Terry Pratchett

Terry Pratchett has early-onset Alzheimers Disease. He’s also one of the most brilliant authors it’s been my privilege to read, and in true Terry Pratchett fashion, gave a speech that showed the (sorta) lighter side of dementia, donated a million bucks to the Alzheimers foundation and told them to spend it wisely.

I once was invited to join an “intellectual book club,” whatever that is, and asked to come to the first meeting with a recommendation for the book I’d most like my fellow clubmembers to read that year.

I chose Pratchett’s “Hogfather.” They suggested I find another book club.

Subjects covered on the club’s booklists included philosophy, rape, genocide, adultery, profanity, torture, biography, larceny, abuse and incest. Comedy, as it turned out, was far too frivolous to be, er, taken seriously.

Pity, since laughter is the fastest, most effective way I know to drive the point home. Pratchett’s Discworld books are biting satires, absurd enough that we don’t take personal offense but close enough to home that (I at least) take a sharp look in the mirror. Hogfather is one of the best sendups of modern holiday spirits since Dickens. I’ve read it perhaps 30 times and I’m still finding new jokes on our ho-ho-hum condition.

If I have to give up my Pratchetts to attain a measure of intellectual depth, well, I’ll stay shallow.

I’m sorry for Mr. Pratchett, sorry for his family and friends, sorry for myself. The guy’s managed to write two bestsellers with this diagnosis, and new treatments are being tried every day, so maybe this isn’t as horrifying as it seems.

But best of luck, Mr. Pratchett.

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