Jado Verda

Neĝo  William Auld Pestsilenta la neĝ’ invadas venkas la urbon; kaj ni, popol’ venkita marŝas senespere la stratojn kun nuko kurba sub jug’ de l’ okupanta armeo blanka. Printempo, helpon! Kiam ni aŭdos fanfaron vian ĉe l’ horizonto?

(translation->)

Gustav Klimt, La Kiso, 1908-1909

AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER

in memoriam

When it comes to regular news about passing away of yet another beloved musician/actor/politician/any other public persona, I don’t really care about that, nor I can’t understand the sudden burst of popularity of the recently deceased. To put it shortly, I don’t give a fuck.

But there is one person, which I knew was going to come to his terms sooner or later, because he was struggling for years with terrible disease. And I had to pay a tribute to him, for the first time in my life I felt obligated.

Sir Terry Pratchett passed away earlier today and I had never cried because of loss of someone I didn’t even know in person. Not until today.

When I first “met him” I was during my summer vacation with my family by the Baltic Sea, and there was a book market going on. My father bought me “The Colour of Magic” and “The Light Fantastic” and insisted that I try these out. I was done with them in less than a day and I already knew I wanted more.

I was a misunderstood, repressed teenager back then, and the “Discworld” series helped me survive the worst years of school. There was a time in my life when waiting for the next book to be announced and released was a single most cheerful thing to happen.