I feel I owe you, my readers, something this evening. Why am I so utterly devastated? Why am I going to sleep with a first edition of The Dispossessed under my pillow? Ursula K. Le Guin has died, and nothing is normal. Let me explain.
As a small child, between the ages of 5 and 10, I’d already been exposed to fantasy by my parents. Despite how much my mother will always disapprove, James and the Giant Peach, the Narnia books, and others have set the scene.
So I go to primary school. Born premature, blessed with zero coordination, school will always be a challenge for me as larger children take their physical dues. However during English class, my teacher reads me The Tombs of Atuan. Let me tell you, the second of Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea books works fine without the context. I am smitten. I still write stories today about characters in underground labyrinths.
I go to the library and, for the first time in my life, see a glorious wall of science fiction and fantasy books in front of me. I need to know what happens. I check out A Wizard of Earthsea.
My god, I get nightmares for months! I was terrified of the shadow monster. To the extent I couldn’t sleep. When I finally read the section where Ged faces the shadow monster and it runs from him, I can sleep again. I have undergone a profound transformation.
Cut to the future. Many years. Now instead of a child, I am a young man resitting his first year of university, who probably should have been diagnosed with depression. After and incredibly grim period of my life, my brother passes me his copy of The Dispossessed. I am wakened. Both in terms of political awareness and my forgotten love of science fiction. I am awake again, I have a purpose.
Fast forward another however many years. I’ve graduated from my Masters, and while I apply for jobs I’m working in a call centre. As a reward for the gruelling 24 hour shifts, I allow myself to visit Blackwells and to purchase a spanking new copy of The Lathe of Heaven, which has just been made part of the SF Masterworks series.
Two years later. As I face depression and institutional bullying in my day job again, the thing that keeps me going is the ratty copy of Always Coming Home that is wrecking the pockets of my jacket I wear into work.
So here I am. Ursula K. Le Guin’s incredible writing has shaped both my artistic and political thinking for my entire life. Which is why on hearing of her death I ordered another pint at the bar and am about to go to sleep with the first edition of The Dispossessed under my pillow. Ursula K. Le Guin, I can never thank you enough for how your writing has shaped my life. Though I never met you, I will miss you. All the best.
