STICKY Sad News for us all.
- Thread starter Tonyblack
- Start date
Tiffany said:
I wonder why they kept so quiet about when his funeral was? I saw nothing anywhere about it, which seeing as how popular Sir Terry was is strange. 
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: :
I found this on the net....
https://humanism.org.uk/2015/03/26/fami ... t-funeral/
The press were very good about not reporting when it was or where it was. If they even knew that is.
https://humanism.org.uk/2015/03/26/fami ... t-funeral/
The press were very good about not reporting when it was or where it was. If they even knew that is.
Also a very interesting obit on the Britsh Humanist website - I never knew he was so involved with them
It seems very strange becoming a member of this community after the person that it formed around has died. I am now questioning why, in all my years of reading Terry Pratchett's books, I never sought to make online connections with other readers. My guess is because when I first discovered the Discworld the Internet was still very fledgling and not something I paid much attention to - and I suppose the habit stuck. Terry's books were something almost no-one around me understood my passion for, and so my relationship with his books has always been a private affair.
(This is going somewhere, I promise).
The trouble was that when he died, and I was numb, then angry, then bitterly sad, it was all made so much worse because I felt so alone in it. The funeral was private, and that was the right thing to do but it meant there was no communal public outlet for grief over the loss of a public figure. So I've finally found my way here, with apologies for jumping on the bandwagon after the horse has bolted (yes, badly mixed metaphor, I know). I've read all fifteen pages of this thread and cried through most of it - with sadness, yes, but also with relief that there are other people who have experienced that loss in similar ways. I have to say thank you to everyone who has posted here for the amazing help you've been even though you didn't know it. Terry seems to have had a habit of unwittingly shaping people's lives for the better, which in my mind is the best legacy of all.
(This is going somewhere, I promise).
The trouble was that when he died, and I was numb, then angry, then bitterly sad, it was all made so much worse because I felt so alone in it. The funeral was private, and that was the right thing to do but it meant there was no communal public outlet for grief over the loss of a public figure. So I've finally found my way here, with apologies for jumping on the bandwagon after the horse has bolted (yes, badly mixed metaphor, I know). I've read all fifteen pages of this thread and cried through most of it - with sadness, yes, but also with relief that there are other people who have experienced that loss in similar ways. I have to say thank you to everyone who has posted here for the amazing help you've been even though you didn't know it. Terry seems to have had a habit of unwittingly shaping people's lives for the better, which in my mind is the best legacy of all.
That's a lovely post Sarah. Terry influenced my way of thinking over the last 20 + years for which I will be ever grateful. I don't know many people in real life that read Terry Pratchett (amazing considering the amount of books he's sold), so I rely very much on what is said here, Discworld and non-Discworld related. I haven't really said much online or otherwise about Terry dying, there's just this terrible sadness, you know? But life needs to have balance so I then think about Discworld and the unconventional education Terry Pratchett has given me and cheer myself up.
Don't be a stranger.
Don't be a stranger.
What a fantastic quote from Carl Sagan - never heard that one before. Yes it's definitely important not to overindulge in the sadness, but it's just great to be able to come here and say something that people understand about it - somehow it lifts you and helps you move on to the point of remembering all the fantastic things about Sir Terry and everything we have left to remember him by.
I totally understand you, Sarah. If I hadn’t joined this forum, these days a part of me would continue feeling kind of misunderstood. It's a shame nowadays finding a Pratchett reader in Catalonia is as difficult as finding a four leaf shamrock! But it’s great to see once Discworld fans are together… we are unstoppable! :dance:
Make yourself at home!
P.s. Beautiful quote, Sister Jen! :clap:
Make yourself at home!
P.s. Beautiful quote, Sister Jen! :clap:
I just put a short message on this thread soon after hearing about Terry's death. At the time I just couldn't put into words what I wanted to say and I'm not sure I can yet but I'm going to have a go.
