How does one hate a country, or love one? Tibe talks about it; I lack the trick of it. I know people, I know towns, farms, hills, rivers, and rocks, I know how the sun at sunset in autumn falls on the side of a certain plow land in the hills; but what is the sense of giving a boundary to all that, of giving it a name and ceasing to love where the name ceases to apply? What is love of one’s country; is it hate of one’s uncountry? Then it’s not a good thing. Is it simply self-love? That’s a good thing, but one mustn’t make a virtue of it, or a profession. . . . Insofar as I love life, I love the hills of the Domain of Estre, but that sort of love does not have a boundary-line of hate. And beyond that, I am ignorant, I hope.

Really 3.5 stars for me. This novel is typical Le Guin: amazingly realistic world-building, huge concepts successfully telescoped into fewer than 200 pages, characters that one genuinely cares about...and lengthy passage that are extremely dull (in this case, the seemingly endless journey across the ice). Overall, though, I really enjoyed this and suspect it will stay with me for quite some time.