"God delights in our choosing," were the words I remember that have stayed with me from listening to one of the fathers who host the "Godsplaining" podcast speak about virtues. The subject in question was not about when we have to choose between right and wrong, which is simple enough even if it is difficult, but about when we have to make choices between two good or neutral things. I am burdened by small choices all the time (what neighborhood should I meet my old friend at?), and they feel like distractions (the point is to find a comfortable location to chat with my friend, not to engage on an hour long research project to find the best sandwich in town located at the perfect transit intersection of our addresses, or a half-hour research project into free public park events in the coming weeks). In those moments of pressing anxiety over trivial details that can be interpreted as choices, but can also be left as not-that-many-choices, I enjoy turning the details over to God and remembering that there is a providential element to the here and now, to what's easiest or closest, or, indeed, seemingly arbitrary and inferior, and then I try to choose to find the perfections around my limited and imperfect and "random" choice when I make it, once I'm in it. That's the choice that I try to remind myself is most important: finding and encountering what's present. That said, I'm always nervous about "complacency" or failing to notice the opportunity to exercise choosing and investigating options.
Choice is not what stood out to me while reading this chapter, though. Instead, it was friendship. Rather than the word love, it is friendship that comes to mind when I read about Ogion's relationship to the raincloud. Once a thing is a friend, which is to say, once the wizard knows "its true being: which is more than its use," that's when he can name the thing. "What, after all, is the use of you? or of myself? Is Gont Mountain useful, or the Open Sea?" When we love things we don't think of their use, but of their being, and enjoy that being and want to share with it more in friendship.
I also noticed another contrast between Ogion's silence and Ged's father's: "[t]hough a very silent man, he was so mild and calm that Ged soon lost awe of him." It is not Ged's father's silence so much as his restlessness and intensity that intimidate. And that restlessness again suggests less control, less choice in the silence.
I could also see how Ged was learning from Ogion through Ogion's gift of friendship to him. He tells Ged to "take as long as he liked," on errands, "giving him freedom to spend all day wandering by rainfilled streams," giving him the gift to befriend the environment. So, when Ged encounters the girl by the flowers one day, "[h]e would not have spoken to her," if not for her speaking to him first: he has learned silence from Ogion.
Her talk, then, is what stood out to me next, and how manipulative it was, how it took control from Ged. He was put in a position of reacting rather than reflecting and choosing whether or not to react. "She made him tell all the story of his tricks" for example, after she "went on talking in an open, careless, willful way," which is an odd combination: careless AND willful at the same time.
Because Ogion treated Ged with love, Ged came "to love this man Ogion who ... had no anger" and Ged only learns he loves him when Ogion extends a choice to Ged, of staying or going, reminding him of his freedom that he has been extending to him all this time. So, when Ged is made aware of how many more choices he has than he has previously realized, and that this nature of friendship is part of Ogion's teaching, he is filled with a realization of love.
I'm flattered to have part of my comment from last (last) week highlighted. I'd actually wondered if I hadn't "read too much" into the lack of names of Ged's family members, because I agree it feels natural, and consistent with genre and form, since the story has the shape of a folk tale and origin story of this to-be-hero Ged who is named by many names from the onset, and his life as a wizard. The early-early stuff is ahistorical in that sense. But nevertheless if nothing else, the lack of names affirm that Ged never really knew his mother, but also, neither does he (or maybe it's just we the readers who never) know his father or aunt for that matter, since only once a thing is known is it named.
"But nevertheless if nothing else, the lack of names affirm that Ged never really knew his mother, but also, neither does he (or maybe it's just we the readers who never) know his father or aunt for that matter, since only once a thing is known is it named."
Oh I really like the way that comes together there.
I don't know where this story is going, but I am getting a flavor of "too ambitious for his own good"/"more power than sense."
This is a thing in real life, especially among people Ged's age. Teenagers have the power to crash their cars into people, and even the power to create new people. We rightly fear reckless driving and teen pregnancy. Even adults often have more power than sense. I don't trust most adults to sensibly handle nuclear weapons or strong AI. In a world with magic, the stakes could be very high.
But here's a different perspective. Can you think of any stories where mastery of a skill, and its concomitant power, are pursued for their own sake, or the sake of the journey there, and that's viewed as fine?
