Claire L. Evans, Motherboard:
Ursula K. Le Guin, 1929-2018. I have been dreading the day. Because Ursula had been growing older, stubbornly, inexorably, she was bound to leave us eventually, and because we always seem to lose our heroes when we need them most.
I can’t help but think that her fascination with trees was as much Jungian as it was due to the life she made, with her husband and three children, in Portland, Oregon, where I also grew up. There is a knottiness to our forests that takes root in the imagination. As a child, I’d sit in the back seat of my parents’ car, as we drove those one-lane roads that slice through the woods, mentally launching myself, like an arrow, straight into the loamy darkness of the trees, dreaming that they might envelop me completely. In her novels, I always relive that hypnotic pull into the forest; I hear the siren song of deep time, the time of the trees, as they grow silently among us.
“Anarchism’s principal target is the authoritarian state,” she wrote, and “its principal moral-practical theme is cooperation.”
…I asked Ursula what she wanted to see happen to her books after she died. I’ll never forget what she said. I’ll share it with you now, as a reminder of how we are supposed to grieve her, even if we can’t read through the tears:
“I want them to be available, I want cheap paper editions of them, I want them to be continuously downloaded in forty different languages, I want them to be read, I want them to be argued about, I want people to cry over them, I want unreadable dissertations written about them, I want people to get angry with them, I want people to love them.”