1929-2018

When I heard of Ursula LeGuin’s death, I realized that she was someone who, as far as I was concerned, had always been there.   I’d been reading her since Rocannon’s World, the Hainish space opera that seemed equally to resonate with the works of Tolkien and Leigh Brackett.  (“Wherever he went, his super science made him a legendary figure!”)  She was a constant in my literary universe.  (And I’m still very fond of those early Hainish books.)

I occasionally found myself in the same room with her, but she was always surrounded by a swarm of admirers, and I never felt right about barging through her adherents just to introduce myself.  She clearly meant so much to them, I didn’t want to interrupt whatever communion was in progress.

I never got to talk to her until we found ourselves at the same table during an underreported autographing, where even Ursula K. LeGuin failed to draw a crowd.  We were the only two people in the room, and we had a lovely conversation, though at this distance I don’t recall what it was about.  She was sweet and attentive and very, very perceptive.  I don’t think much escaped her notice, and I doubt anyone ever got around her.

It occurs to me that she will still be a constant in my literary universe, because those books aren’t going anywhere.

Time to go to the shelf.