However, it wasn't the politics that attracted me here; it was the prose. What a writer! Comparing her power as a novelist with my own feeble efforts in this direction, I could see what a long row I'd have to hoe, if I continue writing fiction, to come even close to this level of achievement.
At least half the novel is set in Mexico, and her genius for Mexican slang, for the nuance of the Mexican way of life, is equally impressive. The following paragraphs capture some of the things I adore about this country--things I felt from the 1st time I visited in 1979, but which I could never seem to put into words. In the hands of a master like Kingsolver, the ineffable is 'made flesh', as it were:
"In the afternoon when the sun lights the stucco buildings across the street, it's possible to count a dozen different colors of paint, all fading together on the highest parts of the wall: yellow, ochre, brick, blood, cobalt, turquoise. The national color of Mexico. And the scent of Mexico is a similar blend: jasmine, dog piss, cilantro, lime. Mexico admits you through an arched stone orifice into the tree-filled courtyard of its heart, where a dog pisses against a wall and a waiter hustles through a curtain of jasmine to bring a bowl of tortilla soup, steaming with cilantro and lime. Cats stalk lizards among the clay pots around the fountain, doves settle into the flowering vines and coo their prayers, thankful for the existence of lizards. The potted plants silently exhale, outgrowing their clay pots. Like Mexico's children they stand pinched and patient in last year's too-small shoes.
"Here life is strong-scented, overpowering. Even the words. Just ordering breakfast requires some word like toronja, triplet of muscular syllables full of lust and tears, a squirt in the eye. Nothing like the effete 'grapefruit,' which does not even mean what it says."