Lo! Some we loved, the loveliest and best
That time and fate of all their vintage prest,
Have drunk their cup a round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
All the little angels rise up, rise up.
All the little angels rise up high!
How do they rise up, rise up, rise up?
How do they rise up, rise up high?
They rise heads up, heads up, heads up, they rise heads up, heads up high!
“That’s a nice song,” said young Sam, and Vimes remembered that he was hearing it for the first time.
“It’s an old soldiers’ song,” he said.
“Really, sarge? But it’s about angels.”
Yes, thought Vimes, and it’s amazing what bits those angels cause to rise up as the song progresses. It’s a real soldiers’ song: sentimental, with dirty bits.
“As I recall, they used to sing it after battles. I’ve seen old men cry when they sing it,” he added.
“Why? It sounds cheerful.”
They were remembering who they were not singing it with, thought Vimes.
Well, doesn’t that sound meta.
Ideas for new stories are always troublesome. On the one hand they’re great because it means more fodder, more to do, more to write, not going to run out of ammunition anytime soon. On the other hand they start bouncing around your skull like crazy until they’re all you think about, and your brain starts automatically trying to fit everything interesting you see into the new story which both erodes productivity and blocks the potential for further story ideas. The worst part is when they’re absolutely brand new and therefore still vague and shifting; you have the general shape of a theme, or a couple of climactic scenes sketched out in your head, or maybe just a problem that needs to be solved but you don’t have any characters or setting or plot points or anything concrete to work with.
That’s the position I’m in now: I have this very thematic concept in my head without any real sense of character or plot. It needs fleshing out, but I don’t seem to be making any progress. So I’m writing a post about it.
My latest idea was born over the last two or three years, as I started really looking at what’s going on in the Near East, and trying to fit my head around the worldview and psychological framework that drive an intelligent young person who might otherwise have gone on to be a doctor or an engineer or a meth dealer or something—someone, in short, more or less like me—to blow themselves up in the hopes of taking a bunch of people they’ve never met along with them. It’s a profoundly illogical decision from virtually any perspective.
The typical discourse in the West, widely promoted and lent a great deal of credence by the media establishment as well as various political figures, assigns the blame largely on the religious differences between (for want of a better terminology) East and West, often with a statement along the lines of “They are terrorists because religion, everyone knows religion is bad, religion causes all wars and violence.” This, of course, leaves aside the fact that there are billions of religious people in the world—Islamic and non-Islamic—who don’t spend their time murdering people. Terry Pratchett, as ever, summarises my feelings on the matter more eloquently than I ever could:
I don’t have much truck with the “religion is the cause of most of our wars” school of thought because that is manifestly done by mad, manipulative and power-hungry men who cloak their ambition in God.
But I digress.
My point is that there’s something immensely strange about the fact that people—specifically young, middle class people with huge potential in the “developed world”—are willing to blow themselves up in an effort to kill other middle class people they don’t even know. Of course I can understand how extreme poverty, personal vengeance or absolute political disenfranchisement can drive this kind of activity, but it is far harder to comprehend when the people doing it have everything to live for. As an avid reader of Pratchett and Pullman I had a firm foundation of stories about the importance of stories to build on (when considering the monumental sadness of those people’s experience—the people, largely kids, who blow themselves up for seemingly no good reason—one of Pratchett’s best-remembered lines rings true like a passing-bell: “The trouble with having an open mind, of course, is that people will insist on coming along and trying to put things in it.1”), and when I watched Chimamanda Adichie’s TED talk about the Danger of the Single Story I recognised that she was talking about the same things that had been on my mind.
Which brings me to the story that I’m trying to piece together, exploring the power of the stories we tell, the potential they have to control people, the violence and competition that erupts between peoples in their name, and how deeply they are entwined into our politics, economics, religion and psychology.
The problem is, I haven’t got much further than that.
I write fantasy, and I think the aesthetic of fantasy is an important tool in constructing this tale. The great strength of fantasy as a storytelling mechanism is its ability to turn the abstract into something real through the application of magic. In exploring the power of stories, then, it makes sense to make the stories magical.
