The Tao of Le Guin

When I was in college in the early 1990s, I took a fantasy fiction course with Dr. Carl Holmberg. For one of the course's writing assignments, we had to choose an author, find three different books the author wrote, and write a paper on a theme that applied across all three books.

To find possibilities for the assignment, I browsed through my dad's fantasy and science fiction collection and considered my options. Tolkien was an option, but that seemed too easy and overused. I already had a bunch of Frank Herbert stuff, and I considered that, but Dune was my favorite book, and I wanted to branch out a little. My dad had a number of Piers Anthony books, and I considered them. In the end, though, I chose Ursula K. Le Guin, and I did the paper on A Wizard of Earthsea, The Left Hand of Darkness, and The Lathe of Heaven. In addition to reading the books, I found some articles on Le Guin, and I picked up on the theme of Taoism. I don't remember the details of my analysis, but I ended up focusing on some aspect of Taoism that spanned the three books.

Writing that paper began my appreciation of Le Guin. I hadn't known much at all about her before that, but afterward, I knew I enjoyed her work. It was so imaginative, so full of beautiful writing, and so full of love. While I didn't read a lot more of her works, I always cherished the time I spent on my paper. To this day The Lathe of Heaven is among my all-time favorite books, and I owe some of the growth in understanding sexuality I experienced in my twenties to The Left Hand of Darkness.

Le Guin passed away earlier this week at the age of 88. I'm not Taoist; I'm much more Buddhist than anything. The rudimentary understanding I have of Taoism would tell me that death is part of life, and so the passing of Le Guin, who was fortunate enough to live a long life, ought to be recognized for its inevitability. Still, I feel another inevitability -- the sadness of knowing Le Guin is no longer with us.