I just read that Oliver Sacks died on Sunday. I’m behind on events, behind the instant world, still processing while others have moved on. I tried to write about what he meant to me as a young man and the decades since, as a young writer, and how I finally attended a lecture (on his book tour for Uncle Tungsten), where it struck me how kind and gentle he was, though not always patient, and belonged in conversations and consultations, not auditoriums. I don’t know why I saw him and Terry Pratchett as different edges of the same coin. It as little to do with there appearance. More to do with the need for their existence. But I don’t know how to write about him in a larger context and he doesn’t need my posthumous wishes.