And that’s what I have: a premise, stories are magical; a broad theme, the power (and danger) of stories; and a long personal history of reading stories-about-stories. I don’t have a character, I don’t have much of a setting (beyond knowing that I want it to be a place with several cultures all mashed into the same place, so that I can depict the tension between the dominant culture and its subordinates), and I’m not even sure how I want the “magic” that my story will revolve around to work.
So, that’s what I’ve been working on and thinking about for the last little while. A story about how stories can drive us to fight each other and how they confuse us about the truth. How our stories are not only powerful themselves, but also confer power on others… And how they can be manipulated.
References [ + ]
|1.||↑||Terry Pratchett, Diggers, pg.14|
The first state-operated public education system in Europe—or at least the first recognisably “modern” one—was introduced by the Generallandschulreglement, a decree of Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, in 1763.1 The decree was intended to establish schooling for all Prussian children in a curriculum based on state-provided textbooks. In 1788 a final examination, the Abitur, was introduced. By 1812 it was implemented in all Prussian secondary schools, and it was extended to the rest of the German Empire following unification in 1871.2 From 1834, passing the Abitur became a requirement for attending university, entering the ‘learned professions’, or attaining a position in the civil service.3
The effectiveness of the Prussian system could hardly be understated—it eviscerated illiteracy, enabled the State to measure the capabilities of its subjects (because Prussia in the early nineteenth century was far from being a nation of citizens), ensure that only the best got into positions of influence, and made certain that the majority of those subjects had some grounding in areas of knowledge deemed important by Prussia’s policy-makers. The efficacy of the Prussian system meant that it was widely emulated: the clearest example of direct copying is Meiji Japan, but the Prussian model also had a significant influence on the United States, and was adopted by Norway and Sweden as well as the governments of Finland, Estonia and Latvia within the Russian Empire, although it was rejected by the Russian Tsar.4 Great Britain and France, meanwhile, lagged behind. In France education became a focal point of the competition for loyalty between the Church and State: the Church wanted to instil conservative Catholic sympathies, and the State wanted to promote republicanism. In Britain, meanwhile, the wealthier classes sought to preserve their educational advantages over the working class, and various local groups—particularly churches—were unwilling to let go their monopoly on education, which they saw as an important boost to their congregations. As a result, compulsory education was not fully implemented in either country until the 1880s.5
Certainly, the Prussian model of compulsory education was efficacious and forward-thinking in the context of the nineteenth century. It produced graduates with a grasp of several things:
- Christian doctrine and practice; how to be a good Christian
- History, philosophy and other manifestations of the so-called ‘classical education’: information deemed important by policy-makers.
In the context of nineteenth-century Europe, these results were unquestionably valuable. The average literacy rate throughout the German States in 1800 was approximately 45%. In Britain it was closer to 50%, in France it was somewhere around a mind-boggling 35%.6 Literacy was increasingly viewed as an important skill (the growing bureaucracies of the period, after all, relied on literate clerks), so anything that worked to improve general literacy in the populace could only be positive.
However, that was the nineteenth century. By 1900 not one of those countries had a literacy rate below 70%; today more than 80% of the global population can read and write, and the lowest literacy rate in Europe belongs to Malta, at 92.8%.7 Numeracy is demonstrated to have a close correlation with literacy rates, and can be inferred to have improved comparably.8 Christian doctrine, practice, and morality are no longer an important element of education in a society underpinned by the separation of Church and State, and has been becoming to an ever greater extent outright illegal.9 The great pillars of education provided by the Prussian system, so important to nineteenth century states, are increasingly outmoded. Even the final (and most resilient) element of the Prussian education: memorised information (or ‘knowledge’), has reached a point where it is simply no longer, in and of itself, any use at all.
