Where the Crawdads Sing PDF AZW3 EPUB MOBI TXT Download

SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE—The #1 New York Times bestselling worldwide sensation with more than 12 million copies sold, hailed by The New York Times Book Review as “a painfully beautiful first novel that is at once a murder mystery, a coming-of-age narrative and a celebration of nature.”For years, rumors of the “Marsh Girl” have haunted Barkley Cove, a quiet town on the North Carolina coast. So in late 1969, when handsome Chase Andrews is found dead, the locals immediately suspect Kya Clark, the so-called Marsh Girl. But Kya is not what they say. Sensitive and intelligent, she has survived for years alone in the marsh that she calls home, finding friends in the gulls and lessons in the sand. Then the time comes when she yearns to be touched and loved. When two young men from town become intrigued by her wild beauty, Kya opens herself to a new life—until the unthinkable happens.Where the Crawdads Sing is at once an exquisite ode to the natural world, a heartbreaking coming-of-age story, and a surprising tale of possible murder. Owens reminds us that we are forever shaped by the children we once were, and that we are all subject to the beautiful and violent secrets that nature keeps.

Delia Owens
March 30, 2021
400 pages

File Size: 63 MB
Available File Formats: PDF AZW3 DOCX EPUB MOBI TXT or Kindle audiobook Audio CD(Several files can be converted to each other)
Language: English, Francais, Italiano, Espanol, Deutsch, chinese

“A painfully beautiful first novel that is at once a murder mystery, a coming-of-age narrative and a celebration of nature….Owens here surveys the desolate marshlands of the North Carolina coast through the eyes of an abandoned child. And in her isolation that child makes us open our own eyes to the secret wonders—and dangers—of her private world.”—The New York Times Book Review“Steeped in the rhythms and shadows of the coastal marshes of North Carolina’s Outer Banks, this fierce and hauntingly beautiful novel centers on…Kya’s heartbreaking story of learning to trust human connections, intertwine[d] with a gripping murder mystery, revealing savage truths. An astonishing debut.”—People“This lush mystery is perfect for fans of Barbara Kingsolver.”—Bustle“A lush debut novel, Owens delivers her mystery wrapped in gorgeous, lyrical prose. It’s clear she’s from this place—the land of the southern coasts, but also the emotional terrain—you can feel it in the pages.  A magnificent achievement, ambitious, credible and very timely.”—Alexandra Fuller, New York Times bestselling author of Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight“Heart-wrenching…A fresh exploration of isolation and nature from a female perspective along with a compelling love story.”—Entertainment Weekly“This wonderful novel has a bit of everything—mystery, romance, and fascinating characters, all told in a story that takes place in North Carolina.”—Nicholas Sparks, New York Times bestselling author of Every Breath“Delia Owen’s gorgeous novel is both a coming-of-age tale and an engrossing whodunit.”—Real Simple“Evocative…Kya makes for an unforgettable heroine.”—Publishers Weekly“The New Southern novel…A lyrical debut.”—Southern Living“A nature-infused romance with a killer twist.”—Refinery29“Anyone who liked The Great Alone will want to read Where the Crawdads Sing….This astonishing debut is a beautiful and haunting novel that packs a powerful punch. It’s the first novel in a long time that made me cry.”—Kristin Hannah, author ofThe Great AloneandThe Nightingale “Both a coming-of-age story and a mysterious account of a murder investigation told from the perspective of a young girl…Through Kya’s story, Owens explores how isolation affects human behavior, and the deep effect that rejection can have on our lives.”—Vanity Fair“Lyrical…Its appeal ris[es] from Kya’s deep connection to the place where makes her home, and to all of its creatures.”—Booklist“This beautiful, evocative novel is likely to stay with you for many days afterward….absorbing.”—AARP “This haunting tale captivates every bit as much for its crime drama elements as for the humanity at its core.” —Mystery & Suspense Magazine“Compelling, original…A mystery, a courtroom drama, a romance and a coming-of-age story, Where the Crawdads Sing is a moving, beautiful tale. Readers will remember Kya for a long, long time.”—ShelfAwareness“With prose luminous as a low-country moon, Owens weaves a compelling tale of a forgotten girl in the unforgiving coastal marshes of North Carolina. It is a murder mystery/love story/courtroom drama that readers will love, but the novel delves so much deeper into the bone and sinew of our very nature, asking often unanswerable questions, old and intractable as the marsh itself. A stunning debut!”—Christopher Scotton, author of The Secret Wisdom of the Earth“A compelling mystery with prose so luminous it can cut through the murkiest of pluff mud.”—Augusta Chronicle“Carries the rhythm of an old time ballad. It is clear Owens knows this land intimately, from the black mud sucking at footsteps to the taste of saltwater and the cry of seagulls.”