In the hands of an ordinary writer, this “ambisexual” approach to gender would be an interesting what-if. The book’s protagonist, Genly Ai, faces many challenges in his mission to the frigid world of Gethen, but the biggest is his struggle to understand a society of people who are gender-neutral most of the time, except for once a month when they go into kemmer and become either male or female.
Somehow, in the midst of a horrifying ordeal, Le Guin finds an incredible sweetness.
I’m also startled by the warmth and generosity of The Left Hand of Darkness, considering how bleak and brutal the actual story is. In particular, I’m startled over and over by all the strange details and beautiful quirks she packs into descriptions of her made-up world.
Le Guin’s writing still surprises me every time. I’ve read The Left Hand of Darkness a few times, and each time I come away with a new piece of that map. But for me, and for a lot of other people, The Left Hand of Darkness also left us with a map that leads to another way of telling stories. And by the time you finish reading, you might actually feel like you’ve been to these places, to the point where you kind of know what their food tastes like and how the people act. The book takes the form of a travelogue, roaming around the nations of Karhide and Orgoreyn. Of course, The Left Hand of Darkness is literally a guidebook to the fictional world of Gethen, also known as Winter. Le Guin’s classic novel felt like an invitation to a different kind of storytelling, one based on understanding the inner workings of societies as well as individual people. This novel showed me a reality where storytelling could help me question the ideas about gender and sexuality that had been handed down to all of us, take-it-or-leave-it style, from childhood. When I first read The Left Hand of Darkness, it struck me as a guidebook to a place I desperately wanted to visit but had never known how to reach.
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