"Patrick McKenzie: One of the reasons I think anime is popular is sometimes avoids Cambell’s hero’s journey in favor of 'I’m going to achieve mastery for it’s own sake.' If you say that out loud in English fiction, *you are certainly the bad guy.*
"Much like there have been ten thousand reskins of Harry Potter I’ve been waiting for more central examples of English-language cultural products to take that story archetype and just run with it. There is clearly a demand.
"It wouldn’t be a minor tweak to have Peter Parker grow up hearing 'You have a great responsibility to earn great power.' but one can imagine utterly sympathetic characters with basically that motivation."
Does that ever work for dangerous skills like I'm guessing Earthsea magic will be? Or does it only work for safe skills, like baking in the anime Yakitate Japan? Personally, I have no need to be the best baker, or the best at anything, so it's hard for me to relate to the competition aspect of the pursuit of greatness. But I do like learning.
The only western fiction I can think of that revels in actively engaging the hard work of mastering a skill is Elcenia, an online fantasy series. It's a favorite of mine for that reason and others, so I'll drop a link here.
The fourth book in the Prydain Chronicles (Taran Wanderer) is about repeated mastery of craft work (and I love it!) but it definitely has a melancholy feel.
"'The Devil Went Down to Georgia' is the most American of songs, because it’s set up like a classic cautionary tale about pride leading to a fall but it turns out the fiddler actually is the best and his vanity is justified. Every other country would have him lose that battle, but not here baby. Here we make winners. The moral of the story is if you’re going to challenge the devil try as hard as you can to be American"
The only other novel I can think of that valorizes engaging a skill or knowledge for its own sake is another Ursula K. Le Guin novel--The Dispossessed, in which Shevek pursues truth in mathematics and in right relations in ways that take him beyond his own severe world into another (one of comparative luxury, which he also does not succumb to, but instead continues pursuit of truth).
Goku, Midoriya, Naruto, et al, all strive for mastery of their powers and martial arts skills, so I'd say dangerous skills are included. I think you and that thread are actually touching on a core aspect of Shonen Jump manga in particular: its unofficial motto, "friendship, effort and victory." The protagonist goes through a ton of effort, pushing themselves to the limit, even to the point of injury, to achieve their goal, and they win with the help of a core group of friends, or for the sake of someone else. Izuku Midoriya of My Hero Academia is an especially good example. Hirohiko Araki goes into more detail on this in his book "Manga in Theory and Practice."
It has been a long, long time since I've read these, but would Tamora Pierce books such as the Lioness series count? The Lioness just wanted to be a knight; I don't remember there being a specific motivation (in the way that, say, Disney's Mulan wanted to protect her elderly father), and she worked very hard to achieve mastery. Of course, that story has the bucking-tradition-and-gender-norms angle.
Do villains really try to achieve mastery for its own sake? Isn't there always some unwholesome motivation -- to gain acclaim, to shore up their pride, to use power for selfish or misguided ends, etc.?
I was pleasantly surprised that Ged's apprenticeship wasn't solely impatience and personality mismatch, but that we got to see Ged enjoying some aspects of it.
"In the dark warmth of that house Ged spent the winter, hearing the rush of rain and wind outside or the silence of snowfall, learning to write and read the Six Hundred Runes of Hardic. Very glad he was to learn this lore, for without it no mere rote-learning of charms and spells will give a man true mastery."
"As the spring came on, quick and bright, Ogion often sent Ged forth to gather herbs on the meadows above Re Albi, and told him to take as long as he liked about it, giving him freedom to spend all day wandering by rain-filled streams and through the woods and over wet green fields in the sun. Ged went with delight each time, and stayed out till night."
"He had come to love this man Ogion who had healed him with a touch, and who had no anger: he loved him, and had not known it until now. He looked at the oaken staff leaning in the chimney-corner, remembering the radiance of it that had burned out evil from the dark, and he yearned to stay with Ogion, to go wandering through the forests with him, long and far, learning how to be silent. Yet other cravings were in him that would not be stilled, the wish for glory, the will to act. Ogion’s seemed a long road towards mastery, a slow bypath to follow, when he might go sailing before the seawinds straight to the Inmost Sea, to the Isle of the Wise, where the air was bright with enchantments and the Archmage walked amidst wonders."
