Sir Terry Pratchett passed away earlier today, March 12. His books (numbering in the dozens) touched millions of lives. He was a knight whose pen was truly mighty, and his sword gleamed with genuine star metal. (That is not a metaphor.) He looked splendid in his fedora.
He was my favorite author. I can think of only one book of his that I didn't read at least twice:
Faust Eric. I cherished the Vimes books, but every Discworld book had something unique and memorable.
He gave us wonderful books. We let him into our heads to share stories filled with perfect comic timing and real people and dragons prone to exploding. His readers know that a man with half a brick and a sock is a man to be reckoned with, that vampires can exchange a thirst for blood with a craving for coffee, and DEATH IS WHOEVER DOES DEATH'S JOB.
Unlike many, Sir Terry knew his passing was close, and had time to make peace with it. We should all be so lucky.
The world is less funny, less witty, less magical without him in it. He will be missed. He will be terribly missed.