What do you think?
Rate this book
Serpent Box: A Father, a Son, and a Tragic Search for God in the Mountains of Appalachia
In the deep mountains of Appalachia, the Flints of Leatherwood, Tennessee, spread the word of the gospels by handling deadly serpents and drinking lye in front of large gatherings of the faithful. Believing his ten-year-old son Jacob—called Toad or Spud—to be a prophet, Charles, the patriarch, takes the boy down a long and arduous path as they travel the back roads of the postwar Deep South in search of God and plumb the depths of their unorthodox brand of faith. But sudden, shocking tragedy will shatter Charles's cherished dream of building a ministry and a permanent church—and set young Jacob on a dramatically different course.
496 pages, Paperback
First published February 26, 2008
4 people are currently reading
68 people want to read
About the author
Vincent Louis Carrella
6 books49 followersWhat do people want to know about people who write books? What I would want to know is how a person was shaped. How he or she was formed. I’d want to know how they became the writer of the novel I had just read. What made them? I’d want to see and feel the events, thoughts and people who formed the crucible that created a person.
I was born and raised on Long Island, New York. I spent my boyhood hunting snakes in vacant lots and exploring the vast terminal moraine left by the great northern glacier - the sand pits that provided the very substance for most of Manhattan’s concrete infrastructure. I fished, sailed and swam Manhasset Bay. I built tree-forts in the woods. I snuck into the public pool in the summertime and rode my Schwinn Sting-Ray all over Sands Point, exploring private beaches and tidal lagoons. I built rafts, stole dinghies and stalked the garbage dump with a Daisy BB Gun. I formed a snake club. I hunted for fossils in the sand pits and rats with a bow and arrow. I read a hundred books. I drew pictures and invented elaborate games that involved sword-play and plastic guns. I played stickball. I climbed trees. I played Dungeons and Dragons on my kitchen table and Space Invaders in a bowling alley arcade. I lived a magical and sometimes terrifying Huckleberry Finn childhood. I started working at 10. I collected bottles and cans. I mowed lawns, shoveled snow, delivered newspapers, was a landscaper, a florist’s assistant, a bus-boy, a dishwasher, a clerk at a drive-thru grocery, a boat cleaner, a launch driver and scooped ice cream at a Carvel.
My mother was a reader. She read books and she read books to me. Our little apartment was filled with literature. I was surrounded by Hemingway, Hesse, Steinbeck, Kafka, Anais Nin. My mother taught me the joy of reading by reading. I cannot remember a time when she did not have a book in her hand, her purse, or open on her bedside table. Books, to her, were pathways to knowledge and self-discovery. And they became that for me. My mother’s love of books and her encouragement of my early reading and writing was her greatest gift to me. This was the foundation upon which I was constructed. She taught me to imagine and think.
My father left when I was five. It was not abandonment it was divorce. He was not a very vocal man. He did not sit down with me to explain the great wisdoms and mysteries of life. Instead he showed me these mysteries first hand. My father was in love with the woods. He took me there often. He showed me how to hunt and fish. He marveled at the living world and was always asking questions. Nature, to my father, was not just a refuge, it was a temple. Often we’d sit for hours staring at the ripples in a brook. He knew the names of birds and trees. He knew the habits of animals. He showed me their tracks and signs and how to read the wind. He taught me how to see.
