There is not much I can say today. We mourn the loss and celebrate the life of a great man.
There is so much that does not make sense, that is unfair, that is cruel–or worse, indifferent to us.
If there is comfort to be had, then it is this: things live on long after they seem to end.
That is, after all, what a good book does. It lasts beyond its final lines, its images and ideas stay with us long after we place it aside.
A man is running across a snowy field. The hunters are not close by. They are not far away, either.
A woman trapped in a world of refracting mirrors looks down and sees herself.
Two kings frozen in time, their final game between them.
A horse and rider gallop across the sky, eight colors burning behind four hooves and a streaming cloak.
An empty room, the walls covered with the remains of a bitter argument.
A man is gone, but not truly. Not really. He lasts beyond his final lines.
There is not much I can say today. But I can say “thank you.”
Thank you, Sir Terry Pratchett. We are better because of you.