I first came across Terry's work just before the publication of The Light Fantastic, there was a serialisation of The Colour of Magic back in 1985 on a Radio 4 morning programme called Woman's Hour and the fifteen minute book reading was repeated in the evening which is how I heard it whilst heading to a meeting. I just had to stop and listen to this totally new style of writing and clearly I wasn't the only one as they later did Equal Rites when that first came out such was the demand for more. Since then each book has been eagerly awaited and I've enjoyed introducing other people to this extraordinary man of letters with a planet sized imagination and magical gift for expressing it. It took me another ten years before I went to my first ever book signing (not just my first Pratchett signing but the first time I had done anything like that). To be honest I wasn't that interested in getting the book signed I just wanted to meet the man whose words had given me so much pleasure. In the twenty years after that first encounter I met Terry many times and every occasion was memorable and I still can't quite believe that I won't see him again.
Sixty six is far too young for a talent like Sir Terry to be taken from us. We still have two books to come that we know of, The Long Utopia, book 4 of the Long Earth series, is due in June and The Shepherds Crown, the last Tiffany Aching and therefore the last Discworld novel has apparently had the publication date postponed. We also know from the convention last year that Terry was still writing, is there enough to publish, only those close to him will know. Maybe there could be something like the book of unfinished Douglas Adams works 'The Salmon of Doubt' . To be honest I'm not sure I want there to be, I would rather only have what Terry had decided was finished. But I am The Mad Collector and a completist streak is therefore ever present so maybe.....
There is also still a vast reservoir of Bucks Free Press stories to be tapped and hopefully The Dragons at Crumbling Castle will not be the first and last we see of those.
Terry is sadly gone but the books are still with us and I'm still reading them again and again and introducing other people to them. So I raise a glass to Sir Terry, it's contents are over 40 percent alcohol and made of apples, well mainly apples, in tribute to his memory.
Farewell
I first came across Terry's work just before the publication of The Light Fantastic, there was a serialisation of The Colour of Magic back in 1985 on a Radio 4 morning programme called Woman's Hour and the fifteen minute book reading was repeated in the evening which is how I heard it whilst heading to a meeting. I just had to stop and listen to this totally new style of writing and clearly I wasn't the only one as they later did Equal Rites when that first came out such was the demand for more. Since then each book has been eagerly awaited and I've enjoyed introducing other people to this extraordinary man of letters with a planet sized imagination and magical gift for expressing it. It took me another ten years before I went to my first ever book signing (not just my first Pratchett signing but the first time I had done anything like that). To be honest I wasn't that interested in getting the book signed I just wanted to meet the man whose words had given me so much pleasure. In the twenty years after that first encounter I met Terry many times and every occasion was memorable and I still can't quite believe that I won't see him again.
Sixty six is far too young for a talent like Sir Terry to be taken from us. We still have two books to come that we know of, The Long Utopia, book 4 of the Long Earth series, is due in June and The Shepherds Crown, the last Tiffany Aching and therefore the last Discworld novel has apparently had the publication date postponed. We also know from the convention last year that Terry was still writing, is there enough to publish, only those close to him will know. Maybe there could be something like the book of unfinished Douglas Adams works 'The Salmon of Doubt' . To be honest I'm not sure I want there to be, I would rather only have what Terry had decided was finished. But I am The Mad Collector and a completist streak is therefore ever present so maybe.....
There is also still a vast reservoir of Bucks Free Press stories to be tapped and hopefully The Dragons at Crumbling Castle will not be the first and last we see of those.
Terry is sadly gone but the books are still with us and I'm still reading them again and again and introducing other people to them. So I raise a glass to Sir Terry, it's contents are over 40 percent alcohol and made of apples, well mainly apples, in tribute to his memory.
Farewell
Found these on Twitter from different people, with one complementing the other the written tribute Ithink is excellently done.
