Barbara Kingsolver

Barbara Kingsolver

Barbara Kingsolver is a novelist, essayist, activist, and gardener. She is the recipient of the 2000 National Humanities Medal. Her most recent books include Small Wonder: Essays, and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life.

Articles by this author

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Tuesday, March 17, 2009
What Money Doesn't Buy: Microfinance and Women's Empowerment in South Asia
In the rural countryside of Orissa, northeastern India, coconut palms punctuate a flat terrain of rice fields and low-slung villages of mud and thatch. Women in bright-colored saris cut cane between marigold hedges and lagoons filled with lotus flowers. The scene is fantastically picturesque, but scenery feeds the soul, not the stomach. Stop and ask any of these villagers what they hope for their children, and they'll likely say the same thing: to move away to the city someday.
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Friday, November 23, 2001
Reflections On 'Wartime'
Lately I've been saying this quiet word, "wartime." It brings a taste to the root of my tongue, and to my ear the earnest tone of my parents recalling their teenage years. The word speaks of things I've never known: an era of sacrifice undertaken by rich and poor alike, of gardens planted and warm socks knitted in drab colors, people conquering fear by giving up comforts so everyone on earth might eventually have better days.
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Sunday, October 14, 2001
No Glory in Unjust War on the Weak
TUCSON -- I cannot find the glory in this day. When I picked up the newspaper and saw "America Strikes Back!" blazed boastfully across it in letters I swear were 10 inches tall--shouldn't they reserve at least one type size for something like, say, nuclear war?--my heart sank. We've answered one...
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Tuesday, September 25, 2001
And Our Flag Was Still There
MY DAUGHTER came home from kindergarten and announced, "Tomorrow we all have to wear red, white and blue." "Why?" I asked, trying not to sound wary. "For all the people that died when the airplanes hit the buildings." I fear the sound of saber-rattling, dread that not just my taxes but even my children are being dragged to the cause of death in the wake of death. I asked quietly, "Why not wear black, then? Why the colors of the flag, what does that mean?"
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Sunday, September 23, 2001
A Pure, High Note of Anguish
TUCSON -- I want to do something to help right now. But I can't give blood (my hematocrit always runs too low), and I'm too far way to give anybody shelter or a drink of water. I can only give words. My verbal hemoglobin never seems to wane, so words are what I'll offer up in this time that asks of us the best citizenship we've ever mustered. I don't mean to say I have a cure. Answers to the main questions of the day--Where was that fourth plane headed? How did they get knives through security?--I don't know any of that.
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