I am not a writer by training or education. I studied no authors, no literature. I learned story by reading. I learned plot by living. I learned dialog by talking, by listening. I was a small boy who could not fight or catch a ball. This made me a target. I was bullied, beaten, threatened and robbed. I learned how to run and avoid conflict. I learned how to talk my way out of a jam. This required a certain form of analytical thinking. You weigh a threat quickly and make a decision. Stand or run. You measure distances to cover and you measure faces. You read attitude and terrain. Your powers of observation become sharp and animal-like. I lived mostly in a world of my own creation. I day-dreamed. I invented scenes and stories. My mother and father marveled at my memory and my imagination. There was no image, no event that I could forget. My memory for scenes and places was photographic. Pictures flashed through my head. Often what I saw was horrific. Plagued by insomnia throughout my entire childhood, I laid awake in the dark with the voices and faces of the living and the dead. I
I was born and raised on Long Island, New York. I spent my boyhood hunting snakes in vacant lots and exploring the vast terminal moraine left by the great northern glacier - the sand pits that provided the very substance for most of Manhattan’s concrete infrastructure. I fished, sailed and swam Manhasset Bay. I built tree-forts in the woods. I snuck into the public pool in the summertime and rode my Schwinn Sting-Ray all over Sands Point, exploring private beaches and tidal lagoons. I built rafts, stole dinghies and stalked the garbage dump with a Daisy BB Gun. I formed a snake club. I hunted for fossils in the sand pits and rats with a bow and arrow. I read a hundred books. I drew pictures and invented elaborate games that involved sword-play and plastic guns. I played stickball. I climbed trees. I played Dungeons and Dragons on my kitchen table and Space Invaders in a bowling alley arcade. I lived a magical and sometimes terrifying Huckleberry Finn childhood. I started working at 10. I collected bottles and cans. I mowed lawns, shoveled snow, delivered newspapers, was a landscaper, a florist’s assistant, a bus-boy, a dishwasher, a clerk at a drive-thru grocery, a boat cleaner, a launch driver and scooped ice cream at a Carvel.
My mother was a reader. She read books and she read books to me. Our little apartment was filled with literature. I was surrounded by Hemingway, Hesse, Steinbeck, Kafka, Anais Nin. My mother taught me the joy of reading by reading. I cannot remember a time when she did not have a book in her hand, her purse, or open on her bedside table. Books, to her, were pathways to knowledge and self-discovery. And they became that for me. My mother’s love of books and her encouragement of my early reading and writing was her greatest gift to me. This was the foundation upon which I was constructed. She taught me to imagine and think.
My father left when I was five. It was not abandonment it was divorce. He was not a very vocal man. He did not sit down with me to explain the great wisdoms and mysteries of life. Instead he showed me these mysteries first hand. My father was in love with the woods. He took me there often. He showed me how to hunt and fish. He marveled at the living world and was always asking questions. Nature, to my father, was not just a refuge, it was a temple. Often we’d sit for hours staring at the ripples in a brook. He knew the names of birds and trees. He knew the habits of animals. He showed me their tracks and signs and how to read the wind. He taught me how to see.
I am not a writer by training or education. I studied no authors, no literature. I learned story by reading. I learned plot by living. I learned dialog by talking, by listening. I was a small boy who could not fight or catch a ball. This made me a target. I was bullied, beaten, threatened and robbed. I learned how to run and avoid conflict. I learned how to talk my way out of a jam. This required a certain form of analytical thinking. You weigh a threat quickly and make a decision. Stand or run. You measure distances to cover and you measure faces. You read attitude and terrain. Your powers of observation become sharp and animal-like. I lived mostly in a world of my own creation. I day-dreamed. I invented scenes and stories. My mother and father marveled at my memory and my imagination. There was no image, no event that I could forget. My memory for scenes and places was photographic. Pictures flashed through my head. Often what I saw was horrific. Plagued by insomnia throughout my entire childhood, I laid awake in the dark with the voices and faces of the living and the dead. I
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 19 of 19 reviews
April 19, 2015
Loved it, loved it, loved it. This novel has a superb sense of atmosphere and the author demonstrates a wonderful talent for creating rich visuals. Perhaps this talent derives from his experience in digital media, but wherever it comes from, his vivid descriptions of the sights, smells and sounds of each and every setting brought the story to life for me. In addition to the wonderful descriptive language, this book contains a compelling plot and sympathetic characters, a truly winning combination. I just loved it.
January 19, 2010
I push this book on everyone I know who reads. It's an "Appalachian gothic" tragedy with gorgeous prose and lots of iconic imagery. Old time religion, salt-of-the-earth characters, poverty, comings-of-age, fear and redemption. Very mature work for a debut novelist who used to be a video game developer.
