i was reading the thing that neil gaiman wrote about him when he learned that terry wasn't to be here much longer, about how pratchett was driven in his writing by anger, a righteous anger typically at all that is wrong with the world. just then moby's everything is wrong (quiet mix) came on. just right. and then i was reading pratchett's bio at wiki and about how he'd been knighted and made his own sword and then i get so lonely (o baby mine) by the four knights came on. thanks bythos.
i'm finally doing the super serious packing now that we've picked out a house to rent in pittsburgh. among the 'very important books' section of the living room bookshelves (you can be certain that beside the various there are works by kerouac, bellow, bloom, william flesch & laura quinney, merrill, dick, kim stanley robinson, delaney, leguin, and zelazny) are the hard cover copies i have (not from my youth but acquired in my 30s) of the first three discworld books pratchett authored: the colour of magic, the light fantastic, and equal rites. i'm sorry to learn that the mad cow robbed him of more time to enjoy life and vent his anger, and at such a young age.
the coat of arms of sir terry pratchett (i must say i quite admire it):