The Farthest Shore by Ursula K Le Guin

Another Earthsea novel, another coming of age tale with another new character. Ged is also there, stealing the limelight. However, in this novel, he is there from the beginning and it’s a much stronger start. In some ways this is my favorite of the original trilogy, and in some ways this is my least favorite of the original trilogy. In trying to determine why, I have come across two aspects of storytelling and two aspects of the writing that I want to talk about.

In terms of her writing, Le Guin has adopted strong, confident writing. And the biggest addition to her repertoire is her expanded descriptions. Where in the earlier Earthsea books things were described sparsely—except for the tombs themselves, but those were in darkness so there wasn’t much to describe—here the descriptions extend longer. And this extending allows the reader time to pause and ponder what Ged has taught the young prince Arran, time for the writer to fill in some gaps in the Earthsea world; but not through exposition: Le Guin still uses effective, sparse hints at the surrounding context. Yet this further description of the world is appreciated after the claustrophobia of the tombs.

The characters here are great: partly because of what came before, and partly because of what Le Guin does here. On the one hand, seeing the old Ged, wise and patient, advising against action unless action is needed, is Le Guin writing a strong father figure; yet after reading the other books, and realizing who Ged was and what he has become, this character is more powerful. The new characters are interesting—Arran follows his own path to adulthood, separate from that which Ged and Tenar took. He goes from a haughty, aristocratic young prince who thinks he knows how the world works, to a humble, strong young man who is able to prioritize others over himself. So, I appreciated what Le Guin did with the characters here—continuing to explore instead of rehash.

One aspect of her storytelling that allows such diversity of character is that this novel is a journey. Ged and Arran are constantly coming to new lands and meeting new characters. This structure is also reflected in her emphasis on description—more opportunity and more need to introduce more aspects of Earthsea. For a journey narrative, I could probably think of a better one, but it would be very hard for me to think of one. This is a really good journey narrative because Le Guin finds a happy medium between delving too deeply into a place the characters are basically passing through, yet not losing site of the place itself, giving the reader enough information to make the place seem alive. She does a really good job structuring and pacing the novel so that each stop, each island, is alive, yet doesn’t rabbit trail the novel too far away from its narrative thrust.

But that narrative thrust is my problem. Every fantasy novel seems to want to save the world from some overarching evil. And here, Le Guin adheres to the trope. It’s indicative of a larger problem: where the first two novels subverted and played with tropes, this one spends more time adhering to them, and less playing with them. There’s a prophecy and wouldn’t you know, this boy Arran is the one prophesied about. The old wise wizard saves the day, and he comes off much more like Merlin in this book, though that is tempered by his fatherlyness. And the real fallout of this problem is that some of the action, the situations the book embarks on, is overly foreign—too relegated to this fantasy world, and not as easily conceived by the reader. It's hard to fear a dragon, and so Le Guin does more telling than she should here, because her telling is inadequate to draw me into the full import of what she is saying. Okay, so magic is dying out, but the first two books spent a lot of time showing that magic wasn't the most widespread thing in this world, so who cares? It seemed like Le Guin is a better writer than storyteller here, because the overall thrust of the book is a disappointment. But this is probably just squabbling. I still wish that I could write something this good, despite this one fault.

The theme of the book is death, power, and love. Three strong themes that Le Guin handles beautifully. Though these three themes are wrapped up in fantasy trappings, Le Guin manages to make them understandable and applicable to her reader still the same. Death is naturally something to fear, but there is a healthy way to approach it. Power is most useful when it doesn’t insist upon itself, but is selfless when required. Love, as a theme, takes place between Ged and Arran as father-figure and son-figure. This is a good portrait of a parent-child relationship, and it is nice to see a fantasy book without some scantily clad heart-throb.

In all, another fantastic book by Ursula K Le Guin. I’m loving exploring her work more after being floored by The Dispossessed. There is some other strong stuff in her oeuvre. And this book counts among them. It’s better written than the other two Earthsea novels in the original trilogy. But the overall driving force of the story does let it down some.

