![]() Le Guin’s extraordinary imaginary worlds have been built and shared. After all, she writes, 'Words are my matter-my stuff.' And it’s through their infinite arrangements, 'the endless changes and complexities of their interrelationships,' that Ms. In even these miscellanies, composed in her off hours, the sentences are perfectly balanced and the language chosen with care. Despite her reservations with the hideous word 'blog'-which sounds like it should refer to 'an obstruction in the nasal passage'-she takes to the digressive form with ease, ruminating on the value of literary awards, the Great American Novel (her pick may surprise you), the 'existential situation' of old age and her outsize love for a newly adopted black-and-white cat called Pard. This delightful book, inquisitive and stroppily opinionated in equal measure, assembles stray pieces from her recent adventures in blogging. Le Guin on the absurdity of denying your age: If I’m ninety and believe I’m forty-five, I’m headed for a very bad time trying to get out of the bathtub. Le Guin on the absurdity of denying your age: 'If I'm ninety and believe I'm forty-five, I'm headed for a very bad time trying to get out of the bathtub. ![]() ![]() Few writers have been so conscientious of the ways that societies are defined by the nuances and omissions of their language. Le Guin, a collection of thoughtsalways adroit, often acerbicon aging, belief, the state of literature, and the state of the nation. Le Guin, a collection of thoughts-always adroit, often acerbic-on aging, belief, the state of literature, and the state of the nation. ![]() Le Guin’s brilliance lies beyond nomenclature. ![]()
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