cycle is my favourite one, sharing the spot with the Watch. Academic papers have already been written about how skillfully the cycle uses Shakespeare, fairy tales and witch lore, and how it presents femininity, and I want to one day add a voice of my own to this collection. Because this remarkable series offers us some of the best, most interesting, brilliantly developed female characters I've ever encountered in literature, and so many of them, too, being friends, playing against each other and infusing the whole series with something thoroughly magical, but also practical, because witches always, always keep their feet on the ground. I wish I could describe how I feel about those books in a more coherent, succinct manner, but I can't, not right now, because there's SO MUCH to say here, so much to analyse, that I simply don't have the space and the mental faculties to do that right now. I am so thankful for Esme Weatherwax and her hero's journey, her anger and her darkness and her strength; for Gytha Ogg, with her wisdom and cheer and optimism unapologetic sexuality; for Magrat Garlic, for her development and shyness and idealism and good will, and her fairy tale ending which is not an ending at all, nor very fairy-tale-ish; for Agnes, because in so many ways, she is me. And for Tiffany, because little girls NEED a character like her, and the slightly older ones do too, and because she has all the strength, determination and practicality of Granny while also being romantic and "girly" and wanting love, and finding it. She shall wear midnight, and I can't think of anything better for her.
I could go on about other cycles, about how important Sam Vimes is to me with his anger (to this day "Night Watch" is the most chewed-out, dog-eared Discworld books I own from all the rereadings) and about how the Watch books are infused with themes of progress vs. tradition, racism and othering, class injustice and thoughts on human nature, but let's be honest - if you're reading this, you know all that already. And I suppose it's fitting that the last book we got introduces the steam engine to the Discworld, continuing this land's slow journey of progress by human hand rather than magic, because we know that with this invention everything will change drastically, and maybe some of us weren't quite ready to see Discworld resemble our world quite so much. I'm not sure I am.
So why am I sad? Why can't I stop crying? We all knew this would happen the moment the news of Pratchett's disease broke. We were all trying to prepare ourselves for this. And we have this astonishing number of wonderful books to love, and reread, and pass on to new readers so that their legacy will live on, as I'm sure it will. I'm not sure if it's the lack of new books that hurts me so much - no, that's not it, though of course it hurts keenly and maybe that realization hasn't quite hit me yet. But more than that, I feel like I just lost a family member, one who's been with me for over a decade. A favourite uncle, or maybe a beloved teacher. A mentor. A spiritual godfather. A few more years, I always prayed, just a few more years, and then maybe I'd be ready. Maybe I could afford to attend his funeral, if it was a public one. Maybe I could finally write him that letter telling him how much his writing means to me. And now he's gone, this person I never met but feel I know intimately, and gone is a fixture in my life I could never really prepare myself for losing.
It helps to see that I'm not the only one in mourning. My twitter timeline has been bursting with love and grief for this man in equal amounts, and being able to share in this feeling with thousands of others who feel the same is comforting. So is the knowledge that he died in his own bed surrounded by family, without needing to resort to assisted suicide like he was going to. And, after all, Death is an old friend of his. He'd been making friends with him for years now. It helps to think that he'd tamed it not just for others, but for himself, too.
But yeah, I'm still crying, and I will be feeling the loss for a long, long time. I don't know how to deal with this. I don't think I can celebrate his life properly just yet without this crushing, paralyzing sadness. It'll come in time, I think. But for now...
The turtle moves.
I read my first Discworld book when I was 13. That was 13 years ago.
It all started just as I was at the beginning of my fantasy phase - I had just discovered the vast world of manga and anime beyond "Pokemon" and "Sailor Moon," was already fangirling hard over "Harry Potter" and slogging my way through Tolkien. An older friend from a school club noticed this rapid descend into geekery and decided to faciliate it by recommending "The Colour of Magic." "It's a special kind of fantasy," he'd told me, "and not to everyone's tastes, but try and see if you like it."
I did.
I soon learned that "The Colour of Magic" was by no means the best Discworld book - if anything, it's probably the weakest since Pratchett was still getting the hang of this new world and what he could do with it. But I was enthralled anyway. Having read a few fantasy novels I could get my hands on in the local library, I had already been growing a bit sceptical of the genre and its repetetive tropes, but this, now, this was something sparkly and new and, most of all, funny. It was a story with countless scathing parodies of the genre scattered on the pages, about a walking magnet for bad luck, incompetent and cowardly and so very flawed, who only saves the world by chance and by not being able to run fast enough - or in the right direction. Rincewind is the very definition of the reluctant hero, but his jaded view of the world is not the only one we get because there's also Twoflower, an optimistic dreamer whose power to dream is mocked, yes, but also proves strong enough to bring ACTUAL FUCKING DRAGONS to life. I still remember how thrilled I was when I was reading those passages, how energized, how moved. And now that I think about it, this balance of cynicism and hope is something that appears in Pratchett's books again and again and again in a beautiful, human balance.
I couldn't read the books in order because my library only had a few of them, so after "Colour" I had to jump straight to "Reaper Man." And I think it was that novel that ultimately convinced me that yes, I want to read more of this author, because not only did it make me laugh out loud - I still snicker at the exchanges between the Unseen University faculty - but it also made me cry. And think. I did a lot of thinking back then, about the power of words and writing, about life, and most of all about Death, because you can't go through "Reaper Man" and NOT think about those things. It's just that kind of a book.