"They wandered, first down into the Vale and then gradually south and westward around the mountain, given lodging in little villages or spending the night out in the wilderness, like poor journeyman-sorcerers, or tinkers, or beggars. They entered no mysterious domain. Nothing happened. The mage’s oaken staff that Ged had watched at first with eager dread was nothing but a stout staff to walk with. Three days went by and four days went by and still Ogion had not spoken a single charm in Ged’s hearing, and had not taught him a single name or rune or spell. Though a very silent man he was so mild and calm that Ged soon lost his awe of him, and in a day or two more he was bold enough to ask his master, “When will my apprenticeship begin, Sir?” “It has begun,” said Ogion."
"There was a silence, as if Ged was keeping back something he had to say. Then he said it: “But I haven’t learned anything yet!” “Because you haven’t found out what I am teaching,” replied the mage, going on at his steady, long-legged pace along their road,"
"Ged did not answer him. It is not always easy to answer a mage. “You want to work spells,” Ogion said presently, striding along. “You’ve drawn too much water from that well. Wait. Manhood is patience. Mastery is nine times patience. What is that herb by the path?” “Strawflower.” “And that?” “I don’t know.” “Fourfoil, they call it.” Ogion had halted, the coppershod foot of his staff near the little weed, so Ged looked closely at the plant, and plucked a dry seedpod from it, and finally asked, since Ogion said nothing more, “What is its use, Master?” “None I know of.” Ged kept the seedpod a while as they went on, then tossed it away. “When you know the fourfoil in all its seasons root and leaf and flower, by sight and scent and seed, then you may learn its true name, knowing its being: which is more than its use. What, after all, is the use of you? or of myself? Is Gont Mountain useful, or the Open Sea?” Ogion went on a half mile or so, and said at last, “To hear, one must be silent.”"
"The boy frowned. He did not like to be made to feel a fool. He kept back his resentment and impatience, and tried to be obedient, so that Ogion would consent at last to teach him something."
Pedagogy is one of my abiding special interests and I really liked the images of teaching and learning in this chapter; while at the same time found myself a bit frustrated--as I think LeGuin intends-- with the personality mismatch that Julia D. points out.
Ged reminds me of my own failures as a teacher, and of the students I couldn't connect with. I found myself annoyed at how Ged has decided already what he wants to learn and ultimately that it isn't what his teacher wants to teach him. I have had students like that, especially when I was teaching a required freshman composition class at a state college. I wanted to teach them the craft of writing and all they wanted was to complete a requirement so they could get a degree so they could get a job...
Both teaching and learning require humility and docility and it seems to me that in this exchange both parties are somewhat lacking in both. Ged is not really a fully receptive student because he's prejudiced, he's already closed off certain avenues of exploration. He's not really curious about the world around him. He wants power to act not knowledge and harmony with nature and the wisdom not to act.
And yet I also found Ogion's methodology somewhat frustrating, too. He seems to assume that if he is patient enough Ged will eventually come around and learn patience and want what he has to teach. But he's not very good at meeting his student where he is. And I think a good teacher does have to bend, has to recognize the essential personhood of the student. You can't make a student into someone they are not but you can be curious about who they are now and make a connection. Instead of beginning with where Ged is and helping him to move to where he should be, it feels like Ogion just forges on, expecting that Ged will eventually change. He needs Ged to make a leap to where he is. I guess it's a sort of illustration of the maxim that you can lead a horse to water but can't make it drink. Ogion can't force Ged into the mold and make him want to adopt his worldview and his understanding of magic.
In the end Ogion lets Ged go. And perhaps he is wise, knowing that unless Ged is a willing student he will never be able to teach him what he has to teach. Yet... the frustrated teacher in me wants to solve the problem, to find a way to make Ogion's way appealing to Ged. Just as I wanted to make the acquisition of the craft of writing appealing to my students. I suppose I am not as wise as Ogion.
Yes! I wonder what a bridge for him to this way of learning would have looked like.
Ogion reminded me a bit of some approaches for Montessori—where the culture has to be cohesive and seamless to work, but which makes it hard to switch sharply to a new way of working.
