Terry Pratchett, best-selling author of many delightful books, which I actually read most of straight through because you can't put his books down once you open one - announced today that, at 59, he has a rare form of early Alzheimer's.
That's just so unfair. A man who has brought so much delight to so many people everywhere, and suddenly, the very thing which makes man something different than rocks, stones, beasts, or nebulae - is going, though not gone.
Pratchett reported hand-eye coordination and dexterity problems which led to a medical exam and the doctor involved informing him that he had suffered a mini-stroke with the resulting dead areas of brain tissue. Further examination has revealed it was not a stroke at all, but this unfortunate condition.
He's going to keep writing as long as he can. I hope his daughter and wife get to enjoy him a lot longer, although all readers of his discworld series will miss him terribly. I hope science comes up with some startling innovation to cure him.
The Guardian has the details.
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