—David Joy, author of The Line That Held Us About the Author Delia Owens is the coauthor of three internationally bestselling nonfiction books about her life as a wildlife scientist in Africa—Cry of the Kalahari, The Eye of the Elephant, and Secrets of the Savanna. She has won the John Burroughs Award for Nature Writing and has been published in Nature, the African Journal of Ecology, and International Wildlife, among many other publications. She currently lives in Idaho, where she continues her support for the people and wildlife of Zambia. Where the Crawdads Sing, the #1 New York Times bestseller, is her first novel. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1.Ma1952The morning burned so August-hot, the marsh’s moist breath hung the oaks and pines with fog. The palmetto patches stood unusually quiet except for the low, slow flap of the heron’s wings lifting from the lagoon. And then, Kya, only six at the time, heard the screen door slap. Standing on the stool, she stopped scrubbing grits from the pot and lowered it into the basin of worn-out suds. No sounds now but her own breathing. Who had left the shack? Not Ma. She never let the door slam.But when Kya ran to the porch, she saw her mother in a long brown skirt, kick pleats nipping at her ankles, as she walked down the sandy lane in high heels. The stubby-nosed shoes were fake alligator skin. Her only going-out pair. Kya wanted to holler out but knew not to rouse Pa, so opened the door and stood on the brick-‘n’-board steps. From there she saw the blue train case Ma carried. Usually, with the confidence of a pup, Kya knew her mother would return with meat wrapped in greasy brown paper or with a chicken, head dangling down. But she never wore the gator heels, never took a case.Ma always looked back where the foot lane met the road, one arm held high, white palm waving, as she turned onto the track, which wove through bog forests, cattail lagoons, and maybe-if the tide obliged-eventually into town. But today she walked on, unsteady in the ruts. Her tall figure emerged now and then through the holes of the forest until only swatches of white scarf flashed between the leaves. Kya sprinted to the spot she knew would bare the road; surely Ma would wave from there, but she arrived only in time to glimpse the blue case-the color so wrong for the woods-as it disappeared. A heaviness, thick as black-cotton mud, pushed her chest as she returned to the steps to wait.Kya was the youngest of five, the others much older, though later she couldn’t recall their ages. They lived with Ma and Pa, squeezed together like penned rabbits, in the rough-cut shack, its screened porch staring big-eyed from under the oaks.Jodie, the brother closest to Kya, but still seven years older, stepped from the house and stood behind her. He had her same dark eyes and black hair; had taught her birdsongs, star names, how to steer the boat through saw grass.”Ma’ll be back,” he said.”I dunno. She’s wearin’ her gator shoes.””A ma don’t leave her kids. It ain’t in ’em.””You told me that fox left her babies.””Yeah, but that vixen got ‘er leg all tore up. She’d’ve starved to death if she’d tried to feed herself ‘n’ her kits. She was better off to leave ’em, heal herself up, then whelp more when she could raise ’em good. Ma ain’t starvin’, she’ll be back.” Jodie wasn’t nearly as sure as he sounded, but said it for Kya.Her throat tight, she whispered, “But Ma’s carryin’ that blue case like she’s goin’ somewheres big.”The shack sat back from the palmettos, which sprawled across sand flats to a necklace of green lagoons and, in the distance, all the marsh beyond. Miles of blade-grass so tough it grew in salt water, interrupted only by trees so bent they wore the shape of the wind. Oak forests bunched around the other sides of the shack and sheltered the closest lagoon, its surface so rich in life it churned. Salt air and gull-song drifted through the trees from the sea.Claiming territory hadn’t changed much since the 1500s. The scattered marsh holdings weren’t legally described, just staked out natural-a creek boundary here, a dead oak there-by renegades. A man doesn’t set up a palmetto lean-to in a bog unless he’s on the run from somebody or at the end of his own road.The marsh was guarded by a torn shoreline, labeled by early explorers as the “Graveyard of the Atlantic” because riptides, furious winds, and shallow shoals wrecked ships like paper hats along what would become the North Carolina coast. One seaman’s journal read, “rang’d along the Shoar . . . but could discern no Entrance . . . A violent Storm overtook us . . . we were forced to get off to Sea, to secure Ourselves and Ship, and were driven by the Rapidity of a strong Current . . .”The Land . . . being marshy and Swamps, we return’d towards our Ship . . . Discouragement of all such as should hereafter come into those Parts to settle.”Those looking for serious land moved on, and this infamous marsh became a net, scooping up a mishmash of mutinous sailors, castaways, debtors, and fugitives dodging wars, taxes, or laws that they didn’t take to. The ones malaria didn’t kill or the swamp