Prodigal Summer | Page 1 of 294

Author: Barbara Kingsolver | Submitted by: Maria Garcia | 83052 Views | Add a Review

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B a r b a r a

K i n g s o lv e r

{ A Novel }

Pr o d i g a l

S u m m e r

—for Steven, Camille, and Lily,

and for wildness, where it lives

Prothalamiu m

Come, all you who are not satisfied

as ruler in a lone, wallpapered room

full of mute birds, and flowers that falsely bloom, and closets choked with dreams that long ago died!

Come, let us sweep the old streets—like a bride: sweep out dead leaves with a relentless broom; prepare for Spring, as though he were our groom for whose light footstep eagerly we bide.

We’ll sweep out shadows, where the rats long fed; sweep out our shame—and in its place we’ll make a bower for love, a splendid marriage-bed

fragrant with flowers aquiver for the Spring.

And when he comes, our murdered dreams shall wake; and when he comes, all the mute birds shall sing.

— Aaron Kramer


Epigraph iii

1 Predators 1

2 Moth

Love 30

3 Old

Chestnuts 49

4 Predators 51

5 Moth

Love 68

6 Old

Chestnuts 81

7 Predators 92

8 Moth

Love 101

9 Old

Chestnuts 128

10 Moth Love 146

11 Predators 167

12 Old Chestnuts 185

13 Predators 188

14 Old Chestnuts 204

15 Moth Love 221

16 Predators 245

17 Old Chestnuts 268

18 Moth Love 285

19 Predators 310

20 Old Chestnuts 331

21 Moth Love 344

22 Predators 361

23 Old Chestnuts 366

24 Moth Love 374

25 Predators 385

26 Old Chestnuts 392

27 Moth Love 400

28 Old Chestnuts 420

29 Predators 428

30 Moth Love 436


She paused at the top of the field, inhaling the…



About the Author

Other Books by Barbara Kingsolver




About the Publisher

{ 1}


solitary habits. But solitude is only a human preH er body moved with the frankness that comes from

sumption. Every quiet step is thunder to beetle life underfoot; every choice is a world made new for the chosen. All secrets are witnessed.

If someone in this forest had been watching her—a man with a gun, for instance, hiding inside a copse of leafy beech trees—he would have noticed how quickly she moved up the path and how direly she scowled at the ground ahead of her feet. He would have judged her an angry woman on the trail of something hateful.

He would have been wrong. She was frustrated, it’s true, to be following tracks in the mud she couldn’t identify. She was used to being sure. But if she’d troubled to inspect her own mind on this humid, sunlit morning, she would have declared herself happy. She loved the air after a hard rain, and the way a forest of dripping leaves fills itself with a sibilant percussion that empties your head of

{ B A R B A R A K I N G S

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user comment image
Great book, nicely written and thank you BooksVooks for uploading

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