Ця книга безпорадно висіла в мене в «до прочитання» так довго, і нарешті випав шанс її купити, що я і зробила завдяки долі, яка навіть люб’язно дозволила обрати між hardback і paperback. Що ж, доля чудово мене розуміє, бо ця книга моя на віки, я нікому її не віддам. Читаючи рядки, написані улюбленим письменником, наче опиняєшся з ним на веранді просторого англійського маєтку, і ведеш за чашечкою чаю повільну розмову про все на світі. Книгу поділено на три частини – письменницькі пригоди (від перших книг, до світових book tours, до процесу письменства), спогади дитинства-юності, і «days of rage», записи щодо соціальних проблем, таких як ставлення суспільства до Альцгеймера, евтаназії, та винищування природного ареалу орангутангів. У передмові від Ніла Геймана сказано, що Террі Пратчетт не «той кумедний чоловічок у капелюсі» яким ми його собі уявляємо – він концентрована лють проти системи, проти невігластва, проти жорстокості, водночас сповнена любові до гуманності. Це й видно, коли гуляєш цими рядками, і дізнаєшся більше про думки і світ Террі Пратчетта з його ж вуст. А також і про ставлення до капелюхів.
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I developed the habit of starting a book on the same day as I’d finished the last one. There was one period where I had a schedule of four hundred finished words a day. If I could finish the book in three hundred words, I wrote a hundred words of the next book. No excuses. Granddad died, go to funeral, four hundred words. Christmas time, nip our after dinner, four hundred words.
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I do recall that Salman Rushdie came second in a science fiction writing competition in the late 1970s. Just image if he’d won – he would have had none of that trouble over Satanic Verses, ‘cos it would have been SF and therefore unimportant.
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So, apparently, I’m a post-modern fantasy writer. I think this is because I’ve got a condom machine in Ankh-Morpork. […] But you cannot imagine a condom machine in Middle-earth. Well, actually, I can, regrettably. But you certainly can’t imagine one in Narnia, and nor should you. But the curious thing is Ankh-Morpork can survive this. Ankh-Morpork can survive most things.
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People really do ask: where do you get your ideas from? […] ‘From a warehouse in Croydon’ is only funny once.
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Many of them have this in common, though: they express doubts that the author will read the letter, let alone answer it. The letter in an act of faith. It’s as though they’ve put a message in a bottle and tossed it into the sea. But… Well, when I was young, I wrote a letter to J. R. R. Tolkien, just as he was becoming extravagantly famous. […] Mine must have been among hundreds or thousands of letters he received every week. I got a reply. It might have been dictated. For all I know, it might have been typed to a format. But it was signed. […] For a moment, it achieved the most basic and treasured of human communications: you are real, and therefore so am I.
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[On writing fantasy.] You are allowed to make pigs fly, but you must take into account the depredations on the local bird life and the need for people in heavily over-flown areas to carry stout umbrellas at all times.
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[On a badly written fantasy book]. That’s not fantasy – that’s just Tolkien reheated until the magic boils away.
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J. R. R. Tolkien has become a sort of mountain, appearing in all subsequent fantasy in the way Mt Fuji appears so often in Japanese prints. Sometimes it’s big and up close. Sometimes it’s a shape on the horizon. Sometimes it’s not there at all, which means that the artist either has made a deliberate decision against the mountain, which is interesting in itself, or is in fact standing on Mt Fuji.
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I have always treasured having one of my novels named an Amelia Bloomer Book by the feminist task force of the ALA, because there is something heart-warming about a man with a beard receiving accolades for strong feminist writing.
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Science fiction certainly predicted the age of computers. [...] But what took us by surprise was that the people using the computers were not, in fact, shiny new people, but the same dumb old human beings that there have always been. They didn’t – much – want to use the technology to get educated. They wanted to look at porn, play games, steal things, and chat.
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There is a rumor going around that I have found God. I think this is unlikely because I have enough difficulty finding my keys, and there is empirical evidence that they exist.
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Twice, when I have spoken out on subjects like Alzheimer’s and assisted dying, helpful Christians have told me that I should try considering my affliction as a gift from God. Now, personally I would have preferred a box of chocolates.
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It is a strange life when you ‘come out’. People get embarrassed, lower their voices, get lost for words. Part of the report I’m helping to launch today reveals that fifty percent of Britons think there is a stigma surrounding dementia. Onl y twenty-five per cent think there is still a stigma associated with cancer.
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[On Alzheimer] Before you can kill the monster you have to say its name.
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We should aim for a good and rich life well lived, and at the end of it, in the comfort of our own home, in the company of those who love us, have a death worth dying for.