Here is a beautiful tribute to Terry, written in something of his own style, by Gil Jaysmith. #RIPTerryPratchett
Gil Jaysmith
He asked them for a few minutes alone to enjoy the afternoon sun, and with a brief hug and a squeeze of the hand they left him. His hat brim was low as he settled back into the chair, surveying his garden with satisfaction. Those azaleas were still looking a bit morose, practically chewed-on, frankly, but everything else was gearing up for the explosion of life which would catapult Spring into Summer before it had quite gotten its bearings. There had been a mild cold breeze a few minutes ago, but he had understood that to be a fact of life. Or rather...
"MR PRATCHETT."
"I knew you were there. Thank you for waiting until the others left."
"A FEW MINUTES HERE AND THERE ARE PERFECTLY WITHIN THE RULES, I'VE FOUND."
"Well exactly. If you can't stretch the rules, they're not rules, they're..."
Death waited helpfully.
"... well, anyway. It's a lovely day for it, isn't it?"
"I BELIEVE THAT COULD BE SAID."
There was a pause.
"I was wondering if you'd show up."
"IN THIS UNIVERSE I DO. I'M INFORMED THAT THERE ARE SOME IN WHICH I DO, AND OTHERS IN WHICH I DON'T. IN SOME OF THE FORMER, WE HAVE THIS CONVERSATION, OR ONE LIKE IT. IN SOME OF THE LATTER, PEOPLE IMAGINE THE CONVERSATION ANYWAY."
"That sounds very..."
Death waited patiently. "QUANTUM?" he supplied after a while.
There was another pause, rooted in, Death perceived, mild frustration.
"I'M SORRY," Death said. "I STEPPED ON YOUR PUNCHLINE."
"Oh, no, no, that's alright. Better that than the joke dying. I'm more concerned about your horse stepping on my flowerbeds, to be honest."
"BINKY," Death said reprovingly. "DO NOT EAT THE AZALEAS."
"It certainly explains why they've always been slow to flower. I suppose his necromorphic field ripples through time from this point, so the flowers have always felt a distinct sensation of being gently nibbled?"
"I'M AFRAID I DON'T KEEP UP WITH THE SCIENCE OF MY HORSE," Death said. "SUSAN HAS LOOKED INTO THE MATTER, BUT I PREFER TO WORK WITH PRACTICALITIES, NOT THEORIES."
"Very sensible. I'm like that. Theories are wonderful, but putting a theory into practice is more wonderful. Not just seeding an idea but demonstrating it. Watching the ripples roll out into the world. It's -"
Death waited.
"... er, would you mind...?"
"OH. OF COURSE," said Death, and made a small movement.
"Oh my goodness. That's - that's so much better. Everything's... my brain, you know. It feels like it's come back to me." There were two of him now, one comfortably installed in his garden, and the other standing by Death, looking around, his eyes alight. He was practically fizzing with an internal energy which had been blurred - as if by a few swipes of a pencil eraser - for some years now.
"SOME PEOPLE SAY," said Death, "THAT LOSING YOUR FACULTIES ALONG WITH YOUR CAPABILITIES IS A BLESSING. I HAVE TENDED TO DISAGREE, BUT I WOULD BE INTERESTED IN YOUR THOUGHTS, HAVING SEEN, AS IT WERE, BOTH SIDES NOW."
"Ha! I expect if you asked Susan she would tell you exactly what I think."
"THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID," said Death, and felt confused at the chuckle this comment received.
They stood and surveyed the scene. Binky continued to gnaw on the flowers. The sun beat down with pleasing force. The grass wasn't quite that kind of grass which C.S. Lewis claimed you would find in Heaven, all cut-glass and dangerous to the touch, but it was certainly very green, and a little wild. "This'll need mowing at the weekend. I was going to do it but I suppose..."
Death felt he could address this one small implied request. He passed a skeletal hand gently in front of him, and the grass suffered a very precise amount of instant decay in its uppermost centimetre.
"ARE YOU AFRAID?" he asked after a moment.
