Ursula K. Le Guin introduced her fantasy island landscape Earthsea in 1964, with the short story “The Word of Unbinding.” But it was in 1968, when her novel A Wizard of Earthsea was published, that the Earthsea Cycle really set sail. Earthsea would become the setting for five novels, ending with The Other Wind in 2001, one short story collection, Tales of Earthsea, and several other short pieces (see the full list of Earthsea tiles here). Earthsea is an expansive and complete fantasy world; one that some argue rivals even the great literary fantasy creations of the 20th century: Tolkein’s Middle Earth, C.S. Lewis’ Narnia, and Rowling’s wizarding world.

I say “even” here because, until recently, I knew almost nothing of Earthsea. Other than the awareness that it existed and that Goro Miyazaki adapted Tales for Studio Ghibli (about which, Le Guin told Miyazaki: “It is not my book. It is your movie. It is a good movie”.) Le Guin for me had always been primarily a writer of science fiction. I’ve read-and loved-The Left Hand of Darkness more than once. But of Earthsea, I was completely ignorant. Talking about Le Guin leads almost inevitably to Left Hand, and that, it turns out, is a shame.

So I finally read Earthsea. It’s not difficult to see in Le Guin’s story her predecessors, especially Tolkien, and the impact of myth, language, and magic. Nor is it hard to see how Le Guin has left her mark on the genre. The interaction of one story with another is one of genre fiction’s chief appeals. One sees, for example, clear shades of Hogwarts in the the school on Roke, where wizards are sent to receive their education from Masters in towers and woods. In fact, it seems unlikely any reader today could read a chapter title “The School for Wizards,” and not eagerly seek out the impact of Le Guin on Harry Potter’s education.

Unlike Harry Potter, however, school is only one part of many in A Wizard of Earthsea. A Wizard of Earthsea is the story of one boy’s adolescence: his childhood, his education, his arrogant wielding of power beyond his control, and his maturation in the face of what many young men must one day confront: a reckless youth.

The wizard in this story is a young man, known first as Sparrowhawk, and later, upon his naming, Ged. Ged will be the greatest wizard of Earthsea, readers learn from the start, with tales of his life to one day be recorded in the Deeds of Ged.

I mention Ged’s naming day because naming is the key to A WIzard of Earthsea; the central element of power within the story itself, as well as the thematic crux that gives the story its power almost 50 years later. The power of names in Earthsea is the power of magic; knowing the name of your friend is a sign of enduring love (a Wizard rarely uses their own name), the name of your enemy is key to victory over enemies.

Le Guin’s story thus surrounds a simple core that resonates strongly in all eras: the words we use are the power we hold. All things-physical and spiritual and intellectual-have a name in what Le Guin calls the True Speech. True Speech in Earthsea is the ancient language, predating all life. It is The Word, if you will. The language of True Speech is taught to wizards of a certain age in school, but a few words can be picked up here and there by the common folks, including a poor woman in the Sparrohawk’s hometown. She has a few words of True Speech, capable of small but helpful magics, and just a taste of the power that exists in the world. She picks up on the innate power of Sparrowhawk, and gives him what little lessons she can. With little knowledge the child performs great feats, and his existence becomes known the Wizard of his home Island. The boy is then set upon his path across the archipelago of Earthsea.

A small lesson is easily misunderstood, and just a taste of power can lead to devastating consequences. Therein is the plot of A Wizard of Earthsea. After being sent to the wizard school, Sparrowhawk spends the requisite time in the tower in the wilderness learning the true names of all things (a lesson he must undergo twice). Sparrowhawk’s youthful arrogance and pride in his power lead him to overconfidence. He undertakes the use of True Speech he cannot yet control and tries to raise a dead woman in an effort to best a rival student. Instead, he brings into the physical world an unknown creature from the realm of the dead. The shadow-creature is connected to Sparrowhawk but too ancient to hold a name. It haunts the young wizard’s life, the shadow of his existence he cannot escape, called into the world by a young man’s misuse of words.

Thus the story of Ged unfolds as he seeks a way to conquer the consequences of his arrogance. It is simple story built on simple themes, words and their power, but one that remains resonant.

I am reducing Ursula K. Le Guin’s fantastic novel to too fine a point. A Wizard of Earthsea is a joyful and exuberant experience of dragons and magic and evil princesses and wizards sailing off the edge of the map. It’s a blast to undertake, and I encourage readers to do so. But what makes Le Guin so special to me as a reader-in Earthsea as well as Left Hand of Darkness and elsewhere-is the constant presence, by the writer and within her stories, of the careful choice and value of words.

In this age of the internet, we seem to lack an awareness of so many words we use. We know what they are, what they mean, the actual letters strung together, and what each signifies. But we too often lose the value of what lies behind the words. So it seems to me. This is knowledge of great worth, it’s what keeps writers and philosophers and poets up at night. But it continues to lose value. Even while the literal sense of language is understood, we fail to recognize that the words we use rarely depend only on a literal sense.

Culture provides countless examples of how this power is wielded errantly. Todd Akin’s comments about ‘legitimate rape’ set off a firestorm he could not possibly have foreseen. Whatever those words meant to Mr. Akin, the reality of that phrase, that horrible notion, escaped him. And the consequences of speaking what he did not understand overtook his political career. More recently, the attribution of Seattle Seahawks player Richard Sherman as a ‘thug’ because his behavior deviated from the expected norms while engaging in a common activity (an interview). By breaking out of the expected role, commentators looked for an assignation that made sense, not knowing what it means to use the word to which they clung.

We see these words everyday and a myriad of others. And it seems no matter how much work the world takes to identify their actual effect, the lesson cannot be learned. These are words-rape, thug, etc-whose meaning in the True Speech carries far more significance than we realize. Their use comes too frequently with a lack of understanding. And that lack of understanding comes over us during important ritual we partake in every time we open our mouths or our blogs: naming.

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