The value of rote-learned information—dates, king lists, word-for-word quotes, the precise steps and order of geological processes and so on—has always been somewhat questionable, at least when that information is being imparted to students who are unlikely to enter careers that will leverage it. Now, though, rote-learned information has passed beyond the realm of ‘probably not much use’ and into the treacherous waters of ‘laughably worthless’. Think on this for a moment:
There are approximately 819,417,600 hours of video on YouTube right now, with 300 new hours of video added every minute.10 If the average length of a YouTube video is 4 minutes and 12 seconds, there are roughly 198,000,000 videos on YouTube, with the number growing by the minute.11 There are 4,998,013 articles on the English-language Wikipedia. There are 190 million posts on Reddit across 853,824 subs, 37 million blogs hosted on WordPress.com, 256 million tumblr pages and more than 300 million questions on Yahoo! Answers.12 That’s just big-name sites. The JSTOR archive contains more than 500,000 documents, most of them academic articles and books. Google, as of June 2010, had scanned more than 12 million books into its own archive and announced its intention to track down and scan the remaining 117 million.13 There are tens, hundreds of thousands of niche websites and forums packed full of information about every topic under the sun: in 2013, Google was searching 30 trillion web pages a pop in a split second. And there are, no doubt, many millions—billions, trillions—more now.14
As I write this, the vast majority of schoolchildren (in New Zealand, at least), have smartphones in their pockets that are capable of quickly and easily accessing the internet.15 An even larger portion of them have laptops or access to computers, and internet-capable device ownership is increasing at an explosive pace.16 They could, if they wanted to, be reading this very article with a hand-held device that sits in their pocket. Or they could be perusing any of the aforementioned vast reservoirs of human knowledge that are just a few taps away. Instead they’re sitting in classrooms being taught facts about tectonic plates, or the history of Tudor England, or the finer points of Shakespeare’s Othello, or the functions of punnet squares or something. They might be getting taught hugely interesting stuff: ground-breaking historical research, new and intriguing facts about the water on Mars, anything at all, but it is still worthless. Schoolchildren in the twenty-first century carry, essentially, the entire wealth of human knowledge in the pockets. They have all the information that could ever be imparted to them in their pocket. And yet schools still insist on trying to teach them facts. It’s like bringing a glass of water to a drowning man.
Allow me to digress for a moment. In The Tribes Triumphant, Charles Glass discusses the Arabic education system with a highly educated Jordanian tour guide. Although the speaker is talking about education in his own country, the points he raises are extremely apt:
Arab education prepares the young only for examinations, the tawjihi. Pass the exams, and you continue to university. Fail, and you stay in the village or the slum. The tawjihi system produces students who memorise set answers to set questions, not students who think or question or look at things in an original way.
Now, does that sound at all different to the Prussian system? Or to NCEA? Or the systems in place in America, Australia or the United Kingdom (my knowledge of non-Anglosphere education is sadly lacking)? Our education systems are still running on a model designed in the late eighteenth century and finalised in the nineteenth. They produce graduates who, like Calvin, rote-learn ‘facts’ and then immediately forget them, not educated, well-rounded people who think and challenge and adapt and shake things up. The Prussian system and the existing system are a good basis, a groundwork, a foundation, but they are also no longer adequate. How can we, as a culture, laud innovation and creativity while perpetuating a form of ‘education’ that actively stifles them?
The role of education, as well as its shape, needs to undergo fundamental change. We have established that teaching facts is worthless and teaching Christianity is outdated, which leaves literacy and numeracy… But students are (to a minimum degree) literate and numerate by the age of about seven. Such a minimalistic education system would produce people who could read and write, certainly, and it would negate the current problem of wasting student’s time, but would confer no benefits whatsoever over the existing model. The end result, in fact, would probably be even worse. Stripping away useless layers of the education system isn’t sufficient—it needs to adapt.
The reason that teaching facts has become obsolete, as we have established, is that students essentially have all the information in the world right on hand. Instead of giving yet more facts to people who already have (virtually) the entire wealth of human knowledge at their fingertips, we should be teaching them how to access that wealth of knowledge. It’s all very well saying “Google it”, but in a cyberspace composed of more than 30 trillion webpages, using Google to find exactly what you need is a tricky business; having the ability to quickly and reliably find useful stuff in that avalanche of data is a vitally important skill—a skill that, all by itself, renders all the rote-learned information of traditional education systems obsolete—and it’s a skill that we do not teach in schools. This needs to change. Education is supposed to prepare students for the real world, but as it stands the sum total of ‘real world’ scenarios that school prepare their students for are the weekly pub quiz (“Yes! Finally! That mnemonic we learned in year ten about the names and order of Tudor monarchs actually came in useful! $30 bar tab for me!”). Meanwhile, schools aren’t teaching the single most important skill you can have to operate in the modern world. If that’s not ass-backwards I don’t know what is.
