The Wisdom of Earthsea – Thoughts on Ursula Le Guin’s The Wizard
of Earthsea

I grew up with a
love for fantasy, devouring stories of unicorns, mythical sea creatures,
dragons, fairies. To me these were (are) real, only maybe we cannot see them
because we are just not looking the right way (see Alastair McIntosh, e.g.,
Soil and Soul). As my reading discernment increased my trust in fantasy
decreased. Fantasy literature, not “assembly line commodity”[i]
fantasy can be difficult to find. I stopped reading it. I thirsted for
enrichment, not just battles (which was all my ancient literature professor seemed
to like about The Iliad and The Odyssey[ii]).  It was such a pleasure to re-discover Ursula
Le Guin and her Earthsea series. I had read at least one of her books, but at
this moment cannot recall which and it was quite a while ago (I also just read
her short story “Pity and Shame”), but now am fairly determined to read
everything she has written, or as close to it as possible. Not only does Le
Guin’s fantasy trigger that spot in my brain that only good fantasy seems to do
(something like a feeling of being home, even though typically fantastical
worlds are based in a world not our own—I’m not sure how to explain this—something
about the adventurer being in a foreign place and the reader with that
character, experiencing new places together, both finding these new places—I would
like to write about this more, but not for this entry), it is also deeply
contemplative and full of wisdom.  

I was given The Books of
Earthsea, The Complete Illustrated Edition (thank you, Mom) which contains
the complete seven Earthsea novels, in addition to a couple of essays and short
stories that Le Guin used to develop her world of Earthsea. It’s a very large
hardback, satisfyingly heavy. My fiancé and I joke it can be used as step stool
to our tall garden tub. My cats take pleasure in sprawling across its large
pages as I have it resting on my lap. I’ve just completed the first book, The
Wizard of Earthsea, and am eagerly anticipating beginning the second book
(although that might be a while given my upcoming school term). Before that,
however, I would like to discuss three aspects of this novel that particularly
struck me.  

The first feature that I appreciate
is Le Guin’s value of a slow philosophy[iii],
of a deep contemplative practice, of a practice toward meaningful action. One example
I have that demonstrates Le Guin’s slow philosophy is Ged’s return to Ogion.
This is symbolic of his beginning acceptance of Ogion’s contemplative and
hermetic way of living, a way far different from the emphasis Ged learned at
the mage school on Roke. Not that the mage school explicitly refuted a slow way
of being, but Ogion’s method of teaching was not to practice magic itself, but
to learn about the world first, and by learning about the world, Ged would come
to learn magic gradually. Ged, in his young and prideful impatience, wanted to
learn magic quickly and so left Ogion to attend the mage school at Roke. After
horrendous pitfalls, Ged returned with the recognition that Ogion is his
master. My second example is brief but notable. As Ged obtains a boat to sail
to hunt his shadow, Le Guin’s word choice of his careful attendance to the
spell craft and workmanship he offers in trade for the boat is significant. In
chapter 8, Ged, despite needing to reserve strength for sailing, for fighting
with the shadow, nevertheless expends energy on a protection spell for the man
from whom he purchased a boat: “Ged made the charm well and honestly, working
on it all that night and the next day, omitting nothing, sure and patient.” This
careful patience shows a significant change from his younger years at the mage
school where his main focus was learning quickly and everything immediately. Although
Ged will likely never see this man again, Ged’s respect for the man and for his
work has grown.

The second aspect of The Wizard
of Earthsea I find striking is the day I read Chapter 9 “Iffish” I had also
read and spent time with the Upanishad “Mandukya.” I will quote Le Guin first,
then the Upanishad:

 “My name, and yours, and the true name of the
sun, or a spring of water, or an unborn child, all are syllables of the great
word that is very slowly spoken by the shining of the stars. There is no other
power. No other name.” (p. 112)

“OM—this
syllable is all there is. A further explanation of it is this: All that is
past, present and future is just the sound Om. And whatever is beyond the three
divisions of time, that is also just the sound Om.” (p. 103)[iv]

By placing these texts side by side, I do not mean to
suggest that Le Guin’s Earthsea is a Hindu text, or religious in any sense, and
I am not trying to develop a metaphysics of Earthsea. I do, however, think it
is important that the quoted text from Le Guin are words spoken by Ged,
demonstrating his gradual maturing. As one begins to understand connectivity,
how all are one, Ged (and we) can more easily recognize how harm to one is harm
to many (or all). There is of course an “Equilibrium” discussed in Earthsea
that is to be kept in balance—and even if one’s intention is not necessarily to
keep the balance, this equilibrium will happen naturally (such as Ged needing
to finish what he had begun by releasing a shadow creature from the world of
the dead into the living). I think both texts are far more complicated beyond
the two quotes I’ve extracted from them, and I am no expert on the Upanishads,
but that I happened to read both on the same day created an opening, or a path,
that I do not find insignificant to an overarching theme found in this book.   

Finally, in the aftermath of one of
Ged’s poor decisions, his pet otak awakens him by actions natural to it, what
in the book is called “dumb instinctive wisdom of the beast” (p. 58). It is
through his pet seeking to comfort Ged, through a physical touch, that Ged
begins to gain, again, this perspective of oneness: “From that time forth he
believed that the wise man is one who never sets himself apart from other
living things, whether they have speech or not, and in later years, he strove
long to learn what can be learned, in silence, from the eyes of animals, the
flight of birds, the great slow gestures of trees” (p. 58). Here Ged is only
beginning to understand the intersubjectivity of the living earth, what could
be compared to a Rilkean transformation of recognition of intersubjectivity in
nature, but while Le Guin points to a deeper development of wisdom in this
character later in life, the change now nevertheless suggests the importance of
its occurrence—of his overcoming of ego, of pride, and recognizing an inner
self in not just himself, but also others (even plants).

That Le Guin emphasizes
self-discovery through silent contemplation as victory is a theme that holds together
all these points I am emphasizing. The importance of self-discovery through
silence as victory is unique from “assembly line” fantasy, where usually the
major character(s) must fight a battle and kill in order to find meaning in
life. “War,” Le Guin says in her afterword, “as a moral metaphor is limited,
limiting, and dangerous” (p. 129). War, she explains, avoids discovering
creative ways of overcoming conflict. War says only violence can achieve aims.
As a practitioner of nonviolence (and one that will ever be a student), I
appreciate reading literature that is, if not non-violent, at least not wholly relying
on violence as entertainment, and indeed one that valorizes gaining wisdom
through silent contemplation. Furthermore, as a student of creative writing, I hope to find
inspiration in Ursula Le Guin’s imaginative storytelling methods, ones that contain provacative and unexpected solutions to conflict arisen in stories or poems.