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405 pages, Hardcover
First published September 29, 2022
‘No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away – until the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life is only the core of their actual existence.’
— Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man
‘Your reward for doing something good,’ Terry has taken to saying, ‘is to do something else good.’
“There isn't a way things should be. There's just what happens, and what we do.”
― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky
‘Of all the dead authors in the world,’ John said fervently, ‘Terry Pratchett is the most alive.’ It felt entirely true to me at that moment, and it feels entirely true to me now.
“And then I will help him put on his clean clothes, and we will go back to work – the work that he is so determined to continue doing. Because the work has always been the most important thing, but it has taken on a whole new dimension now. Work is Terry’s last defence against this cruel disease which is stripping him of himself. For as long as he writes, he is still Terry Pratchett.”
————
“The book nudged forward by degrees, painfully slowly. But every day that Terry stuck at it was another day that Terry was still a writer. And every day that Terry was still a writer was another day that Terry was still alive.”
“People think that stories are shaped by people. In fact, it's the other way around.”
― Terry Pratchett, Witches Abroad
“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away—until the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life is only the core of their actual existence.”
— Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett (1948-2015)
“Only seventeen, Terry has already latched on to the idea of adopting received and dusty storytelling formalities, perking them up by instantly undermining them, and then arranging for the whole fantastical set-up to be involved in a head-on collision with the modern world in all its colloquial glory.”
“I heard Terry call up: ‘Come on, what have you done with it?’ I went down to him. ‘What have I done with what?’ He was staring directly down at his keyboard. ‘The “S”. You’ve taken the “S”. Where is it?’ I was mystified. I went and stood beside him and looked. The letter S was on the keyboard, in between the letters A and D, as usual. I leaned forward and punched it. He looked at me and held my gaze. There was anxiety in his eyes. How frightening that must have been for him—his known world suddenly and inexplicably not making sense, utterly disorienting signals emanating from his computer keyboard, of all the familiar places.“
“He told me about a dream he had had about us both. ‘You were standing behind me,’ Terry said, ‘and my brain was made of grey sand. And you were trying to hold it all together, but this grey sand was slipping through your fingers, and you couldn’t.’ Trying to hold on to Terry’s brain as it slipped inexorably through my fingers… that was exactly what these months felt like. (…) The book nudged forward by degrees, painfully slowly. But every day that Terry stuck at it was another day that Terry was still a writer. And every day that Terry was still a writer was another day that Terry was still alive. So we stuck at it.“