Ursula Le Guin never fails to disappoint. In this book, she offers several stories about growing up, exploration, love, loss, and learning. Given my recent interest in writing, I’ve been trying to pay more attention to the structure of prose I read, its skeletons and underpinnings, the visible craft of the author. But with Le Guin, I just can’t seem to focus on the mechanics—her stories are woven so finely that I forget to watch for the framework and gears and am instead swept along into her fictional worlds. Like real life, the experience pushes aside immediate analysis. I’ll have to keep trying, though, because she is definitely one to emulate.

Extremely disappointing. It has its moments but most of it is utter trash.

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