Well, I finished The Poisonwood Bible (1998) with a couple of hours to spare before book group… and, having worked out what I think about it, I am ready to write my review. It’s quite difficult to formulate my thoughts on this novel, because these thoughts do not all lean in the same direction. Reviews feel like they should be unified, and that’s rather tricky when I have both positive and negative responses to a book. So… bear with me. I’ll bear with you bearing with me. Hopefully by the end of the page we’ll understand one another, no?
First things first,
The Poisonwood Bible ought to be about 200 pages shorter. I don’t mean that careful and judicious editing throughout is needed, to compress the narrative (although this wouldn’t be a bad idea) – I mean that it should have ended on p.427. There are 616 pages in the edition I read (rather more than the supposed 350 page upper-limit of book group choices) and there shouldn’t be. I am astonished that any editor let Kingsolver keep going for those final 189 pages. It was self-indulgent and unnecessary. But, now I’ve got that off my chest, I can return to the review proper. It gets more positive soon, promise.
The Poisonwood Bible follows the Price family from 1959 to the 1990s – Nathan is a Baptist minister from Georgia (the US state, not the country), and has brought his wife Orleanna and daughters Rachel, Leah, Adah, and Ruth May to the Congo. They are there as missionaries, but all is not going to go entirely to plan… to say the least. This is the basic premise of Kingsolver’s novel – and from such a simple idea, she weaves a long and complex novel. Complex in terms of emotions, interactions, and gradual self-discovery, that is. Not a lot really happens. (Another reason why The Poisonwood Bible is difficult to write about. Honestly, Barb!)
Five voices make up the narrative, each in the first person. Orleanna Price speaks briefly at the beginning of each section – which are named after Biblical (and Apocryphal) books – Genesis, The Revelation, The Judges, Bel and the Serpent, Exodus. She speaks wearily, always in retrospect, and keeps her cards close to her chest. Doubtless this is partly so plot points aren’t revealed too early, and her melancholy ambiguity includes one momentous hint which kept me gripped and guessing for hundreds of pages.
But it is the four daughters who are the mainstay of the novel. The narrative is passed between them, and Kingsolver constructs their four voices brilliantly, distinctly, and consistently. Her fellow American novelist, Marilynne Robinson,
hugely impressed me with
Gilead because of her ability to ‘capture’ a voice – and while Kingsolver has a rather different slant on a minister, she certainly writes beautifully for his daughters. Since they are so thoroughly depicted, it’s difficult to summarise their characters – but, broadly speaking, I’ll try.
Rachel is the eldest, a white-blonde ingenue whose Malapropisms (‘never the train shall meet’) and simple, unimaginative nature are initially endearing, but eventually rather concerning. She never loses the all-American slang expressions she brings with her to Congo, and I rather liked her indefatigable sassiness, even if it is accompanied with a lack of cultural awareness.
Leah and Adah are twins – Leah desperately seeks the approval of her father, and carries with her the guilt that, in the womb, she ’caused’ Adah’s disability. Adah limps badly, and almost never speaks. She also has a fascination with seeing things backgrounds, and especially palindromes. Silent to others, her narration reveals her cynicism and bitterness, but also her humour.
Ruth May, finally, is the youngest – and the simplest. Not in terms of intelligence, but in the simple, contented way she adapts to her surroundings, making friends amongst the neighbours, and doing her best to understand her father’s teaching in their new environment.
For Kingsolver is not subtle about the clash of cultures. Here, the welcome party for the Prices is interrupted by Nathan:
“Reverend and Mrs. Price and your children!” cried the younger man in the yellow shirt. “You are welcome to our feast. Today we have killed a goat to celebrate your coming. Soon your bellies will be full with our fufu pili-pili.”At that, why, the half-naked women behind him just burst out clapping and cheering, as if they could no longer confine their enthusiasm for a dead goat.[…]”Nakedness,” Father repeated, “and darkness of the soul! For we shall destroy this place where the loud clamour of the sinners is waxen great before the face of the Lord!” No one sang or cheered anymore. Whether or not they understood the meaning of ‘loud clamour,’ they didn’t dare be making one now. They did not even breathe, or so it seemed. Father can get a good deal across with just his tone of voice, believe you me.
