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Maybe Too Prodigal

April 21, 2015

At the recommendation of just about every woman friend I know, I decided to read a Barbara Kingsolver book, and this one in particular, because people who love her, seem to love this one the most:

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So far, too prodigal.

That is, I almost threw the book across the room after the first paragraph because it was just too much. Too in love with itself. Too in love with its own writing. Too coy. After that first paragraph, I said disgustedly to Jim, “I hate this book.”

Before I threw it across the room, Jim suggested I give it a little more time.

Now, having read, oh, about fifteen pages, I’m settling into the story (as much as there is so far), settling into her rhythm, have a teeny sense now of where the book may be going, and what that damn first paragraph was all about. A teeny sense.

This was actually about a week ago. Maybe ten days ago? Been hard to muster the enthusiasm to continue on. Given the choice of falling asleep reading Prodigal Summer or playing Spider, Spider keeps winning out.

So, we shall see.