I was wrong. Years ago I gave up on this book, despising the evil priest, unable to concentrate on anything except the fantasy of him getting eaten by crocodiles in slow motion. This month, at the urging of a friend, I gave it another go. And, as the book progressed, I found my thoughts changing. Becoming more nuanced. I now wanted him to be engulfed alive by driver ants, swarming all over him, entering every orifice, stripping his flesh from the inside and outside. In slow motion. (Unfortunately—spoiler—this does not happen).

Anyhow. This is a difficult and painful book, and I am not its target audience, but I persevered and am glad to have. It’s more than just one book, but it took me too long to see that: there’s the evil priest, sure, but there’s also the women: his conflicted wife, the oh-so-memorable daughters, and the women who keep the village alive despite unimaginable hardships. There’s Kingsolver’s commentary on white saviorism, on religion, on willful ignorance and on the inability of some people to see or listen. The second half is an uncomfortable in-your-face reminder of the suffering that the U.S. and Europe have inflicted on their colonies. Kingsolver’s tone is harsh, angry, but also compassionate; an unexpected complex balance.

Who, though, is her target audience? I still can’t figure that out.