For most of my l ife I couldn't pick one author for my favorite. I could give a top five, or top ten, but not one single author whose work I loved above all others. This year I found one: Terry Pratchett. His Discworld series should live forever. It has a seamless blend of subtle social commentary, humor that ranges from the wry to the laugh aloud, and dazzling, character-driven fantasy. I can reread them a hundred times and always find something I missed, and laugh at the humor all over again.
Just before Christmas, I read the 59-year-old Terry Pratchett has been diagnosed with a rare form of early-onset Alzheimer's.
There aren't enough swear words on the entire planet to express how I feel about this. This horrible disease, which steals the mind and then the personality long before it kills the shell of the body, has come to one of the best minds on the planet. His brilliant books will cease, long before their time. It makes me sick. It makes me want to scream. It fills me with rage that has no outlet.
There's no punchline here, folks. No resolution for this one. Just sorrow and anger, and helpless frustration.
A solitary fantasy can totally transform a million realities.