On the back cover of my copy of Good Omens Gaiman sits off to the side while Pratchett is standing in the door of a mausoleum under a winged hourglass. Tempus fugit, but there will always be time for his books.
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The Scrivener
THIS IS HIGHLY UNUSUAL.
The scrivener sat at his desk, writing by the light of a small guttering candleflame. âI am sure you will find a way to cope.â
Death did not usually concern himself with causes, except that there had to be one. Causes were complicated, and he was paid[1] to deliver an effect that made things simpler for all involved.
In the Shades of Ankh-Morpork, the usual cause - and here Death could speak with some authority - was not paying attention. People in the Shades who were irregular in their attention ledgers usually received a very quick audit at the end of a sockful of pennies wielded by one of the freelance accountants who roamed the alleyways. In this case, thoughâŚ
IT IS BECAUSE OF UNCERTAINTY.
âAnd I am sure your department regrets the error, etc., etc.,â said the scrivener. âWe arenât going until I am done.â
In this case the scrivener was paying attention. He paid attention for a living, and, it seemed, he wasnât about to give up the habit just yet. He wrote the words of other people, because many people who had
something to say couldnât write for themselves. If someone in the Shades wanted to send a letter, or post a bill, or do anything else to make themselves heard, the scrivener charged sixpence[2].
WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Death leaned over the scrivenerâs shoulder to see what he was writing. He was, after all, a people person. It was difficult to see, though, because the man wore a wide-brimmed black hat.
âDo you know why I wear this hat?â asked the scrivener. âI started wearing this hat to stop nosy people like you from looking over my shoulder.â
SORRY. I WAS âŚTAKING AN INTEREST.
The scrivener wrote for other people, but that didnât mean he wrote exactly what they said. If they were angry and afraid to show it, he made certain the person on the other end knew they were angry. He had a skill with words and a very pointy pen to deliver them with. His customers
often had neither.
âIf you must know, I am writing a story. I am almost done. And then,â he said, in a tone so firm it could have supported the Discworld on its back, âwe can go.â
THE UNCERTAINTY IS â
The scrivener turned around. Death looked into the scrivenerâs eyes. They were the eyes of a rooster who had just figured out what his spurs were for. âI will go on my terms. I donât know why this is confusing you.â The scrivener stopped himself, phrasing his next words more kindly. âAre you new on the job? Iâve done lots of jobs. Everyone has a first day on the job. Some people have plenty of first days in the same job, even.â
IT IS NOT MY FIRST DAY. WHAT IS THE STORY ABOUT? IF I MAY ASK.
âIt is my story, in a way. It is my own words,â and here the scrivener effaced himself, as if what he had done wasnât worthy of being written down on something so permanent as paper, âIt is the story of a wizard. A cowardly wizard.â
AH. I THINK I KNOW HIM.
âNot like I do,â said the scrivener. He turned back to the page, added his name, along with a footnote. âAnd I think I am done, then.â He stood up. âNow we can go.â
[1] Two coins of whatever currency[2] the client preferred, one on each eye.
[2] The Kâhelsee-bun tribe of Howandaland, through a transcription error, thought they were supposed to pay Death in currants. Before the practice died out completely, Death had become quite adept at making
jam, which he gave out as Hogswatch presents.
[3] A surprising number of these sixpences came out of someoneâs sock. Itâs best not to think about.
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âDead?â said Rincewind. In the debating chamber of his mind a dozen emotions got to their feet and started shouting. Relief was in full spate when Shock cut in on a point of order and then Bewilderment, Terror and Loss started a fight which was ended only when Shame slunk in from next door to see what all the row was about.
No, said Cohen thoughtfully, not exshactly. Just gone
He will be missed.
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Uh, darn. I just canât get used to the fact that staying is not the point in traveling.
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I was just finishing a full read through of the Discworld novels. I think I am less than 100 pages from completing Raising Steam⌠
His books a have been helping me keep sane while I am studying electrical engineering.
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On an unrelated note, but not as sad, tomorrow the long running webcomic Girlswithslingshots ceases regular publication as Danielle Corsetto goes back to education. Itâs another series with a cast of characters who appear and disappear as life goes on, in a slightly alternative universe (talking plants). Itâs clearly the end of an era.
