Cullingworth nestles in Yorkshire's wonderful South Pennines where I once was the local councillor. These are my views - on politics, food, beer and the stupidity of those who want to tell me what to think or do. And a little on mushrooms.
Thursday, 12 March 2015
...leaving early to avoid the rush
Thirty years ago someone - probably Chris Barlow - told me excitedly about a book called 'The Colour of Magic'. I bought it and read it. At one sitting.
Terry Pratchett who wrote that book was one of those writers who broke the mould - crossed over from the odd world of SF and fantasy into the strange bright lights of the wider literary and cultural place. He had the knack of making a serious point so lightly you'd laugh before you even realised the meaning of that laugh. And the ability to tell a story to engross a ten-year old or a hundred-and-ten year old. The sparkling narrative, the characters - good, bad and cynical - and the avalanche of jokes all worked to tell the tale.
But we could go on - as ever with Terry Pratchett he has provided us with his own good-bye.
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Terry Pratchett
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