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mecross75 's review for:
Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life
by Barbara Kingsolver
I think Barbara Kingsolver is a great example of a fine orator, as well as being a tender and descriptive writer. High school speech and theatre classes would do well to use recordings of her speaking style, in that soft Appalachian drawl, for use in dialect and annunciation work. I also agree with some other Goodreads reviewers when they say, "Give me a break, Babs." There is too much utopia in this examination of gastronomic and cultural and ethical and agricultural landscape, and not enough struggle. Oh, I was reading about the farmer's struggle, the animal's struggle, and even the plant's, but I got none of her real familial struggle, save a "Fresh Fruit Pllleeease?" request in the wimpiest of sweet child tones. Unless your kids are afraid of you, even the good ones, raised on Southwestern delights like frijoles and Moon Pies, will cry out for refined sugar and fat once in awhile. Did you leave it out or is Lily just sneaking Kit Kats into her room? Conflict is really what keeps us hooked, and the conflict (that of GMO farmers and the little guy) was not personal or intimate enough to keep me engaged. There was a story of a guy you heard about, big deal. You did a disservice to that end of the story if that is the way you were going, and if you meant to keep it personal, to your family, why the whitewashed Cleaver meets Swiss Family Robinson version? Your story was too sweetened and refined to be organic. I listened to your pretty voice smooth out words ripe and juicy, but I was left hungry for something more substantial, hold the whipped idealism.
I'm surprised a writer, or an artist of any kind, wants to come off so externally sunny, when all artists know that the goods, the real jasmine of a thing, is not in the sweet smell, but the dirt beneath. This book did make me hungry, and I did go out of my way to shop at Farmer's Markets whilst reading. Of course, if it is summer in Maine and you aren't doing that, you might as well be reading Bukowski.
I'm surprised a writer, or an artist of any kind, wants to come off so externally sunny, when all artists know that the goods, the real jasmine of a thing, is not in the sweet smell, but the dirt beneath. This book did make me hungry, and I did go out of my way to shop at Farmer's Markets whilst reading. Of course, if it is summer in Maine and you aren't doing that, you might as well be reading Bukowski.