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Voices (2) (Annals of the Western Shore) Hardcover – September 1, 2006
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Then an Uplands poet named Orrec and his wife, Gry, arrive, and everything in Memer's life begins to change. Will she and the people of Ansul at last be brave enough to rebel against their oppressors?
A haunting and gripping coming-of-age story set against a backdrop of violence, intolerance, and magic, Voices is a novel that readers will not soon forget.
- Reading age12 years and up
- Print length352 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- Grade level7 - 9
- Lexile measure890L
- Dimensions5.5 x 1.04 x 8.25 inches
- PublisherHMH Books for Young Readers
- Publication dateSeptember 1, 2006
- ISBN-100152056785
- ISBN-13978-0152056780
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Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
About the Author
URSULA K. LE GUIN was born in Berkeley, California, in 1929, and passed away in Portland, Oregon, in 2018. She published over sixty books of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, drama, children’s literature, and translation. She was the recipient of a National Book Award, six Hugo and five Nebula awards, and was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The first thing I can remember clearly is writing the way into the secret room.
I am so small I have to reach my arm up to make the signs in the right place on the wall of the corridor. The wall is coated with thick grey plaster, cracked and crumbling in places so the stone shows through. It’s almost dark in the corridor. It smells of earth and age, and it’s silent. But I’m not afraid; I’m never afraid there. I reach up and move my writing finger in the motions I know, in the right place, in the air, not quite touching the surface of the plaster. The door opens in the wall, and I go in.
The light in that room is clear and calm, falling from many small skylights of thick glass in the high ceiling. It’s a very long room, with shelves down its wall, and books on the shelves. It’s my room, and I’ve always known it. Ista and Sosta and Gudit don’t. They don’t even know it’s there. They never come to these corridors far in the back of the house. I pass the Waylord’s door to come here, but he’s sick and lame and stays in his rooms. The secret room is my secret, the place where I can be alone, and not scolded and bothered, and not afraid.
The memory isn’t of one time I went there, but many. I remember how big the reading table looked to me then, and how high the bookshelves were. I liked to get under the table and build a kind of wall or shelter with some of the books. I pretended to be a bear cub in its den. I felt safe there. I always put the books back exactly where they belonged on the shelves; that was important. I stayed in the lighter part of the room, near the door that’s not a door. I didn’t like the farther end, where it grows dark and the ceiling comes down lower. In my mind I called that the shadow end, and I almost always stayed away from it. But even my fear of the shadow end was part of my secret, my kingdom of solitude. And it was mine alone, until one day when I was nine.
Sosta had been scolding me for some stupid thing that wasn’t my fault, and when I was rude back to her she called me sheep hair,” which put me in a fury. I couldn’t hit her because her arms were longer and she could hold me off, so I bit her hand. Then her mother, my bymother Ista, scolded me and cuffed me. Furious, I ran to the back part of the house, to the dark corridor, and opened the door and went into the secret room. I was going to stay there till Ista and Sosta thought I’d run away and been taken as a slave and was gone forever, and then they’d be sorry for scolding unjustly and cuffing and calling me names. I rushed into the secret room all hot and full of tears and rage and there, in the strange clear light of that place, stood the Waylord with a book in his hands.
He was startled, too. He came at me, fierce, his arm raised as if to strike. I stood like a stone. I could not breathe.
He stopped short. Memer! How did you come here?”
He looked at the place where the door is when it’s open, but of course nothing was there but the wall.
I still couldn’t breathe or speak.
I left it open,” he said, without believing what he said.
I shook my head.
Finally I was able to whisper, I know how.”
His face was shocked and amazed, but after a while it changed, and he said, Decalo.”
I nodded.
My mother’s name was Decalo Galva.
I want to tell of her, but I can’t remember her. Or I do but the memory won’t go into words. Being held tight, jostling, a good smell in the darkness of the bed, a rough red cloth, a voice which I can’t hear but it’s only just out of hearing. I used to think if I could hold still and listen hard enough, I’d hear her voice.
She was a Galva by blood and by house. She was head housekeeper for Sulter Galva, Waylord of Ansul, an honorable and responsible position. In Ansul there were no serfs or slaves then; we were citizens, householders, free people. My mother Decalo was in charge of all the people who worked in Galvamand. My bymother Ista, the cook, liked to tell us about how big the household used to be, back then, how many people Decalo had to look after. Ista herself had two kitchen assistants every day, and three helpers for the big dinners for visiting notables; there were four housecleaners, and the handyman, and a groom and stableboy for the horses, eight horses in the stable, some to ride and some to drive. There were quite a few relatives and old people living in the house. Ista’s mother lived up over the kitchens, the Waylord’s mother lived in the Master’s rooms upstairs. The Waylord himself was always travelling up and down the Ansul Coast from town to town to meet with the other waylords, sometimes in the saddle, sometimes in a carriage with a retinue. There was a smithy in the west court in those days, and the driver and postboy lived on the top floor of the carriage house, always ready to go out with the Waylord on his rounds. Oh it was all busy and abustle,” Ista says. The old days! The good days!”
When I ran through the silent corridors past the ruined rooms, I used to try to imagine those days, the good days. I used to pretend, when I swept the doorways, that I was making ready for guests who’d come through them wearing fine clothes and shoes. I used to go up to the Master’s rooms and imagine how they’d looked clean and warm and furnished. I’d kneel in the windowseat there to look out through the clear, small-paned window over the roofs of the city to the mountain.
The name of my city and all the coast north of it, Ansul, means Looking at Sul” the great mountain, last and highest of the five peaks of Manva, the land across the straits. From the seafront and from all the western windows of the city you can see white Sul above the water, and the clouds it gathers round it as if they were its dreams.