So, put simply, schools need to be teaching kids how to navigate the internet and find information.
Just finding information on the internet, though, isn’t sufficient. I could quite easily, right now, set up a free wordpress.com site and fill it with information about how, oh, Cortes conquered the Aztecs with ease because he had help from an alien race. The internet is packed with misinformation of exactly that kind, whether it comes in the form of crazy wingnut Gavin Menzies-esque websites, jocular or ‘troll-ish’ pages and articles or just badly-informed people debating in forums and comment threads. The ability to internalise the information one finds, think critically about the debates one comes across, and discern the good and reliable from the bad is an equally valuable skill. In my experience its a skill that falls entirely in the lap of first-year-of-university philosophy courses, which hardly anyone bothers to take (I mean, philosophy? Arts? But that’s another post entirely…), and that’s a shame. If schools truly want to prepare their students for the ‘real world’ then a basic grounding in critical thinking and evaluating the vast quantities of data they will deal with in their adult lives should be a central element of the curriculum.
Schools need to be teaching kids how to internalise and evaluate the information they have found.
The final necessary skill for interacting with information is the ability to synthesise it. All throughout life one is called upon to present, to communicate things “in a nutshell”, to skim and paraphrase and explain. The ability to take a vast quantity of complex information—for example the gigantic body of stuff, academic and non-academic, brought to light by searching Google for “Russo-Japanese War” or “Construction of the Self” or “Dune-building processes on West Coast beach foreshores”—and synthesise that disjointed vastness of pure information into a focused, concise, coherent piece of writing—or verbal explanation—is invaluable. Admittedly, the existing education system in many countries already does put some emphasis on the construction of essays and papers, but not enough by half: in my experience, even when studying subjects like the ambiguously named “English”, the focus of exams and tests is on content—remembering facts and quotes—rather than on the quality of the essay itself.
Schools need to be teaching kids how to synthesise large quantities of raw information into concise, cogent, transmittable forms.
This list, however, is focused solely on skills that students graduating from an effective education system should possess. While that is certainly a good start, the role of education should not be limited to providing useful skills. While the provision of skills is important and serves to (or helps to) build an effective, capable workforce, it goes no further than that. We would still be facing the same problem underlined in The Tribes Triumphant: a system that does not produce “students who think or question or look at things in an original way.”
To that end, a functional system of education for the modern world needs to fulfil one final role: it must engender and encourage curiosity. We need an education system that fosters and nurtures inspiration in students, inspiration to be interested in things—all things, any things—to be curious, to think and question and probe deeper. To want to find out, not have to remember. Marilynne Robinson writes in Gilead that “This is an interesting planet. It deserves all the attention you can give it.” and it’s in the educational establishment where they spend the vast majority of their time that children will learn to be interested. This, I would argue, is the single most important role of the teacher (and what sets great teachers apart from merely good ones)—to motivate interests in all kinds of disparate things, and push their students to explore those new interests. In a society that encourages and applauds innovation, promoting curiosity and a taste for exploration can only be a good thing.
We need to give students the skills to navigate the oceans of knowledge that make up our modern epistemology. We need to give them the ability to harvest useful information from that ocean, to separate the wheat from the chaff and pass on a distilled version of what they’ve learned… But first they need to be inspired and made curious; they need the drive to want knowledge before they will seek it.
The time for Prussian-style schooling, for rote-learned-soon-forgotten facts and precisely proper uniforms is far in the past. They are no longer an effective way of preparing modern students for the modern world, no longer an effective way of measuring or teaching the skills and types of intelligence that are needed in modern employment, no longer a relevant institution—no longer, in fact, good enough. The refrain that our children can “do whatever they want to do” is heartwarming, to be sure, but it only holds true if they are provided the skills and inspiration that they need. As things stand they are not.
Society and technology are moving forward in leaps and bounds, held back only by the archaic trappings of their old forms—systems and organisations that are no longer relevant or effective in the modern world, but remain unwilling to change. All in all, like the rest of those outmoded institutions, the education system is just another brick in the wall.