February 1, 2016
Outstanding story of a boy born deformed and gifted. Set against a backdrop of deep religious superstition and traditions that channel the spirit of God into men, The Serpent Box is profound in design proving that Carrella is a storyteller who has the skill to render you awestruck with his command of the world he transcribes. Such a compelling and detailed novel that sucked me into that world from the first page. Being British, stories of preachers, serpents and lye are beyond my comprehension but Carrella's gift in crafting the vernacular and illustrating the subtleties of Appalachian heritage propels him high above his contemporaries, in my opinion. Recommended.
March 27, 2010
An amazing and powerful debut, Serpent Box tells the tail of Jacob Flint, a young boy, born in a curious manner. The son of a Holiness preacher, Jacob is both blessed and cursed. Deformed but able to heal men, speak to God, and handle snakes and poison, Serpent Box looks at a faith that views God as here, touching our daily lives, keeping us safe, if we have the faith required. Lyrical and beautiful, this book takes a look at an oft-derided faith, but more looks at what it takes to have faith in the modern world.
August 23, 2010
Does this novel have atmosphere or what? WOW. I felt very "present" while reading this novel, in a very physical sense. I was by turn nauseated, afraid, tense, tearful, and thrilled right along with Carella's characters. I was initially put off by the subject matter (snake handling lye drinking hillbilly Bible thumpers, you are kidding, right?) but Carrella treats these people with respect and dignity rather than exploiting their beliefs and practices for shock value. Do read this book!
August 6, 2018
Powerful, beautifully written, thought provoking. This was recommended by a friend or I would not have chosen it. Southern church gospel tom foolery is usually not my thing. I don't need to feel the Holy Spirit or see miracles in action. As a Christian I know the Holy Spirit is always with me whether I feel it or not, and I witness miracles daily with the sun shining and the forgiveness of my sins and the mercies God bestows me every day. But saying that, this book offered so much more behind the scenes. These folks were full of faith, loved Jesus and did have gifts I can't fathom. It strengthened my faith. I don't think its deemed as Christian fiction... and should't be, because it is so much more.
November 28, 2009
For most of Vincent Louis Carrella’s Serpent Box, I felt stuck in an “It’s not you, it’s me” mood; recognizing that though there was much to enjoy—the author’s tactile understanding of words (a style best savored slow) and some great action sequences—I kept finding reasons to not go back, but the ending plummeted an average read I simply couldn’t get into down into a lackluster novel I wouldn’t want anyone else getting into either.
The novel centers in on preacher Charles Flint, his deformed son, Jacob, and their unorthodox brand of Christianity that uses handling snakes and drinking poisons as a way to spread their faith in Depression-era Tennessee. Whether or not Serpent Box is a Christian novel is debatable (and for more reasons than never being able to please all Christians at the same time). It’s not simply using Scripture or Christian symbolism. It doesn’t even need to paint Christians favorably (the Bible sure doesn’t), but Christ—not God/gods in general—needs to be the focus if that’s the label that the author is going to place on his work (which Carrella has). Many of the characters feel content to quote obscure Scripture in an attempt to perform miracles, yet the Scripture that would keep them from sinning—you know, the less glamorous “Thou shalt not” stuff—is not included and there’s no conviction of sin in a way that leads to the redemptive path. For me, that settles the debate. I know this could seem like nothing more than checking the box one way or the other, but it’s Carrella’s failed attempt to focus on this very path that sends the novel to the wrong destination.
I place a premium on endings, that final place where there are no more words to shape the reader’s opinion. The power of an ending is enough to sway my enjoyment heavily one way or the other and Serpent Box’s attempt to pay homage with an ending it hasn’t earned widely misses the mark, bending Christian symbolism into the story in a way that simply doesn’t make sense. It’s enough to unravel the whole novel; it’s enough for me to place the blame on the book squarely where it belongs. One star.
