The constant hum of the forest permeates every page of Barbara Kingsolver's novel, THE PRODIGAL SUMMER. With insects incessantly buzzing, twigs snapping, animals scurrying, leaves whispering, birds squalling, moths mating, it's as if hundreds of different languages are being spoken all at once. The forest is not a quiet place, and THE PRODIGAL SUMMER is not a quite novel.
Before delving into the many merits of this book, I must first set down my one complaint. Several times during my initial reading I felt an odd sensation of being preached to, admonished and yet at the sa