Continuing my haphazard order of reading I then jumped to "Saurcery," then "Mort," then "Pyramids" and "Moving Pictures," and only then did I return to "The Light Fantastic" to see how "Colour actually ended (had to borrow it from the Pratchett-reccing friend because the library didn't have it). At that point there were no more Pratchett books for me to borrow and I just couldn't get enough, so I started saving up for them from my pocket money and asking for Pratchett books for every birthday, every Christmas, and begging for them whenever I could drag any of my parents within a mile of a bookstore. I knew I had to read them all, and own them all, because those were the kind of books I knew I would reread over and over. My collection began to fill up the shelves just as my love and adoration grew, and soon, inevitably, Pratchett started to seep in into my own writing, as anyone who's read my old Teenage Goth era fics can confirm. I was absolutely in love with Pratchett the Writer, I wanted to be like him, and I'm not ashamed to admit I tried to imitate his style at every opportunity even when I didn't quite grasp what it was that made it so unique and powerful in the first place.
Now, I think I do. And I think I understand the workings behind those books a little better. But even as a teenager I was moved to tears by the beauty of the lessons those books carried, lessons that were subtle and that turned the cogs in my brain without me even noticing. Lessons about writing, yes, about characterization, about the impact of single paragraphs, about watching the world for inspiration, about humour, about distance and moderation and style. (I'm not saying these lessons stuck. I'm still learning them, and I believe I will for long, long years to come.) But also lessons about right and wrong vs. good and bad, about injustice, about class struggles, about the value of the simple things in life, about human nature, about pain and joy and Death. And anger. Anger most of all. Neil Gaiman's piece on the subject captures it better than I ever could, but Pratchett's anger still influenced me more than I can tell, and helped me be angry at the right things.
Like gender inequality. Because reading Discworld only confirmed what I was already noticing in primary school - that the world was not fair, and especially not fair to women. The cardboard cutouts of female characters I was unfortunate to keep finding over and over again in fantasy books bored and sickened me, but in Pratchett, even in very early Pratchett, I found women I could actually enjoy reading about. I still remember how pleased I was with Liessa, and then there were Ptraci, Conina, Princess Kelly and Ysabell, and of course Esk, the first girl to be admitted into Unseen University in a book called "Equal Rites" - and how much more obviously feminist can you get?
Pratchett gave us a wonderful collection of female protagonists. Susan has always been one of my favourites, and then we have Angua, Cheery Littlebottom wih her revolution of dwarven femininity and Sally the progressive vampire, and Sybil Ramkin with her dragon sanctuary and ideas about domesticity, and Rosie Palm with a state-sanctioned guild of sex workers (sorry, Seamstresses), and the entire Monstrous Regiment plus a good portion of the Borogravian army, and, of course, the witches.
The witch cycle is my favourite one, sharing the spot with the Watch. Academic papers have already been written about how skillfully the cycle uses Shakespeare, fairy tales and witch lore, and how it presents femininity, and I want to one day add a voice of my own to this collection. Because this remarkable series offers us some of the best, most interesting, brilliantly developed female characters I've ever encountered in literature, and so many of them, too, being friends, playing against each other and infusing the whole series with something thoroughly magical, but also practical, because witches always, always keep their feet on the ground. I wish I could describe how I feel about those books in a more coherent, succinct manner, but I can't, not right now, because there's SO MUCH to say here, so much to analyse, that I simply don't have the space and the mental faculties to do that right now. I am so thankful for Esme Weatherwax and her hero's journey, her anger and her darkness and her strength; for Gytha Ogg, with her wisdom and cheer and optimism unapologetic sexuality; for Magrat Garlic, for her development and shyness and idealism and good will, and her fairy tale ending which is not an ending at all, nor very fairy-tale-ish; for Agnes, because in so many ways, she is me. And for Tiffany, because little girls NEED a character like her, and the slightly older ones do too, and because she has all the strength, determination and practicality of Granny while also being romantic and "girly" and wanting love, and finding it. She shall wear midnight, and I can't think of anything better for her.
I could go on about other cycles, about how important Sam Vimes is to me with his anger (to this day "Night Watch" is the most chewed-out, dog-eared Discworld books I own from all the rereadings) and about how the Watch books are infused with themes of progress vs. tradition, racism and othering, class injustice and thoughts on human nature, but let's be honest - if you're reading this, you know all that already. And I suppose it's fitting that the last book we got introduces the steam engine to the Discworld, continuing this land's slow journey of progress by human hand rather than magic, because we know that with this invention everything will change drastically, and maybe some of us weren't quite ready to see Discworld resemble our world quite so much. I'm not sure I am.
So why am I sad? Why can't I stop crying? We all knew this would happen the moment the news of Pratchett's disease broke. We were all trying to prepare ourselves for this. And we have this astonishing number of wonderful books to love, and reread, and pass on to new readers so that their legacy will live on, as I'm sure it will. I'm not sure if it's the lack of new books that hurts me so much - no, that's not it, though of course it hurts keenly and maybe that realization hasn't quite hit me yet. But more than that, I feel like I just lost a family member, one who's been with me for over a decade. A favourite uncle, or maybe a beloved teacher. A mentor. A spiritual godfather. A few more years, I always prayed, just a few more years, and then maybe I'd be ready. Maybe I could afford to attend his funeral, if it was a public one. Maybe I could finally write him that letter telling him how much his writing means to me. And now he's gone, this person I never met but feel I know intimately, and gone is a fixture in my life I could never really prepare myself for losing.
It helps to see that I'm not the only one in mourning. My twitter timeline has been bursting with love and grief for this man in equal amounts, and being able to share in this feeling with thousands of others who feel the same is comforting. So is the knowledge that he died in his own bed surrounded by family, without needing to resort to assisted suicide like he was going to. And, after all, Death is an old friend of his. He'd been making friends with him for years now. It helps to think that he'd tamed it not just for others, but for himself, too.
But yeah, I'm still crying, and I will be feeling the loss for a long, long time. I don't know how to deal with this. I don't think I can celebrate his life properly just yet without this crushing, paralyzing sadness. It'll come in time, I think. But for now...
The turtle moves.