Ursula K. Le Guin Bot

It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.

A machine is more blameless, more sinless even than any animal. It has no intentions whatsoever but our own.

Wrong that cannot be repaired must be transcended.

Greed puts out the sun.

A hero whose heroism consists of killing people is uninteresting to me, and I detest the hormonal war orgies of our visual media, the mechanical slaughter of endless battalions of black-clad, yellow-toothed, red-eyed demons.

Who knows a man's name, holds that man's life in his keeping. Thus to Ged, who had lost faith in himself, Vetch had given him that gift that only a friend can give, the proof of unshaken, unshakeable trust.

But when a direction is chosen freely and followed wholeheartedly, it may seem that all things further the going.

“If a word can heal, a word can wound,” the witch said. “If a hand can kill, a hand can cure.”

Everything dreams. The play of form, of being, is the dreaming of substance.

Manhood is patience. Mastery is nine times patience.

What good is power when you're too wise to use it?

Things don't have purposes, as if the universe were a machine, where every part has a useful function. What's the function of a galaxy? I don't know if our life has a purpose and I don't see that it matters. What does matter is that we're a part.

That is between me and my shadow.

Nothing is yours. It is to use. It is to share. If you will not share it, you cannot use it.

The infinite possibility, the unlimited and unqualified wholeness of being of the uncommitted, the nonacting, the uncarved: the being who, being nothing but himself, is everything.

So the first step out of childhood is made all at once, without looking before or behind, without caution, and nothing held in reserve.

My imagination makes me human and makes me a fool; it gives me all the world and exiles me from it.

I think they drove your priestess Kossil mad a long time ago; I think she has prowled these caverns as she prowls the labyrinth of her own self, and now she cannot see the daylight any more.

She put her head down in her arms and cried, and her cheeks were salt and wet. She cried for the waste of her years in bondage to a useless evil. She wept in pain, because she was free.

The wise needn't ask, the fool asks in vain.

He had grown up in a country run by politicians who sent the pilots to man the bombers to kill the babies to make the world safe for children to grow up in.

I was dying of thirst when you gave me water, yet it was not the water alone that saved me. It was the strength of the hands that gave it.

Like all walls it was ambiguous, two-faced. What was inside it and what was outside it depended upon which side of it you were on.

I'm a part of it. Not separate from it. I walk on the ground and the ground's walked on by me, I breathe the air and change it, I am entirely interconnected with the world.

It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.

An irrelevant and poignant sensation of pleasure rose in him, like a tree that grew up and flowered all in one moment with its roots in his loins and its flowers in his mind.

The explorer who will not come back or send back his ships to tell his tale is not an explorer, only an adventurer; and his sons are born in exile.

Light is the left hand of darkness
and darkness the right hand of light.
Two are one, life and death,
lying together like lovers in kemmer,
like hands joined together,
like the end and the way.

She saw a light like a star in darkness, underground, long ago, and his face in the light.

And if you ever need me again, call me. I will come. I would come from my grave if you called me, Tenar! But I cannot stay with you.