Twilight Sparkle was not a particularly outgoing pony. She did not relish public speaking. Rather, she approached it from a creative perspective, focusing on crafting objectively well-written speeches replete with Logos, Pathos, and Ethos. When she had to, that is. She'd much rather just stay inside and study, organize, solve friendship problems, etc.
Unfortunately for her, this was not a speech she could get out of, being the unofficial "Princess of Books". She was expected, neigh, required to placate the mournful masses on this somber day. And so, as Twilight nervously looked out over crowds of bookworms much like herself stuffed into the courtyard of the mountainside castle she had chain-teleported into only that morning, she steeled herself, hoping that for them her coming words were not empty lip service but rather soothing salve.
On that thought, Twilight took a deep breath and began.
In Sir Penatia Trotsworth's land of Roundswald, Telegraph wires crisscross their way across entire continents and even oceans, uniting the nations in nearly instantaneous communication. Here in Equestria, such technology is in most infantile stages, and perhaps may never be feasible. We must make do with courier phoenixes and dragonfire relays. Yet today such methods of communication felt entirely too fast, for they brought with them disheartening news from Eagleland.
As you probably know by now, Sir Trotsworth left us this morning for greener pastures. I am glad to report he passed peacefully. He was 66. He is at last free from his long struggle with IMDS[1], and for that I suppose we are thankful.
I, being a prominent figure in the literary scene--though I insist I am a Renaissance Mare who happens to be a former librarian and not the other way around--was asked by my colleague and fellow ruler, Princess Celestia, to share my thoughts on the matter. Share I shall.
I start with a confession: I have not read any of Penatia Trotsworth's work. One would think that would make me a poor candidate to deliver an impromptu eulogy, and I would agree. But nonetheless I was asked to speak here, and I believe I can yet impart some comfort and wisdom.
I repeat: I have not read any of Penatia Trotsworth's work. This is not an intentional omission. Rather as some of you know, I rarely read fiction. I am a scientific mare, and I find myself drawn to technical manuals and history tomes more than to the fiction shelf. Before I considered this to be a forgettable byproduct of my focus of pursuits. Now I consider it a mistake.
For I understand clearly now what a towering giant this stallion was. I have heard and seen nothing more than a floodwater of condolences and eulogies, bawled out in the corner café, penned in to the afternoon edition of the Canterlot Guardian and Foal Free Press--for his works I learn are popular with foals too--and stapled to the many public messaging boards spread throughout this fair city. For me he was a future interest, but for many, he was an exciting presence.
Trotsworth's prose, I am told and have experienced second hoof, is a beautiful thing. It is delightful and playful, yet never childish. It eggs you on, always daring you to devour one more line, sentence, page, chapter, one more book! It is equal parts rich and funny: one moment one might crack up at some absurd metaphor or situational comedy, yet the next be struck by profound wisdom. His words are on all levels of engagement entertaining.
Trotsworth's characters are equally engrossing. They are complex creatures he built up and sculpted over many passages and books, never black and white cutouts, but rather fully realized mares, stallions, and assorted creatures with hopes and dreams of their own. Within the pages of his novels, these visions of his mind jump into ours.
He wrote profusely on many a topic, familiar yet at once alien. His literary playground, Roundswald, was always infused with strange magic: electric carts, nuclear-fusion stars, and sleek metal flying machines. It was a world entirely foreign to ours. And yet, it never felt quite too far away. He wrote of strange magic, yet among that magic he wrote of ponies like you and me. In between the differential machines and artificial echolocating, were tales, anecdotes, and above all, questions about what it means to be equine. He was funny, no doubt. But that humor was balanced and informed by a deep longing for understanding. Understanding our place on the land, in the world, and in the heavens. Upon this fantastic sphere he built, he explored our own strange magic.
Yet his magic did not solely touch readers. He also inspired a generation of writers. Many of my older author acquaintances confess to growing up on his works. From several mares and stallions I have heard touching tales of how he inspired them. Tales of a one-bit paperback pulled from the local bookstore two dozen years ago, a single book that inspired a lifetime of literary excellence. I myself have seen the touch of his quill in the many parodies and homages to his style I have inadvertently exposed myself to. I am glad at least for these vicarious experiences.
For a generation of ponies, Trotsworth was the contemporary speculative fiction writer. But for me and my younger ilk, he will be a sacred legend, experienced in memorium.
Long I told myself, "I really ought to start upon this series; it seems excellent." It appears at last I have found the impetus, sad as it may be. I only wish I had thought to follow his hoofprints sooner. But I am glad for those who did.
Penatia, I trotted not the trail you trod, yet still bid thee farewell. Heavenlyspeed, Sir, as you gallop amongst the stars. Thank you, and goodbye.
Twilight stepped away from the podium as stomping and cheers rose up from below. She smiled earnestly and breathed easier. She had done it. It had gone alright. Better than she expected, even. Not bad for three-and-a-half hours, a trip to the library, and a forget-me-not spell. And a Dry-Your-Eyes extract. But nopony needed to know that. Yet even as she congratulated herself, a new objective shaped itself within her mind: I know how I shall be occupying my free time henceforth until the fune--
Her thoughts were sliced by a lumbering roar that fashioned itself into a voice: Well done, my little pony. You knew not of him the way I know him now, yet you still spoke with clarity and truth. He would be honored, I'm sure.
Twilight whipped her head around, only to catch a flash of deep blue eyes and a bony, knowing smile.