"God delights in our choosing," were the words I remember that have stayed with me from listening to one of the fathers who host the "Godsplaining" podcast speak about virtues. The subject in question was not about when we have to choose between right and wrong, which is simple enough even if it is difficult, but about when we have to make choices between two good or neutral things. I am burdened by small choices all the time (what neighborhood should I meet my old friend at?), and they feel like distractions (the point is to find a comfortable location to chat with my friend, not to engage on an hour long research project to find the best sandwich in town located at the perfect transit intersection of our addresses, or a half-hour research project into free public park events in the coming weeks). In those moments of pressing anxiety over trivial details that can be interpreted as choices, but can also be left as not-that-many-choices, I enjoy turning the details over to God and remembering that there is a providential element to the here and now, to what's easiest or closest, or, indeed, seemingly arbitrary and inferior, and then I try to choose to find the perfections around my limited and imperfect and "random" choice when I make it, once I'm in it. That's the choice that I try to remind myself is most important: finding and encountering what's present. That said, I'm always nervous about "complacency" or failing to notice the opportunity to exercise choosing and investigating options.
Choice is not what stood out to me while reading this chapter, though. Instead, it was friendship. Rather than the word love, it is friendship that comes to mind when I read about Ogion's relationship to the raincloud. Once a thing is a friend, which is to say, once the wizard knows "its true being: which is more than its use," that's when he can name the thing. "What, after all, is the use of you? or of myself? Is Gont Mountain useful, or the Open Sea?" When we love things we don't think of their use, but of their being, and enjoy that being and want to share with it more in friendship.
I also noticed another contrast between Ogion's silence and Ged's father's: "[t]hough a very silent man, he was so mild and calm that Ged soon lost awe of him." It is not Ged's father's silence so much as his restlessness and intensity that intimidate. And that restlessness again suggests less control, less choice in the silence.
I could also see how Ged was learning from Ogion through Ogion's gift of friendship to him. He tells Ged to "take as long as he liked," on errands, "giving him freedom to spend all day wandering by rainfilled streams," giving him the gift to befriend the environment. So, when Ged encounters the girl by the flowers one day, "[h]e would not have spoken to her," if not for her speaking to him first: he has learned silence from Ogion.
Her talk, then, is what stood out to me next, and how manipulative it was, how it took control from Ged. He was put in a position of reacting rather than reflecting and choosing whether or not to react. "She made him tell all the story of his tricks" for example, after she "went on talking in an open, careless, willful way," which is an odd combination: careless AND willful at the same time.
Because Ogion treated Ged with love, Ged came "to love this man Ogion who ... had no anger" and Ged only learns he loves him when Ogion extends a choice to Ged, of staying or going, reminding him of his freedom that he has been extending to him all this time. So, when Ged is made aware of how many more choices he has than he has previously realized, and that this nature of friendship is part of Ogion's teaching, he is filled with a realization of love.
I'm flattered to have part of my comment from last (last) week highlighted. I'd actually wondered if I hadn't "read too much" into the lack of names of Ged's family members, because I agree it feels natural, and consistent with genre and form, since the story has the shape of a folk tale and origin story of this to-be-hero Ged who is named by many names from the onset, and his life as a wizard. The early-early stuff is ahistorical in that sense. But nevertheless if nothing else, the lack of names affirm that Ged never really knew his mother, but also, neither does he (or maybe it's just we the readers who never) know his father or aunt for that matter, since only once a thing is known is it named.
"But nevertheless if nothing else, the lack of names affirm that Ged never really knew his mother, but also, neither does he (or maybe it's just we the readers who never) know his father or aunt for that matter, since only once a thing is known is it named."
Oh I really like the way that comes together there.
I don't know where this story is going, but I am getting a flavor of "too ambitious for his own good"/"more power than sense."
This is a thing in real life, especially among people Ged's age. Teenagers have the power to crash their cars into people, and even the power to create new people. We rightly fear reckless driving and teen pregnancy. Even adults often have more power than sense. I don't trust most adults to sensibly handle nuclear weapons or strong AI. In a world with magic, the stakes could be very high.
But here's a different perspective. Can you think of any stories where mastery of a skill, and its concomitant power, are pursued for their own sake, or the sake of the journey there, and that's viewed as fine?
