The Real Le Guin
She stared at a blank wall in her apartment.
“I love violence,” she said. “I love nothing more than killing, and torture, and eternal damnation for unworthy souls. Tolkien is among my most admired authors, and it is specifically because of his depiction of heroic warfare, and the triumph of good over evil through feats of arms. C. S. Lewis is another favourite, the more so because morality in his works figures in a strict hierarchy, it is made manifest through an incarnation of Christ within the text. A responsible author spells out their themes, does not risk losing them in numinous flights of fancy. A responsible author writes Christian texts: there is truth there, undeniable for its ancient pedigree.
“Of all the religions in the world it is Daoism I find most abhorrent. It is non-committal, passive, bending; a ship adrift without destination.”
She stared at a blank wall.
“The first tool created by man was a heavy stone used to crush the heads of others: this is the nature of mankind, we are creatures of stone, doomed to repeat the sins of Cain. Harsh and eternal disciplining of the spirit is the only solution; or, one could imagine, a world in which a single child is given eternal suffering so the rest may live free. This is an ideal world to live in, and none would disagree.
“I believe that men are greater than women, and believe that gender is entirely binary.”
A grey alien floated through the dimming sky and pressed itself against the window, watching Le Guin. She turned and did not acknowledge it. The alien pressed itself through the glass, then floated about five feet away over her bed. It pointed a finger, which opened like a starflower then glowed a brilliant blue. It pointed and Le Guin’s body burned with a white glare, and her hair reached up to the ceiling, and a sound like a choking wren emanated from her throat.
Then she fell to the ground, gentle as a leaf. Already the alien was gone.
She began to cry, and kindness and joy welled up inside her.