Losing Sir Terry

I am now coming to grips with the finiteness of Sir Terry’s work. He was angry the way Carl Hiaasen is angry, joyfully and tirelessly imaginative in his skewering of the people and causes and world-views I think are awful. We found the same things beautiful. Even his darkness was shot through with light, as if life was too strong in him to be poisoned by the urge to destroy the world that visits many authors of his years. He poured out love on the sort of people I love. We agreed on what was important. We were intimate in the very best way that an author and his reader can be intimate: he didn’t know me from Eve, and I had all but memorized his work.

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