Tweet thread copied below: https://twitter.com/patio11/status/1673549979263303686
"Patrick McKenzie: One of the reasons I think anime is popular is sometimes avoids Cambell’s hero’s journey in favor of 'I’m going to achieve mastery for it’s own sake.' If you say that out loud in English fiction, *you are certainly the bad guy.*
"Much like there have been ten thousand reskins of Harry Potter I’ve been waiting for more central examples of English-language cultural products to take that story archetype and just run with it. There is clearly a demand.
"It wouldn’t be a minor tweak to have Peter Parker grow up hearing 'You have a great responsibility to earn great power.' but one can imagine utterly sympathetic characters with basically that motivation."
Does that ever work for dangerous skills like I'm guessing Earthsea magic will be? Or does it only work for safe skills, like baking in the anime Yakitate Japan? Personally, I have no need to be the best baker, or the best at anything, so it's hard for me to relate to the competition aspect of the pursuit of greatness. But I do like learning.
The only western fiction I can think of that revels in actively engaging the hard work of mastering a skill is Elcenia, an online fantasy series. It's a favorite of mine for that reason and others, so I'll drop a link here.
http://elcenia.com/
The fourth book in the Prydain Chronicles (Taran Wanderer) is about repeated mastery of craft work (and I love it!) but it definitely has a melancholy feel.
Actually, apropos of this...
https://twitter.com/bf_crane/status/1676763666086244353
"'The Devil Went Down to Georgia' is the most American of songs, because it’s set up like a classic cautionary tale about pride leading to a fall but it turns out the fiddler actually is the best and his vanity is justified. Every other country would have him lose that battle, but not here baby. Here we make winners. The moral of the story is if you’re going to challenge the devil try as hard as you can to be American"
Haha, I love it!
The only other novel I can think of that valorizes engaging a skill or knowledge for its own sake is another Ursula K. Le Guin novel--The Dispossessed, in which Shevek pursues truth in mathematics and in right relations in ways that take him beyond his own severe world into another (one of comparative luxury, which he also does not succumb to, but instead continues pursuit of truth).
Goku, Midoriya, Naruto, et al, all strive for mastery of their powers and martial arts skills, so I'd say dangerous skills are included. I think you and that thread are actually touching on a core aspect of Shonen Jump manga in particular: its unofficial motto, "friendship, effort and victory." The protagonist goes through a ton of effort, pushing themselves to the limit, even to the point of injury, to achieve their goal, and they win with the help of a core group of friends, or for the sake of someone else. Izuku Midoriya of My Hero Academia is an especially good example. Hirohiko Araki goes into more detail on this in his book "Manga in Theory and Practice."
It has been a long, long time since I've read these, but would Tamora Pierce books such as the Lioness series count? The Lioness just wanted to be a knight; I don't remember there being a specific motivation (in the way that, say, Disney's Mulan wanted to protect her elderly father), and she worked very hard to achieve mastery. Of course, that story has the bucking-tradition-and-gender-norms angle.
Do villains really try to achieve mastery for its own sake? Isn't there always some unwholesome motivation -- to gain acclaim, to shore up their pride, to use power for selfish or misguided ends, etc.?
I was pleasantly surprised that Ged's apprenticeship wasn't solely impatience and personality mismatch, but that we got to see Ged enjoying some aspects of it.
"In the dark warmth of that house Ged spent the winter, hearing the rush of rain and wind outside or the silence of snowfall, learning to write and read the Six Hundred Runes of Hardic. Very glad he was to learn this lore, for without it no mere rote-learning of charms and spells will give a man true mastery."
"As the spring came on, quick and bright, Ogion often sent Ged forth to gather herbs on the meadows above Re Albi, and told him to take as long as he liked about it, giving him freedom to spend all day wandering by rain-filled streams and through the woods and over wet green fields in the sun. Ged went with delight each time, and stayed out till night."
"He had come to love this man Ogion who had healed him with a touch, and who had no anger: he loved him, and had not known it until now. He looked at the oaken staff leaning in the chimney-corner, remembering the radiance of it that had burned out evil from the dark, and he yearned to stay with Ogion, to go wandering through the forests with him, long and far, learning how to be silent. Yet other cravings were in him that would not be stilled, the wish for glory, the will to act. Ogion’s seemed a long road towards mastery, a slow bypath to follow, when he might go sailing before the seawinds straight to the Inmost Sea, to the Isle of the Wise, where the air was bright with enchantments and the Archmage walked amidst wonders."
