A revelation. A bundled series of revelations shining and raining and sprouting funny-shaped leaves. Yes! As soon as I finished "Brothers and Sisters" I was in the ecstasy of discovery. This is a story! These are characters! They were as distinct as the stock types of a commedia dell'arte farce, but in the details of their masks, they were realer than me or anyone I know.
Le Guin's writing is humble and fierce. Humble because it lacks ego. She executes formal experiments with exquisite deftness, each genre of "The Matter of Seggri" for example (ship captain's record, anthropology, memoir, short story, autobiographical sketch) is flawless and funny and right, but there is never that smug smile of Look at me! Ooh look what I can do! She just does it, and it's as it needs to be, and she moves on.
Fierce because it burns with moral urgency and integrity. Her words are porcupine quills aimed at authoritarian hubris. Her explorations rattle the bars of unjust cultural inheritance. Thought must be free and all must be free to think.
And fierce on another plane too, not of the head only, but of the burning heart. Her characters love and want with pointed desperation. The end of "Semley's Necklace" made me burst into tears, so brutal was the ruin of Semley's clashing desires. The end of the last story "Jug of Water" made me cry too, and not only because the beautiful shebang had ended. "Come outside. It's raining." Spoken by a lover after a long, mysterious anti-quest through the desert. Indeed. These stories were rain to me.
A couple other stories I have to mention:
"The Poacher" Adored this beyond all reason. Perhaps my all-time favorite spin on a fairy tale. The limitations on the vocabulary in the speaker's voice were perfect. Describing flowers on a hedge: "I liked to see that, and to smell their scent, as heavy as the smell of meat or bread, but sweet." Describing a castle: "The sunlight on it made me think of the firelight on my stepmother's breasts." And the poacher's own role as outsider, interloper in a world or story that doesn't belong to him, distills a theme that resonates throughout the collection. Sometimes in deliciously subtle ways - like the girl in "Solitude" describing her upbringing with the people (persons!) of Eleven-Soro. Her text is labeled as an addition to her mother's anthropological report. So she is speaking to other adults, which her culture forbids her to do, in a world that is foreign but also somehow her own. Yes, Le Guin's fierce morals do not preclude ambiguity or fog.
"The Flyers of Gy" Here we find not ambiguity, but ambivalence. A stark binary decision to be made and no clear winner. For me, "The Flyers of Gy" was a briefer, funnier, and more tragic version of Kierkegaard's "Either/Or". Which life? The romance of the artist, soaring above paltry human concerns, refusing to recognize risk, each breath its own reward? Or the virtue of the family man, contributing to society, suppressing or sublating his ego into the greater good?
"She Unnames Them" Le Guin says this is her favorite story, along with "Sur". Not much to say about the latter, though now that I think about it, "Sur" celebrates the thrill of exploration and discovery without any of the pride of getting credit for being first. A ringing example of that fierce humility I mentioned. But I wanted to talk about "She Unnames Them," because it brings in a theme I haven't touched on yet, the holiness of words and the danger of names. The story seems to be about Eve unnaming all the animal species, including herself. She gives her name up to Adam and God, my guess is she is giving up the name "woman." "You and your father lent me this -- gave it to me, actually. It's been really useful, but it doesn't exactly seem to fit very well lately. But thanks very much! It's really been very useful." Exactly! Exactly Eve my sister. Being a woman has been fab and all, but I think it's time to move on. No more birds, no more dogs, no more dolphins. Move on beyond labels, whether English or German or Latin, move on. Move on and let new words be born, with all the sacred trappings of any divine creation.
"I could not chatter away as I used to do, taking it all for granted. My words now must be as slow, as new, as single, as tentative as the steps I took going down the path away from the house, between the dark-branched, tall dancers motionless against the winter shining."
She says in the intro that she wrote "She Unnames Them" on a cocktail napkin during a bourbon on the rocks in an airplane. "I was feeling good. I was feeling like rewriting the Bible." It was published in 1985, the year I was born. Maybe she unnamed me? So must I be as slow, as new, as single, as tentative as a step away.