didn’t swallow bred into a woodsmen tribe of several races and multiple cultures, each of whom could fell a small forest with a hatchet and pack a buck for miles. Like river rats, each had his own territory, yet had to fit into the fringe or simply disappear some day in the swamp. Two hundred years later, they were joined by runaway slaves, who escaped into the marsh and were called maroons, and freed slaves, penniless and beleaguered, who dispersed into the water-land because of scant options.Maybe it was mean country, but not an inch was lean. Layers of life-squiggly sand crabs, mud-waddling crayfish, waterfowl, fish, shrimp, oysters, fatted deer, and plump geese-were piled on the land or in the water. A man who didn’t mind scrabbling for supper would never starve.It was now 1952, so some of the claims had been held by a string of disconnected, unrecorded persons for four centuries. Most before the Civil War. Others squatted on the land more recently, especially after the World Wars, when men came back broke and broke-up. The marsh did not confine them but defined them and, like any sacred ground, kept their secrets deep. No one cared that they held the land because nobody else wanted it. After all, it was wasteland bog.Just like their whiskey, the marsh dwellers bootlegged their own laws-not like those burned onto stone tablets or inscribed on documents, but deeper ones, stamped in their genes. Ancient and natural, like those hatched from hawks and doves. When cornered, desperate, or isolated, man reverts to those instincts that aim straight at survival. Quick and just. They will always be the trump cards because they are passed on more frequently from one generation to the next than the gentler genes. It is not a morality, but simple math. Among themselves, doves fight as often as hawks.Ma didnÕt come back that day. No one spoke of it. Least of all Pa. Stinking of fish and drum likker, he clanked pot lids. ÒWharÕs supper?ÓEyes downcast, the brothers and sisters shrugged. Pa dog-cussed, then limp-stepped out, back into the woods. There had been fights before; Ma had even left a time or two, but she always came back, scooping up whoever would be cuddled.The two older sisters cooked a supper of red beans and cornbread, but no one sat to eat at the table, as they would have with Ma. Each dipped beans from the pot, flopped cornbread on top, and wandered off to eat on their floor mattresses or the faded sofa.Kya couldn’t eat. She sat on the porch steps, looking down the lane. Tall for her age, bone skinny, she had deep-tanned skin and straight hair, black and thick as crow wings.Darkness put a stop to her lookout. Croaking frogs would drown the sounds of footsteps; even so, she lay on her porch bed, listening. Just that morning she’d awakened to fatback crackling in the iron skillet and whiffs of biscuits browning in the wood oven. Pulling up her bib overalls, she’d rushed into the kitchen to put the plates and forks out. Pick the weevils from the grits. Most dawns, smiling wide, Ma hugged her-“Good morning, my special girl”-and the two of them moved about the chores, dancelike. Sometimes Ma sang folk songs or quoted nursery rhymes: “This little piggy went to market.” Or she’d swing Kya into a jitterbug, their feet banging the plywood floor until the music of the battery-operated radio died, sounding as if it were singing to itself at the bottom of a barrel. Other mornings Ma spoke about adult things Kya didn’t understand, but she figured Ma’s words needed somewhere to go, so she absorbed them through her skin, as she poked more wood in the cookstove. Nodding like she knew.Then, the hustle of getting everybody up and fed. Pa not there. He had two settings: silence and shouting. So it was just fine when he slept through, or didn’t come home at all.But this morning, Ma had been quiet; her smile lost, her eyes red. She’d tied a white scarf pirate style, low across her forehead, but the purple and yellow edges of a bruise spilled out. Right after breakfast, even before the dishes were washed, Ma had put a few personals in the train case and walked down the road.The next morning,Kya took up her post again on the steps, her dark eyes boring down the lane like a tunnel waiting for a train. The marsh beyond was veiled in fog so low its cushy bottom sat right on the mud. Barefoot, Kya drummed her toes, twirled grass stems at doodlebugs, but a six-year-old canÕt sit long and soon she moseyed onto the tidal flats, sucking sounds pulling at her toes. Squatting at the edge of the clear water, she watched minnows dart between sunspots and shadows.Jodie hollered to her from the palmettos. She stared; maybe he was coming with news. But as he wove through the spiky fronds, she knew by the way he moved, casual, that Ma wasn’t home.”Ya wanta play explorers?” he asked.”Ya said ya’re too old to play ‘splorers.””Nah, I just said that. Never too old. Race ya!”They tore across the flats, then through the woods toward the beach. She squealed as he overtook her and laughed until they reached the large oak that jutted enormous arms over the sand. Jodie and their older brother, Murph, had hammered a few boards