Ursula K. Le Guin was beloved. Her novels, poems, musings on her cat Pard, and her exhortations to speak truth to power endeared her to millions. Writing a fitting tribute to such a person is a daunting task, not least because while I’m a long-time fan of Le Guin, I’m not a fangirl.

I’ve aggressively pushed The Left Hand of Darkness on uninitiated friends, but I don’t recall the ins and outs of the Hainish Cycle with any clarity, and beyond knowing that Le Guin was an Oregonian with interesting parents and hobbies, I haven’t pored over the biographical details of her life.

Nonetheless, I feel compelled to join the chorus of sorrow and remembrance. Ursula Le Guin’s stories have shaped my sociological imagination in ways rivaled only by my early forays into political economy. Indeed, my discovery of Le Guin coincided with my discovery of Marxism; the two ways of thinking seemed perfectly complementary.