The Tombs of Atuan by Ursula K Le Guin

This sequel to A Wizard of Earthsea delivers, but in a different way than the first book. Instead of the almost non-stop action in that earlier novel, this one starts out slow with the new main character, Tenar, growing up as high priestess of the Nameless Ones, the old gods. Raised as an orphan in the desert religious complex, Le Guin creates an interesting dynamic for Tenar: she is technically the reincarnation of the prior highest priestess, but politically she is a child and the newer gods are now more popular, so her power is actually pretty limited. Navigating this intense world of interpersonal religious politics fills the early part of the book with a different tenor than A Wizard of Earthsea, as Tenar learns the limits of her power and learns her place in this society. Eventually Ged arrives, looking for the other half of a broken magical talisman, and the action begins in earnest. But that slow opening really helps build the character of Tenar firmly. She is a proud and self-questioning young woman, often alone and in the dark, who is forced to self-reliance and starts to expect no help from others. When she meets Ged, it’s at a time in her life where her own curiosity, and the situation in the temple complex, makes an act of rebellion attractive, so she doesn’t outright kill him, and that rebellion starts her on her own path towards becoming a helpful, functioning member of a society. I think Le Guin is making a preference known for the culture of Earthsea over the superstitious culture of the Karghish lands.

And yet, though the structure of the story follows Tenar’s path, the first half, the impact of the story on the larger world is down to Ged’s hero quest to find the other half of the broken ring, the second half. This disconnection led to me questioning where the story was going in moments. Unlike Le Guin's novel, The Dispossessed, where the two stories combine into one clearly and cleanly, here it seems more like the story is a bait and switch⁠—I think the story is about Tenar, but then Ged arrives and everything focuses in on him. This is nitpicking though, because when Tenar approaches another culture as curious and open as she does, of course her life will change. So, while Le Guin’s writing improves, I think her storytelling takes a step back. In all, I would recommend this book to almost anybody though, because taking a step back from the heights Le Guin has achieved is a small thing in comparison to other writers.

That nit pick aside, this is a really enjoyable read. Delving more deeply into the psychology of the coming of age tale, aspects of Tenar stay unchanging, while she also changes drastically through her childhood. This is a really well done coming of age story, and how many examples do we have of a woman’s perspective on the same? Fantasy is usually all beautiful women with no power other than sexual or evil, and heroic men who take what they will. This alternate view is beguiling and I appreciate it immensely.

The theme of the book is again empathy and accepting the wholeness of being⁠—both the light and the dark alike. But in a way, this novel is the mirror of A Wizard of Earthsea: a woman’s coming of age tale, instead of a man’s; Ged goes from the mountains to the indoors while Tenar comes from the deserted tombs to the biggest city in Earthsea; where Ged gains power, Tenar loses it, though maybe uses is a better word to choose; where Ged accepts myths, Tenar lets some myths go; and most importantly, Tenar becomes complete too, like Ged did, but in the opposite direction through accepting her lightness. Where Ged was learning to deal with his darkness, Tenar is learning to accept her light⁠—literally and figuratively, as she was mostly raised in physical darkness. Tenar and Ged somewhat mirror each other, as do their tales. That said, the theme here also embraces taboo and is the best example I can think of for a story about overcoming superstitious taboo. Religion, superstition, and personal choice over place in society also all play important roles as themes in the novel.

It’s a strong novel that I really enjoyed. I look forward to a second read in the future, knowing now what I do about the story and being able to fit the two parts of it together, I think a second read will be better than the first. I wonder whether a sentence or two at the beginning, to give away the ending, would’ve been as helpful here as it was to Ged’s novel.

A Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula K Le Guin

This is the story of Sparrowhawk, Ged, a young adult who has the gift of wizardry, learning to control himself at the same time as he is learning to control his powers. Structurally, it's a hero's quest, but it treats the hero more like Gawain in Gawain and the Green Knight, in terms of getting down into the nitty gritty psychological frustrations of day to day life. This isn't Merlin. This is a boy learning to be a man.

