By Barbara Kingsolver
Writer Barbara Kingsolver and her kin deserted the industrial-food pipeline to reside a rural life—vowing that, for 365 days, they’d merely purchase nutrition raised of their personal local, develop it themselves, or learn how to dwell with out it. half memoir, half journalistic research, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle is a charming narrative that may open your eyes in 100 new how one can an previous fact: you're what you consume.
Read or Download Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life (P.S.) PDF
Best authors books
In a witty and chic autobiography that takes up the place his bestelling Palimpsest left off, the prestigious novelist, essayist, critic, and controversialist Gore Vidal displays on his outstanding existence. Writing from his desks in Ravello and the Hollywood Hills, Vidal travels in reminiscence during the arenas of literature, tv, movie, theatre, politics, and foreign society the place he has reduce a large swath, recounting achievements and defeats, pals and enemies made (and occasionally lost).
At the foggy streets of Seattle, a serial killer often called the road Butcher is terrorising town. Newspaper photographer Nick Wilder is acquainted with seeing ugly murder scenes. but if the road Butcher claims Nick's brother his most modern casualty, the case all of sudden turns into very own. made up our minds to discover his brother's killer, Nick stumbles right into a dizzying labyrinth of deceit and chance.
In 1937 William Rose Benet despatched a tender Yale graduate scholar, Norman Holmes Pearson, to interview the subtle expatriate poet Hilda Doolittle in the course of one of many few journeys she made to the United States after going in a foreign country in 1911. till her dying in 1961, they engaged in a protracted and wide-ranging courting very important to H.
- Nathaniel Hawthorne (Pamphlets on American Writers)
- George Herbert: A Literary Life
- Nine Lives of William Shakespeare
Extra resources for Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life (P.S.)
Do you mean sex? ” “I’m not going to be sidetracked into a discussion of words,” my mother says, a thing she would never say. “It’s not a sidetrack,” I nevertheless reply. Her foreﬁnger sizzles. I need an ashtray. I know there are no ashtrays here, but I’m willing to choose carefully among the things I know are here: the amethystglass pot with calico ﬂowers set in parafﬁn; the Carnival glass cup with her name, “Alma,” etched in primitive cursive; the California Fiesta pottery in the lurid colors of the zinnias along the front walk.
We are so old-fashioned that the newly-marrieds drop in on the old widowers to make sure they’ve got bread and transport. We have a village witch who will not let the schoolkids cut through her cactus patch and calls the cops every time a dog barks, but she ﬂies in and out on her jet broomstick to a more expensive house somewhere else, and is therefore not a proper member of the community. This augments the solidarity among the rest of us. Besides, the cops like to stop by. They have a cup of coffee and a slice of fresh ﬁg cake and tell us the dog can’t bark because there’s a city ordinance, and we say we’ll take care of it, and they go back to the Frenchtown beat.
He does not, however, want it called punk. I am so anxious he should like me that I pay to have his left ear pierced and offer him a diamond-chip stud of which I have lost the mate. He accepts it cheerfully, but most days he wears a diaper pin through the punctured lobe. She deals with the eyelet of the other sleeve, and she turns to me. I am so startled by this success that I reach into my Italian handbag for a cigarette, and my glance catches no higher than the hand she splays protectively over her stomach; I concentrate on the lighting of my cigarette, and can only suppose the shape of her mouth, narrow-lipped but open wide in the narrow-lipped friendly “hah” shape, large straight teeth except for the crossing of the two lower incisors that I encounter in my own mirror every day of my life.