Kingsolver Essays

He can’t have walked that far, everybody knows this, but still they go. I’ve searched for that part of the story—whether they killed the bear. He was alive, unscarred and perfectly well after three days—and well fed, smelling of milk. You could read this story and declare “impossible,” even though many witnesses have sworn it’s true. I’ve gone back through news sources from river to tributary to rivulet until I can go no further because I don’t read Arabic or Farsi. Or you could read this story and think of how warm lives are drawn to one another in cold places, think of the unconquerable force of a mother’s love, the fact of the DNA code that we share in its great majority with other mammals—you could think of all that and say, Of course the bear nursed the baby. Whether she is contemplat Sometimes grave, occasionally hilarious, and ultimately persuasive, Small Wonder is a hopeful examination of the people we seem to be, and what we might yet make of ourselves.

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Sometimes grave, occasionally hilarious, and ultimately persuasive, Small Wonder is a hopeful examination of the people we seem to be, and what we might yet make of ourselves.

In her new essay collection, the beloved author of High Tide in Tucson brings to us, out of one of history's darker moments, an extended love song to the world we still have.

They venture closer to the caves and oak woods of the mountainside.

Another nightfall, another day, and some begin to give up.

Suffering from insomnia during her pregnancy, Kingsolver began writing .

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In 1997, Barbara established the Bellwether Prize, awarded in even-numbered years to a first novel that exemplifies outstanding literary quality and a commitment to literature as a tool for social change.Kingsolver's writing career began only after she pursued several disparate, unrelated careers.Some of these varied occupations included: copy editor, archaeologist, x-ray technician, housekeeper, biological researcher and translator of medical documents.And then suddenly moving to the fluttering panic of a trapped bird, they become sure there is still some way out of this cage – here my own heart takes up that tremble as I sit imagining the story.Once my own child disappeared for only minutes that grew into half an hour, then an hour, and my panic took such full possession of my will, I could not properly spell my name to the police.But not the father or mother, because there is nowhere to go but this, we all have done this, we bang and bang on the door of hope, and don’t anyone dare suggest there’s nobody home. In the name of heaven, the baby is only sixteen months old, the mother tells them. Lori people used to make bread from the acorns of these oaks, their animals feed on the acorns, these trees sustain every life in these mountains—the wild pigs, the bears. At the mouth of the next cave they enter—the fourth or the hundredth, nobody will know this detail because forever after it will be the first and last—they hear a voice. Cautiously they look into the darkness, and ominously, they smell bear. They move into the half-light inside the cave, stand still and wait while the smell gets danker and the texture of the stone walls weaves its details more clearly into their vision.The mother weeps, and the father’s mouth becomes a thin line as he finds several men willing to go all the way up into the mountains. He took his first steps in June, a few weeks before Midsummer Day. The corky bark of the trees seems kinder than the stones. Then they see the animal, not a dark hollow in the cave wall as they first thought but the dark, round shape of a thick-furred, quiescent she-bear lying against the wall. The bear is curled around him, protecting him from these fierce-smelling intruders in her cave. I hope they didn’t kill the bear but instead simply reached for the child, quietly took him up, praised Allah and this strange mother who had worked His will, and swiftly left the cave. How is it possible that a huge, hungry bear would take a pitifully small, delicate human child to her breast rather than rip him into food? She was lactating, so she must have had young of her own somewhere—possibly killed, or dead of disease, so that she was driven by the pure chemistry of maternity to take this small, warm neonate to her belly and hold him there, gently.I carry it like a treasure map while I look for the place where I’ll understand its meaning.I picture it happening this way: the story begins with a wife and husband, nomads of the Lori tribe near Kayhan, walking home from a morning’s work in their wheat.Kingsolver left Kentucky to attend college at De Pauw University in Indiana, where she majored in biology.However, her interest in writing never waned, and she took a number of creative writing courses.

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