"No. Well, yes. It's like going on a roller-coaster. The man who invented the roller-coaster did a wonderful thing, you know. He gave us another tool for interrogating death and how we feel about it. Another way of looking at our fear. And overcoming it, in a small way. That's why they talk about some books as being 'a real roller-coaster ride', I think. Terrifying - but you'll survive, and you'll talk about it for weeks. You can name your fear. And if you can name it, you can understand it."
Another pause.
"Er... not to, you know, interrogate Death, but... shouldn't we be going...?"
Death looked as embarrassed as his features could express, and cleared his throat. "I HAVE A SHORT STATEMENT FROM MY GRAND-DAUGHTER WHICH SHE WISHED ME TO REPEAT TO YOU."
"Oh? Well, say on, fellow."
"YES." Death was unaccustomed to public speaking. "SHE SAID - THAT YOU HAVE DONE US - MEANING SHE AND I - A GREAT SERVICE, BY CLARIFYING THE ROLE OF DEATH IN LIFE. IN INCARNATING DEATH WITHOUT CLOYING SENTIMENT OR FUTILE EXHORTATIONS, YOU HAVE HELPED MANY PEOPLE FACE US WITH DIGNITY, BRAVERY, AND CALMNESS. AND, MORE IMPORTANTLY, YOU HAVE HELPED MANY PEOPLE TO TURN AWAY FROM DARK TEMPTATIONS, AND TOWARDS LIFE, FOR AS LONG AS THEY COULD BEAR. AND EVERY LITTLE HELPS."
"ALSO," he added after a moment, "SHE THOUGHT 'GUARDS, GUARDS' WAS VERY FUNNY, AND YOU SHOULD HAVE WRITTEN THAT ONE FIRST, ALTHOUGH SHE KNOWS IT DOESN'T WORK LIKE THAT."
"I'm... well, I'm flattered that your grand-daughter thinks all that, and please convey my gratitude to her. And my apologies, that I won't be writing any more books. Perhaps someone else will."
"SHE THINKS MANY MORE PEOPLE WILL READ - AND WRITE - MANY MORE BOOKS BECAUSE OF YOU."
A broad smile. "I couldn't ask for a finer epitaph."
The wind gusted suddenly. Binky looked up, smacking his lips.
There were rustling, scampering sounds, and they both looked down.
"SQUEAK?"
"TECHNICALLY, THERE'S NO NEED FOR YOU TO BE HERE," said Death.
"SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK! SQUEAAAAAK!"
"I SEE. WELL, PERHAPS JUST THIS ONCE."
"Oh, I'm not complaining. Hello there!... you know, he looks just like Paul drew him. And Josh too. Which is strange, as they drew him differently. But now..."
Death waited cautiously.
"... oh, don't worry, I'm just caught short for words. I'm marvelling. I will miss you, old friend."
"AND I YOU. BUT WE STILL HAVE A LITTLE WAY TO GO BEFORE WE PART."
"Shall we go then?"
"YES. BINKY? IT'S TIME TO GO."
"SQUEAK!"
"AND YOU TOO."
And for a moment the garden was filled with shadows completely unsuited to the time of day. Shadows of men and women, of witches and wizards, of trolls and gnomes and dwarves of all heights, of vampires and zombies and werewolves, of clockwork marvels and unlikely heroes and dragons and orangutans, of guards and patricians, of royalty and ordinary people and small blue people. And all the shadows bowed their heads, and were silent, and if you had been looking into the garden at this exact moment, you might have suspected this was an optical illusion caused by a particularly dark cloud passing overhead, coinciding with a moment of grave stillness in the breeze. But by the time you looked up, and found to your puzzlement that the sky was still a majestic unspoiled blue, and then looked down to verify what you had seen, the shadows would have gone, and you would have chalked it up to one of those weird little moments which can't be communicated to anyone, and kept it in your mind, a memory with meaning only to you.
And now there was no-one in the garden.
But the world was so, so full.
