It looks like we lost a great writer as Terry Pratchett met his creation today.
It
feels like losing a friend. I never met the man, but the grief was real
and genuine. The last time a stranger died and I felt this was was
about a decade ago when we lost Vonnegut. There's no way to really
classify the loss of the potential joy that you would have had. There's
also the weird enjoyment of new discoveries of the posthumous works. But
those are never the same, and cannot be enjoyed in the same light.
On
the other hand, the authors that we spend so much time with are
strangers and they are not, a weird dual both / and and neither / nor
position at the same time that takes quantum phyiscs to explain, and
even then we all know we're bullshitting ourselves.
So mourn the loss, yet rejoice that we are here to mourn.
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