It’s a strange book, a book that’s almost all un-narrative. I am both really sad at the circumstances and glad to have finally read Always Coming Home. (I have a lot to say about a system which ignores women writers while they live and rewards them with posthumous praise, which allows them in only when they’re writing in “approved” genres and then slams those genres as immature and less important, #ursulashouldhaveanobel, Joanna Russ was right. A number of those earlier and more forgotten works are now being reissued, which helps except that it also fills me with rage that these seminal books from a giant figure in SFF are just now being republished after her death. Her more well known and recent works–like Earthsea and Annals of the Western Shore–are old friends, but she wrote a lot more. I’ve had a previously undeclared quest over the past few years to read as much Ursula K Le Guin as I can.
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