Here is a beautiful tribute to Terry, written in something of his own style, by Gil Jaysmith. #RIPTerryPratchett
Gil Jaysmith
He asked them for a few minutes alone to enjoy the afternoon sun, and with a brief hug and a squeeze of the hand they left him. His hat brim was low as he settled back into the chair, surveying his garden with satisfaction. Those azaleas were still looking a bit morose, practically chewed-on, frankly, but everything else was gearing up for the explosion of life which would catapult Spring into Summer before it had quite gotten its bearings. There had been a mild cold breeze a few minutes ago, but he had understood that to be a fact of life. Or rather...
"MR PRATCHETT."
"I knew you were there. Thank you for waiting until the others left."
"A FEW MINUTES HERE AND THERE ARE PERFECTLY WITHIN THE RULES, I'VE FOUND."
"Well exactly. If you can't stretch the rules, they're not rules, they're..."
Death waited helpfully.
"... well, anyway. It's a lovely day for it, isn't it?"
"I BELIEVE THAT COULD BE SAID."
There was a pause.
"I was wondering if you'd show up."
"IN THIS UNIVERSE I DO. I'M INFORMED THAT THERE ARE SOME IN WHICH I DO, AND OTHERS IN WHICH I DON'T. IN SOME OF THE FORMER, WE HAVE THIS CONVERSATION, OR ONE LIKE IT. IN SOME OF THE LATTER, PEOPLE IMAGINE THE CONVERSATION ANYWAY."
"That sounds very..."
Death waited patiently. "QUANTUM?" he supplied after a while.
There was another pause, rooted in, Death perceived, mild frustration.
"I'M SORRY," Death said. "I STEPPED ON YOUR PUNCHLINE."
"Oh, no, no, that's alright. Better that than the joke dying. I'm more concerned about your horse stepping on my flowerbeds, to be honest."
"BINKY," Death said reprovingly. "DO NOT EAT THE AZALEAS."
"It certainly explains why they've always been slow to flower. I suppose his necromorphic field ripples through time from this point, so the flowers have always felt a distinct sensation of being gently nibbled?"
"I'M AFRAID I DON'T KEEP UP WITH THE SCIENCE OF MY HORSE," Death said. "SUSAN HAS LOOKED INTO THE MATTER, BUT I PREFER TO WORK WITH PRACTICALITIES, NOT THEORIES."
"Very sensible. I'm like that. Theories are wonderful, but putting a theory into practice is more wonderful. Not just seeding an idea but demonstrating it. Watching the ripples roll out into the world. It's -"
Death waited.
"... er, would you mind...?"
"OH. OF COURSE," said Death, and made a small movement.
"Oh my goodness. That's - that's so much better. Everything's... my brain, you know. It feels like it's come back to me." There were two of him now, one comfortably installed in his garden, and the other standing by Death, looking around, his eyes alight. He was practically fizzing with an internal energy which had been blurred - as if by a few swipes of a pencil eraser - for some years now.
"SOME PEOPLE SAY," said Death, "THAT LOSING YOUR FACULTIES ALONG WITH YOUR CAPABILITIES IS A BLESSING. I HAVE TENDED TO DISAGREE, BUT I WOULD BE INTERESTED IN YOUR THOUGHTS, HAVING SEEN, AS IT WERE, BOTH SIDES NOW."
"Ha! I expect if you asked Susan she would tell you exactly what I think."
"THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID," said Death, and felt confused at the chuckle this comment received.
They stood and surveyed the scene. Binky continued to gnaw on the flowers. The sun beat down with pleasing force. The grass wasn't quite that kind of grass which C.S. Lewis claimed you would find in Heaven, all cut-glass and dangerous to the touch, but it was certainly very green, and a little wild. "This'll need mowing at the weekend. I was going to do it but I suppose..."
Death felt he could address this one small implied request. He passed a skeletal hand gently in front of him, and the grass suffered a very precise amount of instant decay in its uppermost centimetre.
"ARE YOU AFRAID?" he asked after a moment.
