Wow, just when we’d said goodbye to one nerd god, we have to say goodbye to another.

This one hits me hard.  I am a big fan of Sir Pterry’s work; his wit and ability to play with language in an interesting way made his books all the more enjoyable for me.  He really did make the Discworld live in a way that can really never be duplicated.  He wasn’t necessarily a satirist, although his work is filled with satire, he was a fantasy author whose stories are undeniably human at their core.  And that is, I think, why his work resonates so well with so many people, myself included.

At times like this, we have a tendency to remember moments that made an impression on us.  Like the time Lord Ventinari managed to keep his dignity intact after getting a pie thrown at him*, or the time that one of Sybil Ramikin’s dragons managed to literally fart his way to glory**.  Of course there’s also the sadder parts, like Constable Cuddy’s untimely demise***, and what happened in Ankh-Morpork to Agnes (Perdita X.) Nitt****.  Why, yes, I’m still a bit bitter about that last one.

Anyway, to borrow a phrase from the master himself, “No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away…” and Sir Terry left us with seventy books worth of ripples that will, with any help from whatever Gods of Luck you happen to believe in, continue to affect the world long after the coolest anthropomorphic version of a state of being has taken us all to whatever comes next.

If there’s any more of that luck I talked about floating around, I may end up a little wood worm who gets to eat some really —-ing good wood!

* From Making Money

** From Guards! Guards!

*** From Men at Arms

**** From Maskerade