References [ + ]
|1.||↑||James van Horn Melton. “Absolutism and the Eighteenth-Century Origins of Compulsory Schooling in Prussia and Austria”. p. xiv.|
|2.||↑||Brian Milne. “The History and Theory of Children’s Citizenship in Contemporary Societies”. p.84.|
|3.||↑||William Clarke. “Academic Charisma and the Origins of the Research University”. p.125.|
|4.||↑||Ellwood Patterson Cubberley. “The History of Education: Educational Practice and Progress Considered as a Phase of the Development and Spread of Western Civilisation”. p.506.|
|5.||↑||Yasemin Nuhoglu Soysal & David Strang. “Construction of the First Mass Education Systems in Nineteenth-Century Europe”. Sociology of Education 62 (4): 278.|
|6.||↑||Max Roser “Literacy”. Published online at OurWorldInData.org. Retrieved from: http://ourworldindata.org/data/education-knowledge/literacy/.|
|7.||↑||(U.S.) Central Intelligence Agency. “Literacy”. Published online at CIA.gov. Retrieved from https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/fields/2103.html.|
|8.||↑||James O. Bullock. “Literacy in the Language of Mathematics”. The American Mathematical Monthly 101 (8): p. 742.|
|9.||↑||New Zealand Herald. “Assembly prayers illegal, schools to be told”. Published online at nzherald.co.nz. Retrieved from http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=10397697.|
|10.||↑||Greg Jarboe. “YouTube Changes at a rate of 33% a Year”. Published online at reelsio.com. Retrieved from http://www.reelseo.com/youtube-changes-33-percent-a-year/.|
|11.||↑||Sysomos. “Inside YouTube Video Statistics”. Published online at sysomos.com. Retrieved from https://sysomos.com/reports/youtube-video-statistics.|
|12.||↑||Craig Smith. “60 Amazing Reddit Statistics”. Published online at expandedramblings.com. Retrieved from http://expandedramblings.com/index.php/reddit-stats/2/.|
|13.||↑||Joab Jackson. “Google: 129 million different books have been published”. Published online at pcworld.com. Retrieved from http://www.pcworld.com/article/202803/google_129_million_different_books_have_been_published.html.|
|14.||↑||John Koetsier. “How Google searches 30 trillion web pages, 100 billion times a month”. Published online at venturebeat.com. Retrieved from http://venturebeat.com/2013/03/01/how-google-searches-30-trillion-web-pages-100-billion-times-a-month/.|
|15.||↑||Emily Rogers. “Smart Phone and Tablet Usage Data for New Zealand”. Published online at HapticGeneration.com.au. Retrieved from http://www.hapticgeneration.com.au/smartphone-and-tablet-usage-data-for-new-zealand/. Note: data is for 2013; smartphone ownership has continued to increase explosively.|
|16.||↑||Research NZ. “A Report on a Survey of New Zealanders’ use of smartphones and other Mobile Communication Devices 2015”. Published online at ResearchNZ.com. Retrieved from http://www.researchnz.com/pdf/Special%20Reports/Research%20New%20Zealand%20Special%20Report%20-%20Use%20of%20Smartphones.pdf.|
Sir Terry Pratchett passed away on March 12th, 2015.
I know I’m kind of late to the game with this piece of news, but there it is. Even though I’m fairly active on the internet I never really said anything about the passing of the Man in the Hat. I added some plugins to my blog, put a few lines of text and links in the footer of my theme… And that was it. Not due to a lack of respect, not even because I didn’t just want to, just because… I didn’t really know what to say. Or how to say it. Or where. I think I commented in the gigantic Reddit thread that exploded when the news came out. I made a lot of visits to sites I’d never heard of before, and read letters and elegies about him, and I didn’t make any kind of record whatsoever of the way I felt when I heard that Sir Terry had, as we all knew he would, gone through the doors and onto the black desert under the endless night.
Perhaps I should set that right.
Terry Pratchett’s death was in many ways a first for me. At the time it happened I was (and still am, come to think of it) twenty years old. Most of my family were and are fairly young and sprightly, and I was surrounded by people I loved and respected without much prospect (beyond the occasional freak attack by a flying shark or similar) of them being whisked unwillingly away. That’s not to say that my family hadn’t experienced its fair share of tragedies and not-so-tragic-because-perhaps-it-was-time passings—I’d attended two funerals in the last couple of years—just that death, or at least the death of people I knew, that would really emotionally affect me, was far from my mind.
