It's Still Magic Even If You Know How It's Done

Ursula Le Guin died this week and many people mourned her. She was a writer of science fiction, the old school stuff that changed people’s lives. I have to admit that I never read her books.

But I thought I’d take this opportunity to write the eulogy for the author whose works I have read.

For some people, the beach is their place of refuge. Their happy place. They post countdowns all winter long about the first day of summer and then post endless photos of toes in the sand, kids frolicking in the waves, drinks with little umbrellas in hand. Bubbles is one of those who loves the beach. Others are more specific in their locations. Etsy loves Saranac Lake in upstate New York. Rorey considers Sudbury, Vermont her personal slice of paradise. For my husband, driving a boat around Lake Wallenpapupack in the Pocono mountains is his idea of heaven on earth. One October, before the docks were pulled in, he spent hours racing around the flat glass surface, ears red with cold, going as fast as the motor would allow. Rain or shine, flat calm or full chop, he just loves being out on that lake. Some people love being on a mountain skiing, or walking the streets of Paris, or a million other places that calms their soul.

I love going to Anhk-Morpork. I know where the best pubs are, the best curry, and which shops are the most fashionable. I know that dragons really do make terrible Hogswatch gifts, so I support the efforts of the Sunshine Sanctuary (and, of course, the Lady Sybil Free Hospital).  I know to fear the Summoning Dark as well as The Shades and to pray to the goddess Anoia when my cutlery gets stuck in drawers. It is a city that never sleeps, eats whatever is put in front of it (even CMOT Dibbler’s sausage-inna-bun which only the very brave or the very drunk should attempt) , and has a river that you can walk across, but to me, it’s home. And I can never go there again.

You see, the Discworld, and all the cities and continents within, such as Ankh-Morpork, were created by Sir Terry Pratchett. He died on March 12, 2015.

He left behind the Discworld – a series of 42 books, all about a flat disc-shaped world, carried on the back of four elephants (it used to be five, but one fell and when it landed, it split the continents and its bones turned to gold). The elephants stand on the back of a giant turtle named A’Tuin. Unseen University is the greatest academic institution in the land and the Librarian is an orangutan who always know the exact book you need. Many of the Discworld books fall into categories. Some are stand-alone stories, some follow the paths of the Lancre witches, others follow the lowly watchman Sam Vimes through his eventual rise to becoming the Duke of Ankh (but he really hates wearing the ducal tights and especially the hat with the feather.) Death talks in all caps, rides a horse named Binky, and could murder a curry. There are books about gods, monsters, and those who fall in between. There is a huge cast of characters, one major locations, several minor ones, and all form an interconnected world where politics, race relations, good and evil, all come together to tell a story.

And now its gone. There are no more stories to tell.

I started reading his books about 20 years ago. They fall into the category of fantasy, but they are far closer to Douglas Adams in tone than J.R.R. Tolkien. I don’t know a single other soul who reads them, but in England, he was a best-selling author. He died, much too young, at 66 of early onset Alzheimer’s. His unfinished works were destroyed by steamroller, per his instructions. His daughter, a writer in her own right, made it crystal clear that the Discworld was the work of her father and that she would not be continuing the series.

So, imagine, that Saranac Lake is closed or Vermont has been, um, overrun by ice zombies. Imagine that no boats are allowed on the lake and there are no more visits to the beach. You will always have pictures and memories, but you will never get to go there again. Never get to immerse yourself in everything that you love about it. Every year, I got to go to the Discworld and make new friends, have no adventures, learn new details about the city and its denizens. Whereas I started as a tourist, I became a local. I know what happened when Mr. Hong chose to build the Three Jolly Luck restaurant on the site of a former fish-god temple and what happened when he opened on the night of a full moon and a lunar eclipse at the winter solstice. I know how to play Thud, both the troll and the dwarf side, and I know that Leonard of Quirm is more a prisoner in mind than body. And I know I’ll never, ever get to visit with him again.

J.K. Rowling gets much credit for how she was able to layer the cast and plot of the Harry Potter series. The vanishing cabinet is first mentioned as a blink and you’ll miss it gag in Chamber of Secrets, but becomes an integral part of Half-Blood Prince. In Deathly Hallows, a random collection of characters are overheard meeting in a desolate wood and even though none of the characters are main ones, we can easily feel the pain of Ted Tonks, Dean Thomas, and Griphook because we had met them before. While the chapter mostly is used as an exposition drop for our main characters to learn what is happening in the wizarding world, it is also an example of Rowling’s skill. She didn’t just know how to set off Checkhov’s gun, she knew how to build the firearm from scratch and hand-poured the bullets.

Pratchett was the same. Characters dipped in and out of the books so that the stories never felt isolated from one another. I actively dislike books where characters have no family, no friends, no coworkers and exist in a bubble of only the few people necessary to the plot. Life doesn’t work like that and neither did the Discworld.

The Discworld reflected our world. There was a Scone of Stone instead of a Stone of Scone, though both were stolen. There was a book about Australia, one about rugby, and even one that riffed on Shakespeare. When I am sick, or busy (or during those very weird few months when I was highly medicated and couldn’t follow a recipe, let alone a plot) I could disappear into the Discworld and be at peace. I would open the latest book, read it cover to cover, then flip it back to front and start all over again, once, twice, thrice until I practically had it memorized. I still check Amazon hoping that a magical final book will be revealed, that I’ll get one last visit to my home away from home, so that this time, I can really soak in all the details. Sir Terry Pratchett will be greatly missed by his family, obviously, but also by the millions of fans who raced to the bookstores to purchase his newest novel and lose themselves in the magical world that he created.    

At last, Sir Terry, we must walk together.

Terry took Death's arm and followed him through the doors and on to the black desert under the endless night.

The End.^[77]