I just woke up about twenty minutes ago. I was not ready to hear this.
Terry Pratchett has been hands-down my favorite author for years. My father got me a copy of Guards! Guards! when I was younger, along with things like Adams' Hitchhiker books, because he had read it and thought I might like it as well. Neither of us had any idea exactly how huge this would be.
I devoured Discworld. When I ran out of those to read, I would sit and wait desperately for the next one to be released. I sought out his other, earlier science fiction works. I couldn't get enough.
I still can't, really. The Discworld collection on my shelf consists of some of the most loved and frequently reread books any reader could hope for. Reaper Man, Night Watch, The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents, Lords and Ladies... to this day the greatest Christmas present I ever got is the autographed copy of Monstrous Regiment.
I would honestly say, not just as a fan but as a critic and student of literature, that I consider him the greatest satirist to ever live, and quite possibly the greatest author period.
The world is sincerely lessened by his passing.
Rest in peace, Sir Terry. You will be missed. But I take great comfort in the fact that, if you were right about Death, you probably haven't gone too far. I imagine you're probably sitting in that big house on the dead hill, playing one last hand of Cripple Mister Onion with the Four Horsemen before moving on.
And despite that, if it weren't so damn early, I would still need a drink.