The novel centers in on preacher Charles Flint, his deformed son, Jacob, and their unorthodox brand of Christianity that uses handling snakes and drinking poisons as a way to spread their faith in Depression-era Tennessee. Whether or not Serpent Box is a Christian novel is debatable (and for more reasons than never being able to please all Christians at the same time). It’s not simply using Scripture or Christian symbolism. It doesn’t even need to paint Christians favorably (the Bible sure doesn’t), but Christ—not God/gods in general—needs to be the focus if that’s the label that the author is going to place on his work (which Carrella has). Many of the characters feel content to quote obscure Scripture in an attempt to perform miracles, yet the Scripture that would keep them from sinning—you know, the less glamorous “Thou shalt not” stuff—is not included and there’s no conviction of sin in a way that leads to the redemptive path. For me, that settles the debate. I know this could seem like nothing more than checking the box one way or the other, but it’s Carrella’s failed attempt to focus on this very path that sends the novel to the wrong destination.
I place a premium on endings, that final place where there are no more words to shape the reader’s opinion. The power of an ending is enough to sway my enjoyment heavily one way or the other and Serpent Box’s attempt to pay homage with an ending it hasn’t earned widely misses the mark, bending Christian symbolism into the story in a way that simply doesn’t make sense. It’s enough to unravel the whole novel; it’s enough for me to place the blame on the book squarely where it belongs. One star.
October 12, 2009
damn, this wants to be Finn A Novel.
the tone is a solid effort, though it heads more towards "repetitive" than the hoped-for elegiac. the real problem I have is with the individual characters' voices. they spend a lot of time using words they have no way of knowing, and it pulls me out of the story something awful. the details shift, as well -- a room towards the end of the novel is too tall for characters to stand straight up, but not too tall for a hanging?
would have benefited from a heavier-handed editing.
the tone is a solid effort, though it heads more towards "repetitive" than the hoped-for elegiac. the real problem I have is with the individual characters' voices. they spend a lot of time using words they have no way of knowing, and it pulls me out of the story something awful. the details shift, as well -- a room towards the end of the novel is too tall for characters to stand straight up, but not too tall for a hanging?
would have benefited from a heavier-handed editing.
August 24, 2012
This is a really good book. I definitely recommend it. It drew me in from the first chapter. The only problem is that I think the story goes a little too long. Carrella introduces new characters very late in the book, too late to really develop those characters and their stories. I think he could have finalized the stories of the original characters in a more compelling way than by introducing new ones.
November 11, 2008
This is the first novel Mr. Carrella has written. His words read more like poetry and his character development is wonderful. The story takes place in Tennessee just after WWII and involves a branch of pentecostals who literally take the bible at its word. "And they shall take up serpents..."from the book of Mark. Some parts were a little long, but as I neared the end it just went too quickly.
November 13, 2010
I'm watching a documentary on Appalachia and remembered this book. It's descriptions were so haunting. I remember this knarled tree where a man (I forget how he was related to the main character) was swaying by the neck and a big snake in a box. I remember the fervor and the sadness. It was a while ago, but I just had to know the name, so I looked it up and here we are.
April 21, 2008
i really enjoyed this book. i loved the author's style and i loved his description of spirituality. snake handling is not your run of the mill spiritual practice, so i wouldn't be surprised to find out some people aren't able to get past that aspect of it.
August 8, 2008
I didn't think I was going to like this book when I first started reading it, but then I got sucked into it. I really liked the author's writing style and way with words. It all seemed somehow mystical and otherworldly.
August 4, 2008
Nice writing style, but a little too flowery sometimes. The story about the snake handling is fascinating. Some of the other events left me wondering why. I think there were many levels of alusion that I didn't spend the time to figure out.
April 21, 2011
I have wonderful things to share about this book and will do that when I am done reading it.
In advance of that, and based on reading half of the novel, I highly recommend it.
I will complete my review soon. Thank you.
In advance of that, and based on reading half of the novel, I highly recommend it.
I will complete my review soon. Thank you.
Currently reading
April 6, 2008Was told to read this from a writer friend, Craig Clevegner, author of two very good books. He says SERPENT BOX floored him, left him speechless, all that. He's right so far...
October 17, 2013
Faith, fear, love and redemption.
May 23, 2015
It's just one of the best books I've ever read. So beautiful. So poetic. I love the characters. Just amazing.
June 25, 2008
Interesting, well researched novel. I was hooked on the book.
Displaying 1 - 19 of 19 reviews