Kingsolver, one of America’s finest contemporary authors, has never quite managed to knock my socks off, but her books always impress me and make me think about myself and the world in valuable ways. Even so, I had no trouble enjoying the scenery while traipsing through this smart and artful novel. It offers a snapshot of my former ambitions that, for whatever reason, did not motivate or entice me in the way I thought they might. Bursting with energy and appreciation for all living things, the book reminds me that I am not a farmer, that I am not a naturalist––not in the true sense of those words, anyway. This was an odd moment for me to finally get around to reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Prodigal Summer, which has been waiting on my bookshelf for ages.
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