By March 2015 I’d been reading Terry Pratchett’s work for at least ten years. I ‘met’ him at about ten years old, when I picked up a copy of The Colour of Magic from a stack of secondhand books. Given my tender age, most of the subtle humour flew straight over my head—inn-sewer-ants gave me trouble, and I didn’t have a hope of puzzling out reflected-sound-of-underground-spirits but it was still hugely entertaining; I didn’t really get why the bartender set fire to the Drum, but I laughed along anyway. My limited grasp of his parody and gentle satire notwithstanding, The Colour of Magic grabbed my attention completely enough that I immediately set off to devour more of the Discworld series.
From The Colour of Magic I progressed through an audiobook of Mort, read by Nigel Planer to a battered old copy of Carpe Jugulum, a school library copy of Small Gods, and onward. I got my friends hooked onto them—I have fond memories of, as a twelve year old, roaring with laughter at the Great God Om’s impassioned curses: “Your sexual organs to sprout wings and fly away!”—and would sit at the breakfast table with a loaded spoon halfway to my mouth, engrossed in Vimes’ efforts to unravel the method by which the Patrician was being poisoned.
Ultimately though, I stopped just chuckling at the Discworld. I couldn’t hope to point to a specific moment in the series that slapped me in the face and made me realise I was really thinking because of these books, but it was definitely there. Somewhere around the age of fourteen I wrote a ‘reading log’ (a pointless time-wasting exercise foisted on high school students by the New Zealand education system) about Night Watch, and the focus of required 250-word ‘response’ wasn’t that Night Watch is a funny book (although it undoubtedly is), or that it is a brilliant, thoughtful satire of the modern notion of ‘freedom’ (it’s that too) or even that it is a deeply moving story (which is beyond question); my focus was that Night Watch is a book that made me think.
That, for me, was always the ‘thing’ about Terry Pratchett. Yes, he has made a lasting reputation for himself as a funny man—and, by god, he was a funny man—but far more importantly he was a man who thought, and who made me think. Whether it was about what it means to be really human, as in Feet of Clay, or about what it means to be ‘holy’, as in Carpe Jugulum, or about the value (or not) of tradition, or death, or justice, or doing the job in front of you, or… or… or anything.Pratchett’s books asked probing questions and challenged my ideas in clever, gentle, inventive ways.
Throughout my late childhood and my teenage years, Terry Pratchett’s books made me think about about things—why did I do this? Why did someone else do that? Why does everyone in the world say things like “Everyone knows…” when everyone knows that what everyone knows is very often mistaken? Was that the right thing to say or do? Do I have worth?—in ways that I would never have thought otherwise. By looking at my world through the lens of the Disc, and the Disc through the lens of Sam Vimes, Granny Weatherwax or Tiffany Aching, I’ve learned a huge amount. Terry Pratchett taught me about morality, about reality, about the importance of doing something yourself instead of waving a magic wand (or a credit card). About the importance of being human. Terry Pratchett taught me that it’s better to light a candle than curse the darkness… And if a candle doesn’t do the job, light a flamethrower.
Yes, I think that’s the best way to put it: Pratchett made me think, Pratchett taught me to think. And in so doing he taught me how to be who I am today.
But he was more even than that. As I grew older I started to think about the man behind the books, not just the books themselves. I followed his interviews, his statements in the paper, his non-Discworld life. I saw how he championed the Orangutan Foundation, how he dealt with questions of humanism and atheism, and how he stood up in public, under the weight of his Embuggerance, to crusade for the millions of people afflicted by Alzheimer’s and other forms of dementia all around the globe. Even though he knew that it would never come to fruition in his lifetime, Pratchett raised his voice in support of assisted dying because, as an internationally renowned author and Knight of the Realm he could. Because he had a voice… And because, as Granny Aching tells us:
Them as can has to do for them as can’t. And someone has to speak up for them as has no voices.
Words that resonate, certainly with me. Indeed, I think, words to live by.
It’s fair to say—actually, it’s unquestionably the case—that without Sir Terry Pratchett I would not be the person that I am. I have been reading to his books, listening to his interviews and attempting to dissect his thoughts (and jokes) for at least half of my life, if not more, and I know that most of my values and beliefs are informed, to a greater or lesser extent, by the thinking and the ideas that Sir Terry showed and taught me. I didn’t know the man in person—I wish I had—but I think, and I hope, that he would be quietly proud of that.
