The thing about words is that a single word is meaningless.
Yes, it has a definition, but that’s not the same thing. A single word carries across no meaning, has no value, cannot adequately describe anything until you put it together with other words until, like a jigsaw puzzle, you’ve put together a sentence that properly conveys what you want it to say.
But sometimes that’s not enough. There are some things that I wish I could properly write down, but I simply don’t have the chops as a writer to express it. It only ends up feeling clumsy and awkward. That’s the problem I’m feeling right now, as I type this.
Sir Terry Pratchett, beloved author of the Discworld series and possibly one of the greatest humorists and satirists to ever wield the written word, has passed away. He was sixty-six years old.
I can’t properly explain how this makes me feel. I could just say ‘I’m sad’, but that wouldn’t carry across the full meaning. Terry Pratchett was one of my favorite authors, because he was, in every way, inimitable. His writing style, his tongue-in-cheek sense of humor, his entire personality that could be felt through the words he put on a page, none of them can ever be copied. There are still two Discworld books remaining in the series for me to read, and it is sobering to realize that they are the last Discworld books.
One of the major aspects of the Discworld series is its treatment of the afterlife. Quite simply, there is no single afterlife on the Disc. After dying, the beliefs a person had about the afterlife become that person’s afterlife. I don’t know what Terry Pratchett’s perception of the afterlife was, but I hope that that’s where he is.