“The wonder is that you could start life with nothing, end with nothing, and lose so much in between…”
- Barbara Kingsolver, Demon Copperhead
Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead is my favorite type of novel. Big and messy and sprawling; funny and tense and sad; and written by an author whose talents are awe-inspiring.
This is an ambitious work, replete with striking tonal shifts, a memorable cast of secondary characters, and powerful set pieces. It has an old-fashioned feel, a bildungsroman that begins with the birth of its main character – Damon Fields, whose nickname gives the book its title – and follows him throughout a tumultuous journey into a premature adulthood. It is wildly imperfect, but its imperfections suit a larger purpose, mirroring the life it is trying to capture.
As long as Demon Copperhead is – and at 560 pages, it’s pretty long – when you get to the last page, you want to keep on going. Kingsolver has created a very particular world, inhabited it with people you can’t forget, and coerced from me an emotional investment that I’m not often willing to make in fiction.
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The first – and most obvious – thing to be said about Demon Copperhead is that it is a retelling of Charles Dickens’s David Copperfield, transplanted from nineteenth century England to rural Virginia during the ravages of the Purdue Pharma-sponsored opioid epidemic.
It is not necessary to have read Dickens’s ponderous classic – I’ll admit, I’m only halfway through, and taking a lengthy break – and in some ways, it’s probably better that you have not. In particular, those who’ve read the original will have a very good idea about the direction Kingsolver is going, and some of the twists and turns are the same as they were over 170 years ago.
On the other hand, those who are familiar with the Dickens version will have a good time matching the characters and the plot-points. Dickens’s Uriah Heep, for example, is marvelously transformed by Kingsolver into a creepy assistant football coach.
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Like David Copperfield, Demon Copperhead is an episodic novel, told in the first-person by our hero, a scrappy and resilient youngster for whom the past is as mysterious as the future. He is born poor in the Appalachian Mountains, to a teenage mother with substance abuse issues. Demon’s lengthy arc consists of his attempts to navigate the minefields of poverty, child protective services, drug use, foreshortened opportunities, and – of course – love.
To say much more would be to say too much. It should suffice that Kingsolver does a fantastic job of utilizing a modified serial approach, so that the forward momentum of Demon Copperhead is always urging you to read just one more page.
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One of Dickens’s shortcomings – at least in my opinion – is the essential blandness of his main protagonists. It often felt like the chief focus fell on the least interesting person in his books.
That is not a problem here.
Demon is a fascinating creation, and holds the center from first to last. He narrates his tale in a low-key idiom that is stylized without being inaccessible. I don’t know whether Kingsolver was trying to achieve an authentic colloquial expression, and – if she was – I’m in no position to say whether she was successful. The important thing, for me, is that Demon maintained a consistent and engaging voice.
From the start, we are rooting for Demon to succeed. To Kingsolver’s credit, though, she allows him to be flawed. There are moments when he is unlikeable, selfish, self-involved, and borderline awful. Allowing him these dimensions gives him a far deeper humanity than might otherwise have been achieved.
That said, Kingsolver often runs into two different literary traps that I have wholly invented. The first I like to call the Idiot-Genius Paradox, wherein a character is high-functioning, intelligent, and capable, right up to the point where the storyline requires him or her to do something stupid. There is a corollary to this trap for children – let’s call it the Selectively Precocious Child Conundrum – when an author chooses to narrate a story through a youngster whose behavior and actions have only a tenuous relation to their developmental age.
This is a long way of saying that one of the conceits you have to swallow is that Demon – especially early in the novel – would be able to reason and express himself at such an extraordinarily high level, given his supposed minority. And also that these preternatural talents will randomly disappear for drama’s sake.
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The constellation of people around Demon is head-spinning. When we think of Dickens – if we think of Dickens, that is – we tend to recall his unforgettable supporting casts. At least, that’s been my experience.
In Demon Copperhead, Kingsolver carries on that tradition admirably. Almost everyone who walks across Demon’s path makes an impression. Just a short list includes his mother, struggling with her addictions; an abusive stepfather who mistakes his cruelty for teaching; a child support worker with one eye on the door; an exploitative foster father trying to keep his farm afloat; a hilarious man-hating old woman; and a football coach willing to cut a few corners to achieve the status of local legend.
This doesn’t even include Demon’s love interests, or Sterling “Fast Forward” Ford, who is so deftly, frighteningly drawn that I am certain that whoever plays him in the movie will earn an Oscar.
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Carrying on the Dickensian tradition of social criticism, Kingsolver becomes the latest author to attempt an explanation for the failures of the rural white working class. She does this with varying levels of success.
At its best, Demon Copperhead paints a vivid picture of an overstressed child support division, schools that care more about athletics than academics, and people who can’t see a way forward. Especially effective is the interweaving of oxycontin into the storylines. It begins as a background presence, then explodes into the open, revealing a hellscape of pill farms and profit-mad drug reps working through profit-mad doctors, both in service to a rapacious corporation, leaving behind hollowed-out users cycling through withdrawal, if they’re lucky enough to survive.
Unfortunately, there are times when Demon Copperhead slips into half-conceived lectures implying that rural folk are stuck because the rest of the country is being mean to them. This is less than convincing, but maybe I’m a bit fatigued from this dialogue, which has been racing in circles since 2016.
In short, I’m over trying to understand people who don’t seem that interested in understanding me.
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For all their detail, Dickens’s novels always felt a tad sanitized. His slums, while slummy, were basically false, shorn of cursing, sex, violence, and excretory filth.
Demon Copperhead has all those missing elements, many times over.
So, be aware of that.
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When I finish a book, I never have the chance to write about it immediately. Days – even weeks – can elapse before I try to put my thoughts into complete sentences that are at least adjacent to grammatical soundness.
This interim is often a good indicator of my true feelings for a book. It gives me a period to decide if my initial response – possibly skewed by the adrenal rush of finishing – holds up to reflection.
When I finished Demon Copperhead, it had me breathless. That sensation remains.
There are moments, weeks later, when I find myself thinking about all the different people I met, and wondering where they went, how they’re doing, and if they’re going to be okay. I’ve even found myself staring at the finished book on my shelf, pondering whether I should open it again, just to check on everyone one last time.