I never read the Earthsea books as a kid. I started reading the first with my mother and when we got to the part where Ged rips open the world and lets his shadow out I got too scared to continue. This is interesting in retrospect because I made my way through the other book that scared me that much, which was A Wind in the Door. In both cases the thing I was afraid of was death - I was never afraid of anything but death. In L’Engle’s books death was the adversary, the Ecthroi, creatures made of non-being and terror, manifested in the first book as fascism and in the second as cancer. In LeGuin’s books death was not actually the enemy, but the fear of death, and the mistakes men made in their fear. I could handle L’Engle’s Christian ideology because it externalized the evil. LeGuin’s Jungian worldview - the idea that the evil was inside me and of my own working - was too much for me. I hated Ged and I couldn’t watch him hurt the world in his pride.
The BBC recently made a long radio adaptation of all five Earthsea books and I just finished listening to it. It seems pretty faithful - the dialog has that stilted straight-from-the-page quality about it - and they even try to address the whitewashing problem that has plagued adaptations of the books by giving the white-skinned Kargs south asian accents, which… would have worked better if they’d done it the other way around, but they tried. I feel like I have the gist of the books now, in any case.
Earthsea is instructive because the first trilogy, written from 1968 to 1972, is absolutely straight out of Joseph Campbell and at times resembles Star Wars more than anything else. This, the hero with a thousand faces, is the ideology I was raised in. It’s full of useful instructions about how to become a good king if you’re a boy or a good queen if you’re a girl, but it’s not very good at venturing outside those parameters, or at questioning its own politics. Campbell says “it was ever thus” but the flipside of that is that it can never be otherwise. So you end up with generation after generation learning and suffering and accepting the world as it is.
LeGuin saw this, came back to her world 20 years later and tore it all down. She found the Campbellian status quo wanting and brought revolution, albeit a more textually heterosexual one than we’re used to these days. It turns out it wasn’t just the one guy ending the world, through his fear of death - it is Guys. It is the ideology of growth, the ideology of power, the ideology of secret-keeping. Wizards are ending the world, so no more wizards. The averted bad ending of the first three books - magic gone out of the world - becomes the desired outcome in the fifth, because magic was built on purgatory, enslavement, suffering, and greed, and also it’s creating dangerous concentrations of CO2 in the atmosphere. In answer to “how exactly do we end the patriarchy when it is by its nature bigger and stronger and more cruel than we are”, LeGuin says “dragons” - by which I think she means that the earth eventually has its own back. The fire comes down, always. The important thing is to be ready to rebuild afterwards.
Alternately the dragons represent lesbianism, as they so often do, but I’ll leave that to the reader’s discretion.
The idea that we eat the world in our greed and that our greed springs most directly from our fear of death is one that I first absorbed from Enix SNES RPGs, of all things. It’s a Taoist worldview. In the case of these games, it’s also a fatalistic one - in Illusion of Gaia and Terranigma you are taught over and over that you as the hero cannot fight unchecked growth, that as a hero you unwittingly become its agent. The only thing you can do is to keep the cycle going, keeping hope alive, lest we leave death behind entirely by falling into endless stasis, ending death by ending life. It’s a message I’m glad to hear, ready to hear, now.
What we can hope for is to be generous, not to let fear make us cruel. Death is in us and we cannot stop it. We must refuse to kill just to hold on to what we have, because what we have is never permanent. We must relax our hands, let the world run through our fingers, to be gathered up again by new, strange children.