"They wandered, first down into the Vale and then gradually south and westward around the mountain, given lodging in little villages or spending the night out in the wilderness, like poor journeyman-sorcerers, or tinkers, or beggars. They entered no mysterious domain. Nothing happened. The mage’s oaken staff that Ged had watched at first with eager dread was nothing but a stout staff to walk with. Three days went by and four days went by and still Ogion had not spoken a single charm in Ged’s hearing, and had not taught him a single name or rune or spell. Though a very silent man he was so mild and calm that Ged soon lost his awe of him, and in a day or two more he was bold enough to ask his master, “When will my apprenticeship begin, Sir?” “It has begun,” said Ogion."
"There was a silence, as if Ged was keeping back something he had to say. Then he said it: “But I haven’t learned anything yet!” “Because you haven’t found out what I am teaching,” replied the mage, going on at his steady, long-legged pace along their road,"
"Ged did not answer him. It is not always easy to answer a mage. “You want to work spells,” Ogion said presently, striding along. “You’ve drawn too much water from that well. Wait. Manhood is patience. Mastery is nine times patience. What is that herb by the path?” “Strawflower.” “And that?” “I don’t know.” “Fourfoil, they call it.” Ogion had halted, the coppershod foot of his staff near the little weed, so Ged looked closely at the plant, and plucked a dry seedpod from it, and finally asked, since Ogion said nothing more, “What is its use, Master?” “None I know of.” Ged kept the seedpod a while as they went on, then tossed it away. “When you know the fourfoil in all its seasons root and leaf and flower, by sight and scent and seed, then you may learn its true name, knowing its being: which is more than its use. What, after all, is the use of you? or of myself? Is Gont Mountain useful, or the Open Sea?” Ogion went on a half mile or so, and said at last, “To hear, one must be silent.”"
"The boy frowned. He did not like to be made to feel a fool. He kept back his resentment and impatience, and tried to be obedient, so that Ogion would consent at last to teach him something."
Pedagogy is one of my abiding special interests and I really liked the images of teaching and learning in this chapter; while at the same time found myself a bit frustrated--as I think LeGuin intends-- with the personality mismatch that Julia D. points out.
Ged reminds me of my own failures as a teacher, and of the students I couldn't connect with. I found myself annoyed at how Ged has decided already what he wants to learn and ultimately that it isn't what his teacher wants to teach him. I have had students like that, especially when I was teaching a required freshman composition class at a state college. I wanted to teach them the craft of writing and all they wanted was to complete a requirement so they could get a degree so they could get a job...
Both teaching and learning require humility and docility and it seems to me that in this exchange both parties are somewhat lacking in both. Ged is not really a fully receptive student because he's prejudiced, he's already closed off certain avenues of exploration. He's not really curious about the world around him. He wants power to act not knowledge and harmony with nature and the wisdom not to act.
And yet I also found Ogion's methodology somewhat frustrating, too. He seems to assume that if he is patient enough Ged will eventually come around and learn patience and want what he has to teach. But he's not very good at meeting his student where he is. And I think a good teacher does have to bend, has to recognize the essential personhood of the student. You can't make a student into someone they are not but you can be curious about who they are now and make a connection. Instead of beginning with where Ged is and helping him to move to where he should be, it feels like Ogion just forges on, expecting that Ged will eventually change. He needs Ged to make a leap to where he is. I guess it's a sort of illustration of the maxim that you can lead a horse to water but can't make it drink. Ogion can't force Ged into the mold and make him want to adopt his worldview and his understanding of magic.
In the end Ogion lets Ged go. And perhaps he is wise, knowing that unless Ged is a willing student he will never be able to teach him what he has to teach. Yet... the frustrated teacher in me wants to solve the problem, to find a way to make Ogion's way appealing to Ged. Just as I wanted to make the acquisition of the craft of writing appealing to my students. I suppose I am not as wise as Ogion.
Yes! I wonder what a bridge for him to this way of learning would have looked like.
Ogion reminded me a bit of some approaches for Montessori—where the culture has to be cohesive and seamless to work, but which makes it hard to switch sharply to a new way of working.