Remember, Terry, Death Can’t Remember How the Knights Move


If it’s wrong for a 36 year old man to cry at the passing of someone he met only once and briefly I don’t care.

Last night the world – not the literary one, the real one – lost one its great individuals.  Knowing it was coming does not make it easier, not for us and I can only say not for the people close to Sir Terry, although perhaps the sheer number of people to whom he mattered greatly will be some comfort to each other in our collective grief.

We’ll all have stories of how Terry’s writing became important to us.  Mine was he saved me from myself.  Perhaps a tad over dramatic, but that’s the point – he made me want to be a writer.  No, actually he didn’t; he made me want to tell stories.  The two are different.  One has airs, the other don’t, as Granny Weatherwax would say.

Not many people can truly say they left the world in a better place then when they entered it.  As the man himself wrote, “No one is actually dead until the ripple they cause in the world die away” so He will be with us for a long time yet.

Good byre, Terry, and thank you.


Merry Christmas!
A Glimpse at the Amateur Wordsmith