"No. Well, yes. It's like going on a roller-coaster. The man who invented the roller-coaster did a wonderful thing, you know. He gave us another tool for interrogating death and how we feel about it. Another way of looking at our fear. And overcoming it, in a small way. That's why they talk about some books as being 'a real roller-coaster ride', I think. Terrifying - but you'll survive, and you'll talk about it for weeks. You can name your fear. And if you can name it, you can understand it."
Another pause.
"Er... not to, you know, interrogate Death, but... shouldn't we be going...?"
Death looked as embarrassed as his features could express, and cleared his throat. "I HAVE A SHORT STATEMENT FROM MY GRAND-DAUGHTER WHICH SHE WISHED ME TO REPEAT TO YOU."
"Oh? Well, say on, fellow."
"YES." Death was unaccustomed to public speaking. "SHE SAID - THAT YOU HAVE DONE US - MEANING SHE AND I - A GREAT SERVICE, BY CLARIFYING THE ROLE OF DEATH IN LIFE. IN INCARNATING DEATH WITHOUT CLOYING SENTIMENT OR FUTILE EXHORTATIONS, YOU HAVE HELPED MANY PEOPLE FACE US WITH DIGNITY, BRAVERY, AND CALMNESS. AND, MORE IMPORTANTLY, YOU HAVE HELPED MANY PEOPLE TO TURN AWAY FROM DARK TEMPTATIONS, AND TOWARDS LIFE, FOR AS LONG AS THEY COULD BEAR. AND EVERY LITTLE HELPS."
"ALSO," he added after a moment, "SHE THOUGHT 'GUARDS, GUARDS' WAS VERY FUNNY, AND YOU SHOULD HAVE WRITTEN THAT ONE FIRST, ALTHOUGH SHE KNOWS IT DOESN'T WORK LIKE THAT."
"I'm... well, I'm flattered that your grand-daughter thinks all that, and please convey my gratitude to her. And my apologies, that I won't be writing any more books. Perhaps someone else will."
"SHE THINKS MANY MORE PEOPLE WILL READ - AND WRITE - MANY MORE BOOKS BECAUSE OF YOU."
A broad smile. "I couldn't ask for a finer epitaph."
The wind gusted suddenly. Binky looked up, smacking his lips.
There were rustling, scampering sounds, and they both looked down.
"SQUEAK?"
"TECHNICALLY, THERE'S NO NEED FOR YOU TO BE HERE," said Death.
"SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK! SQUEAAAAAK!"
"I SEE. WELL, PERHAPS JUST THIS ONCE."
"Oh, I'm not complaining. Hello there!... you know, he looks just like Paul drew him. And Josh too. Which is strange, as they drew him differently. But now..."
Death waited cautiously.
"... oh, don't worry, I'm just caught short for words. I'm marvelling. I will miss you, old friend."
"AND I YOU. BUT WE STILL HAVE A LITTLE WAY TO GO BEFORE WE PART."
"Shall we go then?"
"YES. BINKY? IT'S TIME TO GO."
"SQUEAK!"
"AND YOU TOO."
And for a moment the garden was filled with shadows completely unsuited to the time of day. Shadows of men and women, of witches and wizards, of trolls and gnomes and dwarves of all heights, of vampires and zombies and werewolves, of clockwork marvels and unlikely heroes and dragons and orangutans, of guards and patricians, of royalty and ordinary people and small blue people. And all the shadows bowed their heads, and were silent, and if you had been looking into the garden at this exact moment, you might have suspected this was an optical illusion caused by a particularly dark cloud passing overhead, coinciding with a moment of grave stillness in the breeze. But by the time you looked up, and found to your puzzlement that the sky was still a majestic unspoiled blue, and then looked down to verify what you had seen, the shadows would have gone, and you would have chalked it up to one of those weird little moments which can't be communicated to anyone, and kept it in your mind, a memory with meaning only to you.
And now there was no-one in the garden.
But the world was so, so full.
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