Paul Joseph J. Vistal, 27, has worked as proofreader, asso-ciate editor, and editor of various local publications in Bohol and currently writes and copyedits for The Bohol Chronicle. He does a few other things on the side, including "writing humorless poems about death (or the absence thereof), love, and life and purportedly studying law." He also likes music and is looking for a copy of Miles Davis’ "Saeta."
First impressions last. Sometimes. The first time I read Ursula K. Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea, I couldn’t get past the first chapter. My brother had said that it was very good. But I couldn’t get it then. This is a child’s tale, I scoffed. I plodded through the first few pages and, after hours of forcing my way to page 10, threw it aside.
Then, many years later, I picked it up again.
As I reread the first words of the book, a world of Earth and Sea, of Wizards and Dragons, of Old Powers and the True Speech began to reveal itself before me. A spell of Opening had been wrought and where a stone wall of ages had stood there now was a Master Doorkeeper who bade me, "Enter."
Here, finally, was a world where magic was essence, not accident; a world where magic was substance, not embellishment. For here, magic consists in the true naming of a thing and the knowledge of its being. Here, the great powers of Summoning, Changing, and Patterning were never to be worked recklessly but only in need. In Earthsea, more than in any realm of fantasy, magic is so much more meaningful, so much more powerful, and so much more dangerous.
"Noth hierth malk man
"hiolk han merth han!"
With these innocent words begin a young boy’s journey to manhood, to the mastery of the power that lies within him, and, at so great a cost, to the mastery of himself. The eight words are a spell of Summoning and the perplexed boy who has worked the spell is frightened, howling and sobbing as he is surrounded by what he has summoned.
The boy is named Duny and the words are spoken to a herd of goats who have gathered around him. It is an unseemly initiation to the ways of magic for one who would later be both dragonlord and archmage, and one of the greatest wizards to ever walk the islands and sail the seas of Earthsea, the mage whose use-name would be Sparrowhawk and the man whose true name would be Ged.
Not all first impressions last.
A Wizard of Earthsea is the first book of Le Guin’s most excellent Earthsea cycle, which initially had only three. First published in 1968, it was followed by The Tombs of Atuan (1971) and The Farthest Shore (1972). In the ’90s, two more books (the regretfully necessary Tehanu and the triumphant The Other Wind, which Neil Gaiman fans should read) completed the saga of Sparrowhawk. An independent volume, Tales from Earthsea, collects the legends and myths of Earthsea. Or so I’ve heard, as this one I have yet to read. The first remains to be my favorite, however, with The Other Wind a close second.
Le Guin admits to having been influenced by Tolkien and, in fact, appropriates a few elements of The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings trilogy into her books. These tokens are her homage to Tolkien. And one she worthily makes.
Her honesty, compassion, and sincerity ring true in each volume and this is evident in the wholeness of and in how distinct each book of the cycle is. So unlike each other in theme and treatment, it seems that nothing threads the books together, apart from Earthsea and the story of Sparrowhawk; like siblings striving to outdo each other but bound always by the same blood. You wonder whether, while she was writing them, Le Guin must have doted on them like a mother.
A Wizard of Earthsea is a slim book (only about two hundred pages). But, though it may not be as thick as most of today’s bestsellers, every letter is necessary; every word has a place; every phrase a purpose; every sentence a meaning.
The premise is simple: that many seek the mastery that power brings but would be mastered by it; many desire the satisfaction of their pleasures but will never be satisfied; many hoard treasure in their storerooms and become slaves to the fear of losing it. Few succeed at being masters of themselves. This is true, both in and outside of Earthsea.
Yes, it is a child’s tale. But it is also an allegory, a fable, and philosophy.
It is a friend, a parent, and a teacher, reminding us of certain lessons that may be useful to us as we go about our lives: that life, sometimes, is not about undoing what has been done. That, sometimes, it is as simple as finishing what one has begun.
Or that wisdom may not be for the wizened, but it is always for the wise.
When I first read the book, the covers were already held together by tape, not a few pages were loose or torn or both, and the paper it was printed on had yellowed. It looked as if a two-year-old had played at reading it. It didn’t seem much then. Thankfully, I was wrong.
Not all first impressions last, or should.