Barbara kingsolver biography
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Barbara Kingsolver was born in and grew up in rural Kentucky. She earned degrees in biology from DePauw University and the University of Arizona, and has worked as a freelance writer and author since At various times she has lived in England, France, and the Canary Islands, and has worked in Europe, Africa, Asia, Mexico, and South America. She spent two decades in Tucson, Arizona, before moving to southwestern Virginia where she currently resides. Her books, in order of publication, are: The Bean Trees (), Homeland (), Holding the Line: Women in the Great Arizona Mine Strike (), Animal Dreams (), Another America (), Pigs in Heaven (), High Tide in Tucson (), The Poisonwood Bible (), Prodigal Summer (), Small Wonder (), Last Stand: America's Virgin Lands, with photographer Annie Griffiths (), Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life (), The Lacuna (), Flight Behavior (), Unsheltered (), How To Fly (In 10, Easy Lessons) (), Demon Copperhead (), and coauthored with Lily Kin
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Barbara Kingsolver
American author, poet and essayist (born )
Barbara Ellen Kingsolver (born April 8, ) is a Pulitzer Prize-winning American novelist, essayist, and poet. Her widely known works include The Poisonwood Bible, the tale of a missionary family in the Congo, and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, a nonfiction account of her family's attempts to eat locally. In , she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for the novel Demon Copperhead.[1][2] Her work often focuses on topics such as social justice, biodiversity, and the interaction between humans and their communities and environments.
Kingsolver has received numerous awards, including the Dayton Literary Peace Prize's Richard C. Holbrooke Distinguished Achievement Award and the National Humanities Medal. After winning for The Lacuna in and Demon Copperhead in , Kingsolver became the first author to win the Women's Prize for Fiction twice.[3][4] Since , each one of her
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BARBARA REVEALS HERSELF
Introduction
In the culture in which I was raised, it was considered charming to tell long, entertaining stories about peculiar relatives or a runaway hog or anything beneath the sun—except yourself. Prolonged self-revelation seems discourteous to me, and self-aggrandizing fryst vatten vulgar. Among the worst things inom commonly heard people säga about a woman, in my childhood, was that she was “parading herself around.” This may explain why I’m happy to put a three-pound novel into the hands of anyone inclined to heft it, but squeamish about autobiography. I’ve never written anything in that line. I offer the world my books, which stand on their own without explanation, and never imagine the details of my personal life should interest anyone but friends and family. inom do not believe this information improves the understanding of my books, in any way
Yet I understand that for many people, art inspires curiosity about the artist. I’ve also learned, the hard way, that W