After spending my teenage years with his nose deep in assorted classic fantasy worlds, more or less in Tolkien imitation, and with his head full of fair Moer, virtuous warriors and show magician I ended up in tjugoårsålder in Terry Pratchett .
And as I tanned!
Fanta Visual pompous clichés were so grateful to parody – and Pratchett made it stylish probably by simultaneously manages to write decently exciting stories.
Sure it was a eventually too much of a good thing, after dozens of books from the Discworld series (it contains 40!) have husband and laughed enough. The I still have the memory and bookcase are rather Good Omens (1990), which Pratchett wrote with Neil Gaiman and that’s about it as eternal as priceless fun fight on the people and the world between an angel and a demon.
It never read fantasy with the same eyes again.
I am eternally grateful.
When I now is accessed by the news that Terry Pratchett has died aged 66, I can only hope that theory about death which he launched in Discworld really is true: that the fate that awaits us on the other side are we really, deep down, believe in.
And that Pratchett believed in anything fancy. And fun.
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