across the branches as a lookout tower and tree fort. Now, much of it was falling in, dangling from rusty nails.Usually if she was allowed to crew at all it was as slave girl, bringing her brothers warm biscuits swiped from Ma’s pan.But today Jodie said, “You can be captain.”Kya raised her right arm in a charge. “Run off the Spaniards!” They broke off stick-swords and crashed through brambles, shouting and stabbing at the enemy.Then-make-believe coming and going easily-she walked to a mossy log and sat. Silently, he joined her. He wanted to say something to get her mind off Ma, but no words came, so they watched the swimming shadows of water striders.Kya returned to the porch steps later and waited for a long time, but, as she looked to the end of the lane, she never cried. Her face was still, her lips a simple thin line under searching eyes. But Ma didn’t come back that day either.2.Jodie1952After Ma left, over the next few weeks, Kya’s oldest brother and two sisters drifted away too, as if by example. They had endured Pa’s red-faced rages, which started as shouts, then escalated into fist-slugs, or backhanded punches, until one by one, they disappeared. They were nearly grown anyway. And later, just as she forgot their ages, she couldn’t remember their real names, only that they were called Missy, Murph, and Mandy. On her porch mattress, Kya found a small pile of socks left by her sisters.On the morning when Jodie was the only sibling left, Kya awakened to the clatter-clank and hot grease of breakfast. She dashed into the kitchen, thinking Ma was home frying corn fritters or hoecakes. But it was Jodie, standing at the woodstove, stirring grits. She smiled to hide the letdown, and he patted the top of her head, gently shushing her to be quiet: if they didn’t wake Pa, they could eat alone. Jodie didn’t know how to make biscuits, and there wasn’t any bacon, so he cooked grits and scrambled eggs in lard, and they sat down together, silently exchanging glances and smiles.They washed their dishes fast, then ran out the door toward the marsh, he in the lead. But just then Pa shouted and hobbled toward them. Impossibly lean, his frame seemed to flop about from poor gravity. His molars yellow as an old dog’s teeth.Kya looked up at Jodie. “We can run. Hide in the mossy place.””It’s okay. It’ll be okay,” he said.Later, near sunset, Jodie found Kya on the beach staring at the sea. As he stepped up beside her, she didnÕt look at him but kept her eyes on the roiling waves. Still, she knew by the way he spoke that Pa had slugged his face.”I hafta go, Kya. Can’t live here no longer.”She almost turned to him, but didn’t. Wanted to beg him not to leave her alone with Pa, but the words jammed up.”When you’re old enough you’ll understand,” he said. Kya wanted to holler out that she may be young, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew Pa was the reason they all left; what she wondered was why no one took her with them. She’d thought of leaving too, but had nowhere to go and no bus money.”Kya, ya be careful, hear. If anybody comes, don’t go in the house. They can get ya there. Run deep in the marsh, hide in the bushes. Always cover yo’ tracks; I learned ya how. And ya can hide from Pa, too.” When she still didn’t speak, he said good-bye and strode across the beach to the woods. Just before he stepped into the trees, she finally turned and watched him walk away.”This little piggy stayed home,” she said to the waves.Breaking her freeze, she ran to the shack. Shouted his name down the hall, but Jodie’s things were already gone, his floor bed stripped bare.She sank onto his mattress, watching the last of that day slide down the wall. Light lingered after the sun, as it does, some of it pooling in the room, so that for a brief moment the lumpy beds and piles of old clothes took on more shape and color than the trees outside.A gnawing hunger-such a mundane thing-surprised her. She walked to the kitchen and stood at the door. All her life the room had been warmed from baking bread, boiling butter beans, or bubbling fish stew. Now, it was stale, quiet, and dark. “Who’s gonna cook?” she asked out loud. Could have asked, Who’s gonna dance? Read more <div id="

  • I was sure I would like this book..and actually finished it. I grew more irritated with each page by the last half. I grew up in coastal North Carolina and was born in the 40s, so would be the same age as the main characters. It was clear that the author did not do her research about the area and about what would be plausible at the time of the story. When she mentioned real towns, she should have known Asheville would not be the destination city from the coast, especially in the 60s. Ma’s old cardboard suitcase that had been in the closet in the marsh for 19 years would be covered in mildew, Fireflies would have been called lightening bugs. No boy in a small town in NC would have been named either Tate or Chase in 40s, more recent popular names. I could go on and on. The inconsistencies in the dialect was grating, and many parts of the story were just not believable to me. I am amazed that so many people loved the book and the poetry.
