Dear Sir/To Whom It May Concern/Folks at the Guardian
I hope this letter finds you we- Oh, who am I kidding.
Terry Prachett, you've been a fixture in my family's bookshelves and in our hearts. There is no one who can parallel your writing ability, your knack for making people laugh so uproariously, and your wit and intelligence. If we're talking legacies, there's few that are better to have than Discworld. I was a precocious kid, growing up in Pakistan, with parents that put me onto the habit of chain-reading. Open one, finish it, open another, rince (sic. Also, see what I did there?), repeat. Cigarette optional. Discworld novels were a part of that cycle; my parents' bookshelf was full of your wonders, but I was too young to truly appreciate them.
And then, last April, I went to DC with my best friend. A lot of our relationship comprised of him reading your books on his Kindle. It was an audio-visual experience for me, watching him read. One second he would be reading, tight-lipped, the next the laughter would bubble forth and he would be doubled-over. I vowed that I would pick up Discworld again. Really! But anyway, we were at a bookshop in DC and I guess he'd had enough of hearing me say that I'd get to it, I'd get to it! because he essentially threw The Monstrous Regiment at me. So I started reading.
And from then on, I just devoured his books. Breathed them in. Shoved them at everyone who would listen to me long enough for me to ask, "Have you ever read Terry Prachett?"
Every morning this past summer, my dad and I would exchange notes about Rincewind, about Death, choke on our breakfast because we individually of one another started thinking about stand-out quotes (that made breakfast very difficult - every other sentence you write is a stand-out quote). There's very little else you can do while you read Terry Prachett short of smiling like a maniac or keeling over because you can't stop laughing.
When you love someone's work that much, they become immortal to you. But, well, here we are. And there you are. That is to say, there you are, not alive anymore. And here I am, with tears in my eyes.
There's not very much else I can say except thank you. Thank you. I'm gutted and devastated and I will be sad for a very, very long time but if there's anything that'll help me pay homage to you, it's to keep writing and keep reading. Rest in peace, you giant, you. You will be profoundly missed, but Discworld will continue on floating lazily through the vacuum of space on the back of Great A'Tuin.
Yours,
Neiha.