I knew the city had been called Ansul the Wise and Beautiful for its university and library, its towers and arcaded courts, its canals and arched bridges and the thousand little marble temples of the street-gods. But the Ansul of my childhood was a broken city of ruins, hunger, and fear. Ansul was a protectorate of Sundraman, but that great nation was busy fighting over its border with Loaman and kept no troops here to defend us. Though rich in goods and farmland, Ansul had long fought no wars. Our well-armed merchant fleet kept pirates from the south from harrying the coast, and since Sundraman enforced an alliance with us long ago, we had had no enemies by land. So when an army of Alds, the people of the deserts of Asudar, invaded us, they swept over the hills of Ansul like wildfire. Their army broke into the city and went through the streets murdering, looting, and raping. My mother Decalo, caught in the street coming from the market, was taken by soldiers and raped. Then the soldiers who had her were attacked by citizens, and in the fighting she managed to get away and get home to Galvamand.
Copyright © 2006 by Ursula K. Le Guin
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Product details
- Publisher : HMH Books for Young Readers; First Edition (September 1, 2006)
- Language : English
- Hardcover : 352 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0152056785
- ISBN-13 : 978-0152056780
- Reading age : 12 years and up
- Lexile measure : 890L
- Grade level : 7 - 9
- Item Weight : 1.05 pounds
- Dimensions : 5.5 x 1.04 x 8.25 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #1,950,451 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

Ursula Kroeber Le Guin (US /ˈɜːrsələ ˈkroʊbər ləˈɡwɪn/; born October 21, 1929) is an American author of novels, children's books, and short stories, mainly in the genres of fantasy and science fiction. She has also written poetry and essays. First published in the 1960s, her work has often depicted futuristic or imaginary alternative worlds in politics, the natural environment, gender, religion, sexuality and ethnography.
She influenced such Booker Prize winners and other writers as Salman Rushdie and David Mitchell – and notable science fiction and fantasy writers including Neil Gaiman and Iain Banks. She has won the Hugo Award, Nebula Award, Locus Award, and World Fantasy Award, each more than once. In 2014, she was awarded the National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. Le Guin has resided in Portland, Oregon since 1959.
Bio from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
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It's about growing up, family, a sacred house and household, a community of real and beloved people; about freedom, invasion, occupation, oppression, and more after (no spoilers); it's about books, libraries, reading, oral storytelling, tales, legends, heroes, history and myth; it's about mentors, teachers, liberators.
It's about a community of real people, a beloved community of fallible people and still they're beloved; it's about oppressors, about compromise and shades of gray, about overcoming polarization and demonization and the fact that the bad doesn't have to mean all-bad, and about pragmatism and the spirit of compromise and practical solutions that our world today seems so much badly to need; it's about anti-intellectualism and oppressive religious fundamentalism, but also that not all religion is fundamentalist ; it's about the sacred, and the depth of the sacred running through communities, homes, families, youth, and incredible mentors and teachers, books and libraries, about lineage and the sacred past leading into the sacred future, but without absolutism and without monopolies on truth; it tells a riveting dramatic story and at the same time it teaches as much wisdom as is within the power of a novel to be able to.
Obviously I'm in love with this book. It celebrates home, community, pragmatism, compromise, family, books, learning, both growing up and teaching the young, both spoken and written word, stories and storytelling, freedom, forgiveness, messy but satisfactory human compromise, and the practical but genuine greatness of our imperfect lives-- or at least it inspires me this way, and about this way to talk about it.
It's a storytelling and political and family and community drama of history and lineage and love and learning and teaching and love and tradition and human forgiveness and compromise; it's a storytelling and spiritual masterpiece.
I bought all 3 books at the same time and read them in proper sequence. I read all 3 in less than 2 weeks time. They are fairly short as novels go, with large print and wide spaced text.
The stories were nice, but none of the 3 had any science fiction in them at all. And even the 'fantasy' is never corroborated by the author. All references to any special powers in any of the books are related as stories, urban legends, and myths, by the characters.
These are simply fictional stories, set in an extremely Earth-like environment, with regular earth type people, and technology set at about 200-300 years ago.
I was disappointed overall as I kept expecting to find some science fiction and/or fantasy aspects. Some people might say there is some 'fantasy', with the voice powers and the book powers, but as I mentioned earlier, these are all related as myths and legends by the characters. Nothing actually OCCURS which can't very reasonably be explained as due to the actions of regular human beings.
For an example of her best work, try "The Lathe of Heaven" or "Always Coming Home". She can always make you think, and care. It's a rare gift.
Top reviews from other countries
In this heady mix of politics and magic we are delighted to rejoin Orrec and Gry, the protagonists of ‘Gifts’ and see how their lives progressed since the end of that first volume - and the role that they will play in the tumultuous events that are unleashed with their arrival in Ansul.
This book is a delight - the language simple any profound, the concepts deep and powerfully expressed. Ursula Le Guin writes better books with deeper concepts for her “YA” readership than many (most?) ‘grown-up’ authors, and we are better for it.
This is a book written with real lyrical power. It is a thoughtful one where nothing is quite as black and white as you may think. There is an underlying feeling of sadness and regret at how people treat one another because of difference.
I have to say that I found this book slow going in parts but the theme and the writing always engaged me and made me want to read further. It isn't and exact sequel to the first book in the series and you could read it as a standalone but it is best read after the first and as a contract to the very different world she creates there.
The kindle edition is let down by many typographic errors. The maps are very low resolution. There are better ones online.