She assumes the reader knows what is what in the world of Earthsea. Instead of expository worldbuilding, Le Guin focuses on the story and drops hints where needed to flush out the context. This tactic of sparse backstory contrasts directly with Tolkein’s tendency to describe the history of every lichen-covered rock. And to me, it contrasts favorably. The focus of the novel rests firmly on the characters and story rather than the world being built. Which, when I’m reading a story, is something I prefer. It reminds me of what I like about China Mieville, those few, important hints flushing out a world and still leaving the reader space to use their imagination. It’s a style of writing I’m thoroughly convinced is effective, and Le Guin helps prove it here.

I think the point of the novel rests in the combination, the wholeness Ged reaches by melding himself with the shadow. The light and the dark coming together into one character. Though there are many other points to the book, I think this aspect is the clearest and touches all the other points: Ged’s pride and desire for power releases the dark shadow, which then runs rampant. He initially hides from it until he realizes how much of a danger to others it is. Then he systematically hunts down the shadow, needing help from his friends and finding other dangers along the way. He finally realizes that the shadow is a part of himself, and he calls it by his own true name, at which point the two become one. As a young adult novel, it’s easy to see Le Guin trying to show ways in which competitiveness, self-worth, and service to others are both beneficial and destructive. Like hiding: initially, he has to hide from it because he has no power to match it, then his hiding becomes cowardice and he has to hunt it down. Hiding is a benefit initially, but turns into a destructive crutch. His service to others first blinds him from his need to confront his shadow, but then he confronts it out of a desire to protect others.

One thing I always find interesting about magic in novels is what it says about the author’s prioritization of aspects of reality. For Le Guin, magic is power over things that comes only from understanding an aspect of the thing. Knowing the true name of the thing gives one power over it, as well as some innate ability to project that power, which can be trained to work more effectively. Empathy is a large part of what she seems to premise that power on. When Ged is trying to be helpful, he almost always succeeds. When he tries to hurt others, he fails and hurts himself and unintended others more. It’s a powerful system of magic, and one that clearly reinforces the theme of the novel.

In all, I really enjoyed A Wizard of Earthsea and don’t know why I hadn’t picked it up before. The writing isn’t as good as Le Guin gets later, but it’s also not as bad as some of her earlier works. It seems by trying to write for a young adult audience she allowed some sparseness to influence her voice in a way that I appreciate. A good story, written well, which leaves the reader plenty to think about and plenty to fill in. What more could you ask for?

The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman

Outside of three books, I simply don’t like Neil Gaiman’s writing. Especially in American Gods and Anansi Boys, the sentence structures repeat again and again to the point of boredom. The word choices prove useful but not effective. In short, I regret reading those books. However, The Sandman is one of the best things I have ever read and it’s near the top of my “To Re-read” list. I ended up with the audiobook for Norse Mythology one day before a road trip with my wife, and we loved it. So, I thought I would give Gaiman another go, and I thought I would read a book I had heard was his best.

The Graveyard Book may be perfect. His language and sentences fit in well with the story and cast of characters. Where I’ve been known to say he writes like a young adult author, or a journalist⁠—when he’s writing a young adult book, he absolutely shines. The short sentences provide a rhythm for the mood to build off of. The word choices focus the attention onto the characters and actions. The structure of the novel allows almost each chapter to be seen as a short story, a separate episode in Bod’s life. There is humor and terror and heartwarming moments, and conspiracies and chases and supernatural creepies. Myth and legend and urban fantasy⁠—dishwashers and goblets, ghost witches and modern mayoresses.

And that complexity dealt me a blow I hadn't seen coming: instead of using metaphors and extensive worldbuilding to talk about race relations, immigration, or crime, the novel is full of natural diversions into these subjects. They surprised me, but not in a deus ex machina way: oh, the writer must have written himself into a corner so here comes the gods/eagles/dragons to save the day. Yet it doesn’t bog down under the weight of associations because of Gaiman’s deft handling of them. Instead of discussing issues specifically, he touches on them generally. He shows guiding principles instead of spelling out specific courses of action. He embraces the mystery of aspects of his world instead of explaining everything.