  • Some of this book was sometimes good. Beautifully written at times, and with an interesting, but not very plausible plot. But oh my, the all to obvious gaps …Maybe less time talking about Kya fumbling around with sex with Chase and more time on her development as a renowned author and painter would have been nice. There’s more, but you may be reading the book. I must comment, though, on the most ridiculous court room antics since Curly’s trial in a Three Stooges short. Oh, I think I just did. (And just after reading a book on Harper Lee – if you know what I mean). This was one of the most disappointing and silly books I have read in quite a long time. Sorry Ms. Witherspoon. Can I get my money back if I return the book? Read the 1 and 2 star reviews – they’re the most accurate.
  • Wow! I just finished reading Where the Crawdads Sing. And I will say it again, Wow! This books is so filled with emotion. Kya, the main character, is trying to survive by herself from a young age. She has been abandoned by those who should teach her, guide her, protect her. She has to fend for herself. Two men come into her life and teach her about the good and bad in life. I only keep few book’s that I know I will read again. This is staying in my library.
  • Looks like I’m in the minority here, but did not enjoy this book. OK, wait, yes, I enjoyed the beginning and thought this has promise! Then, it just went down paths that caused me to go “meh”. I could go on an on, but the thing that just got me the most, was when grown up Kya would speak. REALLY? I’m supposed to believe this kid, who was taught to read by another kid, would speak that properly and in such complete sentences without even a contraction used? Yeah, no.
  • As a native North Carolinian, this book griped me on a number of levels. First off, the drawl is insulting. We don’t talk like that. Even the uneducated hicks don’t. If her parents were well to do, they wouldn’t revert to backwoods mush mouth because of where they lived. Second, NO ONE from the coast goes to Asheville like it’s a normal thing. I live in the middle of the state. Asheville is 3-4 hours west of me. The outer banks are 5is hours from me. Driving from the coast to Asheville is an 8+ hour trip!! They’d go to Wilmington, Greenville, Rocky Mount, Raleigh. The concept of a 7 year old surviving on her own is far fetched enough, she never gets sick or hurt, can cook and clean up after herself, the shack never needs repairing, etc. But more importantly, HURRICANES!! NC gets hurricanes! Hurricane Hazel hit NC in 1954, and was completely left out of the book. Came right in off the coast, like most hurricanes do. The shack would have been destroyed. Three: the swampy parts of NC aren’t on the coast. There much more inland. You get to swamp about 100 miles before the coast and swamp doesn’t peter out to the ocean. There are pumas, cottonmouths, poisonous spiders, alligators, bears in that part of the state, but she makes it fine. Wrong geography, predictable, unbelievable story. Don’t waste your time.
  • I know! Oh boy there are a lot of readers who will COMPLETELY disagree with this rating. Many of my friends loved this book. Let’s begin with what I liked about this novel – the main character’s connection to nature and the scientific facts presented throughout the story.Now for the novel’s downfalls…SPOILER ALERT!This story is just too improbable. From Kya raising herself beginning at a very young age, to EVERYONE leaving her, to her killing someone it was all too much for me. Kya never got sick or badly injured, needed a doctor, dentist? This strong character goes to school for one day and is bullied away? She had a wonderful relationship with her brother Jody, who then leaves her and never contacts her again for years. He left her to live in a dilapidated shack ,with an abusive, irresponsible, neglectful father. That is not something this character would have done. Next, Tate befriends her and presumably loves her. He knows everyone has left her and he does also. How could you do that to someone you love? Neither character has a reasonable excuse for not contacting her in any way for years.Overall, the author used too much drama to develop the character she was trying to create. Owens needs to show that she believes in the intelligence of her readers and not author-splain constantly. Yikes! I did not like this one.
