Πέθανε ο Sir Terry Pratchett

[paredwse]

AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER.

 

Terry took Death’s arm and followed him through the doors and on to the black desert under the endless night.

 

 

Αντίο.

 

Telegraph

 

Salon

[Gtr34]

Ας αναπαυθεί η ψυχή του .

[Pablo_Hasan]

rip

 

κάπου έχω ένα βιβλίο του, δεν το έχω διαβασει ακομα, ισως ήρθε η ώρα.

[Adon1s]

Μια περίληψη για το ποιος είναι κλπ ;

[paredwse]

Μια περίληψη για το ποιος είναι κλπ ;

Συγγραφέας, οραματιστής, κοφτερό μυαλό.

 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terry_Pratchett

 

http://el.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terry_Pratchett

[GhostRiderLSOV]

Ο δημιουργός του Discworld.
Γέλιο και σε video-games / ταινίες, εκτός από τα novels.

 

Ti γίνεται και όλοι οι καλοί φεύγουν...

[*nenya*]

Όχι ρε γαμώτο όχιιιιιιιι :/ ήταν, είναι και θα είναι ένας απ'τους αγαπημένους μου συγγραφείς. RIP sir..

 

Μερικά quotes απ'τα βιβλία του:

 

 

(Mort)

“People don't alter history any more than birds alter the sky, they just make brief patterns in it.”

 

“It struck Mort with sudden, terrible poignancy that Death must be the loneliest creature in the universe. In the great party of Creation, he was always in the kitchen.”

 

(Witches Abroad)

“Humanity's a nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there.”

 

“You can't go around building a better world for people. Only people can build a better world for people. Otherwise it's just a cage.”

 

(The Color of Magic)

“Magic never dies. It merely fades away.”

 

“The demon coughed nervously. Demons do not breathe; however, every intelligent being, whether it breathes or not, coughs nervously at some time in its life. And this was one of them as far as the demon was concerned.”

[georgeadams]

Sir Terry Pratchett awakens. A skeleton stands at his bedside, wearing a long black robe. He sits up. “Well, hang on, let me get my hat,” he tells it.

 

The skeleton reaches into its robe. From abyssal depths it produces a heavy book bound in sheets of lead and night. It is the kind of book that gets stolen by a rugged adventurer from a temple with more spike-traps than the average house of worship contains. It is the kind of book to which the word “tome” might properly be applied. Frost forms on its pages from the lingering chill of the void.

 

The skeleton coughs once and holds the book out to the man sitting on the bed.

 

WOULD YOU SIGN THIS? it asks. BIG FAN.

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