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I first met Pterry in â97, Iâd read all his books and was standing with a pile of them, patiently waiting along with many others to meet the great man himself. I got to the table and he eyed my pile with amusement. Pulling one book from it he opened it and looked at the stamp I had in each proclaiming ownership.
âIs that really your name?â he asked, curiosity tinging his voice.
"yes, its a middle english word meaning watermeadowâ I replied innocently.
"hmmmâŚcome see me afterwardsâ he said, proceeding to briskly emboss and stamp each book.
A little bemused, I hung around the shop as the line slowly diminished and each fan either left clutching their prize to their chests or waited to see what would happen next.
He gave us a reading from the next book in the series âCarpe Jugulumâ and then settled back for some pizza.
He motioned me forward with a smile and we got chatting about language and how it had changed over the years.
Then he dropped the bombshell âIâd like to use your name in a bookâŚdo you mind?â
I remember being somewhat stunned and, naturally blurted out âof course, do anything you want with it!â
He gave me his (then) private email address so I could send a permission form, my friends were all green with envy.
A couple of years later when I had almost forgotten about it, I received a call from a friend who was also a fan âI hate you so much!; she said. I didnât know what she was on about âGo get 5th Elephant and read it - you bastardâ
I hurried to get the new novel (hardback of course) and settled in that evening and could scarcely contain my delight when I found âConstable Pingâ had a part.
When we met again he signed my newest books âCorporal Pingâ and said âDidnât I tell you that you got a promotion?â
And so I turned up again in "Night Watchâ
We continued to correspond and I last met him in 2012 at the Nullas Anxietus convention in Sydney, he looked frail and tired but still greeted me with enthusiasm, he told me of the plans to make âthe watchâ tv series and that heâd try to get Cpl Ping a spot in it. We said our farewells on the last day and I knew Iâd likely not see him again.
Farewell Sir Pterry, you bought a lot of joy into my life and your books are a treasure I shall pass on.
Love from Corporal Ping
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We knew it was coming, but at the same time, I donât think I ever believed the day would actually arrive. He always seemed to be a force larger than life, so much so that Death would tip the hourglass back the other way.
I suppose at the end of it, I feel privileged to have met him a couple of times and to have existed in the same part of the multiverse where his books existed.
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Terry Pratchett was a philosopher. I hope that hundreds of years from now heâs spoken of in the same sentences as Socrates and Kierkegaard. He should be.
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I didnât expect to feel the grief I do.
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By all accounts a great human being.
RIP.
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I wish everyone would stop dying. Goodbye Terry.
Too soon. We knew it was coming but it still feels too soon. Iâm grateful for the magic he brought to my life, and for the hours my family spent together listening to readings of his work. What an amazing human being.
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As he was neither gloomy nor a supporter of aristocratic dictatorship, I hope the sentence will be âTerry Pratchett was nothing at all like Socrates or Kierkegaardâ.
Youâre right⌠I hope it goes like this: âPratchett was just as much a philosopher as our greatest and, like Kierkegaard, wrote philosophical novels that challenges our preconceptions and presented a view of an enlightened, human perspective. And, while he was as good as Socrates or Kierkegaard, he wasnât as boring, gloomy, or generally a pain in the ass like them; in fact, he was a remarkably nice person in real life.â
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I know itâs a little soon, but I hope his sword winds up in good handsâŚor maybe he has plans to be revealed for a quest for the Pratchett Sword.
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It is very hard to find a nice philosopher. Marx,Voltaire, Ayer, Russell, Wittgenstein, all pains in the backside. Why do people become philosophers? Usually, I suspect, because they want the answer to the ultimate question - why arenât I rich, happy and famous.
(Well, in Wittgensteinâs case the answer was âbecause I gave all the money awayâ, but I think generally the argument holds.)
Of course, the answer to the question is âBecause I havenât had the sense to be a best selling novelist living with my much loved family in a nice part of Wiltshireâ.
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I think pains in the backside might have been part of the problem for Marx.
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I was going to post that, and then forgot, since itâs been such a weird day for me. A beautiful tribute.
