Pleased to report that Terry Pratchett, who was diagnosed with a form of Alzheimer's last year, has the same outward appearance and is still every bit as sparky and mischievous as his books would suggest, writes Donal Clarke
I SPOT TERRY PRATCHETT immediately. Well, you would, wouldn't you? Few authors have as recognisable a persona as does the dizzyingly popular author of the Discworld fantasy series. We've seen the white beard and the round, playful face on a thousand dust jackets. And then, of course, there's the hat. Even before he has made his way fully through the rotating doors of Dublin's Westin Hotel, that black fedora is clearly visible.
"There's no significance to the hat," he says in his focused way. "I just happened to see it in a shop one day and thought: 'Bing! I am going to have a hat like that.' Charlie Chaplin always said that there was no great plan to his image. He just looked into a wardrobe and saw this bowler hat, baggy pants and a cane."
I must confess that I had been slightly worried that Pratchett's appearance might have changed. A little over a year ago, Pratchett - the UK's biggest-selling author until that pesky JK Rowling came along - announced that he had been diagnosed with a rare form of Alzheimer's. Would the condition have taken its toll on the outer Pratchett? As it happens, in Dublin for an honorary degree from Trinity College, he looks no older than his 60 years and is still every bit as sparky and mischievous as his books suggest.
"I do feel like something of a fraud," he laughs. "I am sitting here talking to you and I guarantee that you would not guess there is anything wrong with me. What I have is posterior cortical atrophy, an early onset form of Alzheimer's that happens on the rear of the brain. You have a whole bridge hand of problems, but initially they are all to do with visual acuity or sight in general."
How does that affect his daily life? "Several people have told me I have been getting better recently," he says. "Well, unless there has been a minor miracle that has not really been happening, but I am learning to cope. There is not really the language to explain how it affects me. I have to think before approaching a revolving door. My typing has got quite bad and my spelling has deteriorated. I also have a problem with my short-term memory." He pauses and plays with his teacup.
"I also have a problem with my short-term memory. And then there's my short-term . . . " Yes, yes, yes. I can see where this is going.
"You got that quite quickly. With some journalists I've gone on for a minute, before they got the joke." Pratchett's sense of humour is still evident, but I wonder if the experience of the last year has altered his view of his own work and of one character in particular. The Discworld series, which has run to 36 novels since its beginning with 1983's The Colour of Magic, takes place in a flat world that sits on the backs of four elephants (who themselves stand on a giant turtle). Simultaneously a satire and a celebration of fantasy conventions, the books feature a cowardly magician named Rincewind, an apprentice called Tiffany Aching, a witch who goes by the name of Granny Weatherwax and, most famously, a slightly Pooterish personification of Death. This skeletal messenger, who likes curry and has a horse called Binky, is somewhat less fearsome than the version of the character in, say, Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal.
"No. I wouldn't say I have changed my view," he says. "Death is not a buffoon in the books. He's still Death, but he has a certain amount of compassion. As he points out, it is the falling rock, the microbe or the bullet that kills you. Death's job is just to take you away."
PRATCHETT DEVELOPED HIS unique worldview as an only child growing up in the archetypically suburban confines of Beaconsfield in Buckinghamshire. A fan of science fiction from an early age, he developed an ambition to follow in the footsteps of heroes such as HG Wells and HP Lovecraft, but, being a sensible sort of dreamer, realised that only a small handful of lucky folk get to make a living writing science fiction.
Accordingly, he moved into local journalism, where, from time to time, he was forced to "ask some poor woman how she felt about the fact that her son had just been murdered by Hells Angels". He continued to write stories and novels, but didn't dare to dream that his hobby would ever become his job. When the first novels in the Discworld series emerged, he was working as a press officer for the Central Electricity Generating Board.
"The Colour of Magic was serialised on Woman's Hour and that brought some attention," he said. "When I wrote the second one I really began to sense something moving out there. Later, I remember being summoned to my boss's office at the CEGB. He had three of my books in front of him and he said: 'Did you write these?' I thought I was in trouble, then he asked me to sign them for his sons." Pratchett quit the job shortly afterwards.
Despite his enormous success - or perhaps because of it - he has never quite gained literary respectability. Mainstream cultural pundits have, of course, always been somewhat intolerant of genre fiction.
"Alternate worlds are now the stuff of Booker winners, but they call it 'magic realism' not that 'awful fantasy stuff'," he says.
Pratchett's followers have, however, been singled out for particular opprobrium by the posh writers in the broadsheet papers. The Terry Pratchett Fan has now been codified as a recognisable type. Look, there he (and I mean "he") is, going into Forbidden Planet.
"The first thing I would say is that 70 per cent of the people who come to my conventions are female," Pratchett retorts. "Look, the stereotype lacks any accuracy. The stereotype fan is a 14-year-old in an anorak called Kevin. If that ever was true then Kevin is now long married to Daphne and he is beginning to wish he'd started his pension plan a little earlier. If you have parents who are Discworld fans then you will, most likely, be surrounded by books. Fantasy fans tend to read everything." I am convinced by Pratchett's argument. The Discworld books may not be to everybody's taste, but they are humane, funny and stuffed full of big ideas. He deserves the knighthood he got this month and (more importantly) his status of Confirmed National Treasure.
The affection in which he was held was highlighted when he announced that diagnosis last year. Right from the outset, Terry made it clear that he intended to shout about his condition at every available opportunity. A fervent campaigner for increased research into Alzheimer's, he recently met Gordon Brown to demand more money.
"I am so glad you didn't lower your voice when you asked about this," he says. "People often do. I want to say: 'I announced it. What makes you think I don't want to talk about it?' Now, if somebody phones up and says, 'I am from Radio WANK, tell me about Alz-heimer's', then I know they just want to fill an hour with Pratchett. I tell them to piss off. But it never occurred to me not to announce it."
Over the past year, Pratchett has frequently pointed out the sharp contrast between the fortunes allocated for cancer research and the relatively meagre sums put the way of Alzheimer's experts. I wonder why this discrepancy exists. Is it, perhaps, because politicians and the public erroneously view Alzheimer's as a symptom of old age? "Perhaps. But younger people do get Alzheimer's. What I was aware of is the lack of a 'shining path' when you are diagnosed with Alzheimer's. When you are diagnosed with cancer you are on this path that leads to specialists and so forth. You are in the system. When you get Alzheimer's they just say to you 'go on an ocean cruise'. Well, I thought about that, but I gave the money to research instead."
PRATCHETT FEELS IT important to talk about the disease both because it may further research and because it might actually help him personally. Since going public he has been contacted by a number of researchers into posterior cortical atrophy.
"They say, 'Don't let them see you bleed'. But I say, 'If you let them see you bleed then one of them might offer you a bandage'."
Still, he does admit that there is a danger that he may come to be seen as the Alzheimer's man rather than the Discworld man. Pratchett fans will be relieved to hear that the recent decline in his (hitherto Stakhanovite) work-rate has little to do with any failing capacities.
It is just that the demands of press interviews, fundraising events and an upcoming BBC documentary on his condition have kept him away from the word processor.
I suspect that Terry has a few more books in him yet. We tend to use the word "fighter" sentimentally when discussing people with life-threatening conditions, but Pratchett really does manage to sound like a man who will battle to the (distant, I trust) end.
"I have no personal religion at all," he says. "But I have no fear of death. Woody Allen said: 'I have no fear of death, I just don't want to be there when it happens.' Recently, I feel the opposite. I don't mind dying so much, but, when the time comes, I would like to know it was me who was doing the dying."