  • Started reading it 10am and finished 8pm! Could not put it down. Main characters are easy to get to know (so you think) and the story draws you in from the start! I look forward to more from this author!! Read this Book!
  • This story of a six-year-old child left to fend for herself in a Carolina swamp when her stereotype swamp-trash likker-sluggin’ pa finally doesn’t come home again (we’re not told why – hopefully an alligator ate him), is an exercise in cliches. We are asked to believe that this beautiful (natch), sensitive, artistic blah blah little girl raises herself from barefoot illiteracy to womanhood and published fame as a naturalist, with three self-illustrated books on marshland flora and fauna. She is taught to read and overnight to abandon her swamp patois for highbrow English by, gosh, a boy who falls in love with her, and manages to educate her to university level with some textbooks. Said boy, having achieved this Pygmalion-like transformation, then departs to do his own high-class degree, promising to return to his true love, who hangs around the swamp waiting. But he doesn’t return because alas! he realises she is a wild creature, a child of nature who would never fit into civilisation, and so on. So he passes on coming back to claim her and Swamp Girl’s heart broken. She has a fling with the baddie of the piece, another walking cliche – handsome, privileged, all the girls want to go to the prom with him – and predictably he breaks her heart by marrying an appropriate girl who wears shoes and pearls. Really at this point I was ready to give up on the novel, but there is a murder involved and I wanted to find out whodunnit. The murder itself is just a device and fails hopelessly. The trial is ludicrous, the murder allegations are based on evidence that no prosecuting counsel, fictional or otherwise, would have even remotely considered sound, and the attempts to build suspense during the jury’s deliberations are just plain silly.If this flimsy and wholly ridiculous plot line were in any way to be redeemed, it might have been through quality of writing because of the interesting environment of the swamp and its wildlife, but even in this the novel fails. The only passable passages are indeed the ones in which Ms Owens describes the swamp life. The dialogue is ridiculous, the love scenes are stitched together out of worn-out cliches, and the suspension of disbelief required of the reader is just asking way too much.I have no doubt that Delia Owens is an excellent naturalist and ecologist and an asset to her field. But as a novelist, she doesn’t cut it. Don’t waste your money on this book.
  • After all the rave reviews I was expecting something exceptional but was completely underwhelmed. I felt the the characters were underdeveloped and the plot rushed and implausible. Wish I’d saved my money and waited until i could pick up a cheaper secondhand copy.
  • This genuinely a novel that I could not put down for a number of reasons. The author’s unsurpassed knowledge and understanding of ‘nature’ and the natural world is more than matched by her beautiful descriptive poetic prose. Her keen and insightful observations on our society, on relationships,love, prejudice, racism and sexism are intermingled with a fast paced and gripping story which takes us on an emotional journey that, although set in the 30’s through to the 70’s, is even more relevant today than it was then. In the era of ‘me too’ – we should take heed and learn from this incredible, vivid and at times disturbing reflection on humanity (or inhumanity) as seen through the eyes of nature itself. We have a lot to learn from this book about our natural world and our relationship with it. I place this novel amongst the classics of all time – an easy match for any of the greats – Thomas Hardy, DH Lawrence JD Salinger. Delia Owens is up there with the very best. This book brought me to tears many times and pulled at every emotion you can possible think of. Congratulations on an epic first novel. Thank you for the experience- I will carry it with me for the rest of my life.
  • “Where the Crawdads Sing” has an enticing title. Unfortunately, it’s the best thing about the book. The natural science – of which there is too much – may be accurate; I cannot tell. The rest of the book is bad beyond belief. The plot is rickety; the characters are barely one-dimensional; the prose is sugary and sickening. As for the dialogue…most “sound” like cartoon characters. The nadir, though, are the truly dire poems, dropped haphazardly into the text. How this waste of space came to be published escapes me totally. Perhaps one can fool most of the people all the time. This is said to be the author’s first novel. On the evidence of this trash, she would be well advised not to think about a second.
  • A tale of a poor, uneducated yet strangely beautiful girl who grows up alone in a swamp while writing poetry and studying quantum physics.
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