I remember the first time I picked up a book by Ursula Le Guin, and all the many pages that passed through my fingers since then. She was one of the writers I’d always hoped to meet someday.
A friend, knowing that I loved her works, once got me autographed copy of Le Guin’s at-the-time latest novel, but that’s the closest I ever came (except via the many times I’ve read her books, reimagining the world).
Ursula Le Guin has died, at the age of 88.
It seems inexplicably sad, though I can’t rightly verbalize why. She lived a long life. A full life.
Yet, it feels like a piece of my childhood, a whole realm of imagining, has somehow ended. It seems a bit irrational, out-of-sorts. And, I also feel compelled to re-read all her novels, short stories and works right now!
Is it only a Beginning…
Then, again, I stop. I think about all the hours, days and years that I read her works. I remember those moments spent devouring the books.
I see the books sitting on my shelf. And, I watch my kids take the books and begin to read. She is with us still. She’s left us her legacy in words, and those moments are there for us to experience again. Then, we’ll pass them on to the next generation.
It won’t be the same… it won’t ever be the same. But, it is a piece of the story that goes on.