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This is adapted from an article that appeared on the Write Stuff website on December 16, 2007. The original text can be found here. Terry Pratchett is one of my favourite authors, and the news that he was suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer's disease was very sad news. In a profession where so much depends on imagination, and the vibrancy of the mind, I cannot think of any worse fate.

Thief of mind

When I was 11 my grandmother died. I was too young at the time to understand exactly what the symptoms meant, or what was causing it. I only knew the effect it was having on my family. She no longer recognised us, so we couldn’t visit, at least not for long. The only person she recognised was my father, her son. But she believed him to be her brother.

I had never heard of Alzheimer’s before then, but I saw its effect. It slowly erodes the mind, destroying the personality, eroding memories. The only blessing of sorts is that in the late stages the person with the disease remains largely unaware of what is happening to them.

Alzheimer’s is a tragedy when it strikes - for the person suffering from it, if they are aware of the diagnosis, they have the frustration and fear of realising that their mind is slowly being corroded, and all that makes them who they are is slowly unravelling. For the family, they have to witness the slow death of a loved one, as first the person they love is taken, before the person who is left behind passes away.

This week author Terry Pratchett announced that he was suffering from an early form of Alzheimer’s disease. Pratchett is one of my favourite authors, and with the exception of Poe is probably the one I have read for the longest - for over half my life I have enjoyed reading his books, watching as characters introduced in one book grow and mature in others, changing with time, becoming richer. I have delighted in being transported to the Discworld, a world familiar to our own yet subtly different, a world in which our own is satirised and critiqued through the lenses of fantasy and absurdity.

Alzheimer’s is a tragedy whenever it strikes, but I imagine the pain must be even more keenly felt when the person it strikes is defined in many ways by a vibrant and imaginative mind. Like a painter who loses their sight, or a musician who loses their hearing, I can imagine the anguished frustration that must occur as the mind grapples to explore a world that ought to be familiar, characters who ought to be like old friends, and words that ought to flow freely. But Alzheimer’s offers no means of compensating for what it robs. There are no Monet’s or Beethoven’s - the loss of a sense can be overcome, so long as the creative force, the mind, has the will. Alzheimer’s is a thief, a cruel thief that steals that will and steals that mind.

Pratchett hopes to continue working on a few more books. I do not know whether he feels he will only be able to produce a few more, or whether he feels that he should retire while still at his peak, and that after a few more books he does not want to risk the quality of his work. At either rate, those who appreciate his work must now come to terms with the prospect that there will be no more.

To Terry Pratchett - my very best wishes for the future, whatever it may bring.