Although I was largely silent, I shared in the grief after Sir Terry past. I read every forum thread I could find about it, I commented, on occasion. I tried to think of words to put together to express my thanks, even though they were far too late. I hadn’t realised until then how important he’d been to me—how integral it had become, this idea that somewhere out there on the other side of the world was a man in a black hat and a white beard, tapping away at a keyboard, befriending the goblins in Oblivion, writing books that made me think and question and step outside myself to look at what was really going through my head. And now he was gone. It took about three days for me to really understand that. I wept.
But I’ve thought about him a lot since March, reading over the vast quantity of content, the worldwide outpouring of grief that followed his death…. And I’ve come to the conclusion that, perhaps, cursing the fate he suffered isn’t the right thing to do. He was 66 when complications of his Alzheimer’s disease took him—not an old man, and surely he would otherwise have had many more books in him—and that in itself, the fact that he was lost long before his time, before he could further enthrall us with his ideas; that he was taken despite his achievements, despite his ‘goodness’ (because although I never met him I can’t help but feel that he was certainly a good man), is a sad thing. It’s not fair. It’s not just. But I don’t think he would approve of us bemoaning that. As Death himself says in Mort: THERE’S NO JUSTICE. THERE’S JUST ME.
Sir Terry Pratchett died on March 12th, 2015. I knew within minutes, or at least within minutes of the now-famous tweets appearing on his Twitter feed. And I was sad. A great light—possibly one of the greatest lights in the literary world—had gone out forever. On the other hand, a good man afflicted with a hideous illness was no longer suffering. He died, we are told, in his bed, with his family all around him and his cat sleeping at his side. And I believe that he was at peace:
It was a memory of a voice in my head, and it told me that everything was OK and things were happening as they should. For a moment, the world felt at peace.
Terry Pratchett faced death—the prospect, when he was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s; the growing reality as time passed and wrote books and made his documentary and his disease worsened and then, finally, the ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION with dignity, resolve, and—his trademark—incisive intellect. On his own terms.
I vowed that rather than let Alzheimer’s take me, I would take it. I would live my life as ever to the full and die, before the disease mounted its last attack, in my own home, in a chair on the lawn, with a brandy in my hand to wash down whatever modern version of the “Brompton cocktail” some helpful medic could supply. And with Thomas Tallis on my iPod, I would shake hands with Death.
And, ever a man to do things with style, Sir Terry went out with an eloquent, personal announcement to the entire world. With a string of messages that instantly began winging their way across the globe, threading through our myriad forms of the Clacks, scribbling in the sky, as it were, the message: he is dead.
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.
With that he brought home to me the importance of connecting with people, talking to people, valuing people while you can, because I never took a moment to add to the mountains of communication he must have received and it’s my greatest regret. He reminded me of my own mortality and the mortality of those around me, pushing me to do the things that I want to do and to value the people that I should value. To let them know what they mean to me, not just expect them to know. Even in death, Sir Terry has taught me, shaped me, showed me how to grow and be me.
I will mourn him, as an educator, a motivator, an inspirational figure. Terry Pratchett was the first person who truly changed my life. Certainly my family had an influence on me, but that’s just what families do: they make your life; they shape your life. They don’t change it. Without Pratchett and his stories, without my deep and abiding admiration for him, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I owe who I am, how I think and much of what I believe to the man in the black hat. For that I am grateful.
In 1991, Terry Pratchett wrote and published Reaper Man, which deals cleverly and tastefully—as ever—with questions of death, and right, and wrong, and good and bad and meaning. It was a younger man—a much younger man, a man not burdened with the knowledge of his fate—who wrote these words, but they are good words nonetheless.
In the Ramtop village where they dance the real Morris dance they believe that 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, they say, is only the core of their actual existence.
True words. What does it mean, in the webs of significance and connotation, the imaginary world driven by stories and semantics that all of us inhabit, to be truly dead? What, precisely, is our existence?
At any rate, if my experience is anything to judge by—and the experiences of others whom I have spoken to, or whose words I’ve read—the ripples that he caused in our world will not die away for a very, very long time.
GNU TERRY PRATCHETT