This is, firstly, a great example of Kingsolver’s exceptional ability to convey individuals’ voices through minor verbal tics. Perhaps it isn’t clear from just this excerpt, but only Rachel’s narrative would have that ‘why’ in the second paragraph; only Rachel would finish ‘believe you me’. If Adah’s sections have the most obvious stylistic identifications, the others are subtly tied to their narratives too. That is the greatest strength of
The Poisonwood Bible, and the strength that encourages me to read more by Barbara Kingsolver – the ability to create a character’s voice.
Which makes it all the more frustrating that, in Nathan Price, she has done nothing of the kind. The women of The Poisonwood Bible are drawn so well, so cleverly. And, in the midst of them all, is Nathan. He never comes alive, he is scarcely more than a Bad Man Who Does Bad Things. His motivations aren’t addressed, he has no depth whatsoever – it is a shambolic waste of an opportunity. I don’t think it’s simply my Christianity (and the fact that I know a lovely, hard-working, deeply loving missionary in D.R. Congo) that makes me feel this – others at book group certainly agreed. Nathan is angry, selfish, insensitive, violent… it was when he started hitting his children that my eyes rolled so much that I felt a little dizzy. Doubtless there are other novels where one meets ogres – Barbara Comyns’ The Vet’s Daughter, for example, or any novel by Dickens – but in those books they are in the midst of the surreal and exaggerated. Nathan Price is not, and, though all his attributes are individually believable, as a composite, without any redeeming features, they are not. It is such a pity that Kingsolver allowed herself this laziness. Had she made Nathan a character, rather than a two-dimensional face of Wicked Colonialism, The Poisonwood Bible would have been more interesting. Then again, perhaps she just wanted Nathan as a catalyst to explore the reactions of the female characters? That’s the most charitable conclusion I can draw.
As I said before, very little happens. We see the daughters try to adjust to their situation – their interactions with neighbours, who are variously kind or antagonistic and endlessly curious – and the gradually altering politics of Congo. Pages and pages go by without anything particularly occurring, but they are somehow engaging. Ruth May introduces ‘Mother May I’ to local infants; Rachel’s hair is a spectacle to all; Adah is presumed eaten by a lion (but is not); Leah grows more and more interested in the teacher Anatole… mostly Kingsolver attempts the miracle of winding a narrative through emotions and thoughts without hanging them on events – and she succeeds. It is beautiful writing. It is also nigh-on impossible to review. There is one odd thing… usually I jot down resonant or stand-out quotations whilst I read, or excerpts I think will help structure a blog post. For The Poisonwood Bible, I wrote down nothing. Kingsolver’s writing is all even and constant – it all weaves into one.
But, as I noted at the top, something very weird happens. The Prices’ time in the Congo comes to an abrupt, tragic end. And then, p.427, they leave. After that it is as though it were another novel. We follow the various daughters at occasional intervals for another couple of decades. It is tedious and politically heavy-handed. The points Kingsolver had previously shown through her story are now told through dialogue. Show, don’t tell, Barb. All the unsubtlety in her portrayal of Nathan sweeps across the others. I still can’t believe that a novel can peter out quite like this one did.
So, there you are. A confusing review, I daresay, but also a confusing read. At its best, The Poisonwood Bible is phenomenally good. Barbara Kingsolver is obviously an exceptionally talented writer. The Bean Trees, which I read years ago, is also testament to this. But at its best, The Poisonwood Bible is lazy, clumsy, unsubtle and poorly edited. Overall I will say that Kingsolver’s talents outweigh her occasional mismanagement of them, but it is always a shame when a novel could have been great (and, to be fair, a lot of people do consider it great) but, to my mind, failed to reach its potential.