I read it in a single day. That’s how enthralled I found myself. Part audiobook⁠—as read by Gaiman himself⁠—and part text reading. I cannot say enough good about this book and how it balances including interesting concepts and delving into them just enough to keep the book engaging without diverting the book. Great work.

Farmer in the Sky by Robert Heinlein

A lot of Heinlein’s earlier work was tied up in Juvenile novels for Putnam, and this was one of those. I’m fine with that though. Starship Troopers was one that Putnam didn’t want to publish, breaking the relationship between author and publisher; and that’s a good book, whoever the intended audience was.

However, this one seemed juvenile in the way it engaged meaningful themes: namely, it didn’t. For instance, almost two thirds of the population of Ganymede died at one point, at least 24,000 of 37,000 people. Heinlein dropped that ball like a hot potato:

Like myself, Hank had been outside when it hit, still looking at the line up. The fact that the big shock had occurred right after the line up had kept a lot of people from being killed in their beds—but they say that the line up caused the quake, triggered it, that is, with tidal strains, so I guess it sort of evens up. Of course, the line up didn't actually make the quake; it had been building up to it ever since the beginning of the atmosphere project. Gravity's books have got to balance.

The colony had had thirty-seven thousand people when the quake hit. The census when we finished it showed less than thirteen thousand. Besides that we had lost every crop, all or almost all the livestock. As Hank said, we'd all be a little hungry by and by.

They dumped us back at the Receiving Station and a second group of parties got ready to leave. I looked for a quiet spot to try to get some sleep.

That’s how the whole situation was dealt with. Heinlein allowed a bit more about the main characters’ sister and his neighbors, but the whole episode happened out of nowhere, and went nowhere.

It’s indicative of what I hated about this novel: it read like it was initially serialized in the Boy Scouts of America magazine. Which it was. That’s not inherently a bad thing. But it affected the novel in two ways: first, each chapter had a reference to scouting in it—usually well integrated, but sometimes a little awkwardly shoehorned in there. Second, it also meant that every chapter was its own self-contained thing: this book read like a comic book that slavishly adhered to the twenty-four page pacing. I didn’t know it was serialized when I was going into it, but I guessed it by the time I was done reading it.

Let me go through a couple of examples of placed where Heinlein should have expanded:

1. Two-thirds of the population dies.
2. Evidence of extraterrestrial life is discovered and saves the main characters’ life.
3. The spaceship Mayflower gets a hole in it.
4. The dead woman Anne.
5. The shotgun wedding of George and Molly.
6. The weird way that George and Bill interact.
7. Bill’s offer to go back to earth with his step sister.

As annoying as the pacing and depth was, I finished reading this novel, and even enjoyed parts of it. Primarily, the whole is organized around the nuts and bolts of terraforming: politically, ecologically, physically, the engineering behind it, and the human side of it. What most attracted me was this human side of it. The trip from Earth to Ganymede had some pretty memorable, Heinlein lines.

But then things quieted down and I was almost happy in a miserable sort of way.

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And there I got my first view of Earth from space. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't what I expected. There it was, looking just like it does in the geography books, or maybe more the way it does in the station announcements of Super-New-York TV station. And yet it was different. I guess I would say it was like the difference between being told about a good hard kick in the rear and actually being kicked. Not a transcription. Alive.

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The people from the Daedalus and the Icarus were supposed to be stowed away by the time we got there, but they weren't and the passageways were traffic jams. A traffic jam when everybody is floating, and you don't know which end is up, is about eight times as confusing as an ordinary one.

So, despite everything that made this a bad novel—it didn’t have a plot so much as episodes, it didn’t have characters because it examined colonization from one sixteen year old boy's point of view instead, and it didn’t have much relatable to a reader who isn’t colonizing Ganymede—the small amount of human interest sections were very welcome. Most of them were also dropped balls but hey, it was a short book and I finished it.

Not his best, not by a long shot. But it was fascinating for me to look back at some of his early stuff and see how it differed with his later stuff.