Before he died, Terry Pratchett requested that all his unfinished work should be laid in the middle of a road and crushed out of existence by a streamroller. Last week, as several major outlets have confirmed, that very thing happened. We have seen pictures of the hard drive, before and after.
As a writer myself, albeit on a level from which Pratchett is barely visible, I understand, and approve completely, and I honour and celebrate the men and women of principle who were responsible to fulfill his wishes, and have honourably followed those wishes. As a reader who has loathed and despised Literary Necrophilia throughout his life, who believes passionately in the primacy of the author, the original author, and nobody else without his or her explicit approval and permission, I say again, all honour to those who have been faithful to the wishes of the only person with the right to decide.
But as a reader, and a fan of Terry Pratchett since almost the beginning, inside I weep, for those lines, those oh-so-Pratchett lines, those concepts and ideas, situations and insights into that vast array of friends I can never visit again. Not a word more of His Grace, the Earl of Ankh, Sam Vines, the Eternal Copper, to choose just a single favourite.
There is literally nothing left, nothing that can be produced from an archive, or a folder or a scrap of paper. Terry is finally gone in every possible sense, and I mourn again, just as much as I did over two years ago, for him and them and all of them, and the coldness and emptiness of the closed, barred and bolted door back into Didscworld.