Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver
I find writing about books that I have fallen in love with harder than writing about anything else. Perhaps because I fear that I won’t do them justice; perhaps because I feel a little the way Pippi Longstocking did when given a single sheet of paper on which to draw her horse. These books are simply too big for the designated space.
In this particular case, a thousand words or so, a single Substack post to discuss Barbara Kingsolver’s prize-winning genius and talent on display in Demon Copperhead is inadequate. Her novel manages to capture all the nuances of life, all its pain and all its beauty, its apple trees and bird song, its wrath and its gutters, the times when the angels are cartwheeling in heaven and those when devils are up to no good.
Demon Copperhead is a spin on Charles Dickens’s classic David Copperfield; Kingsolver’s word play begins with the title and continues with the names of her characters. David becomes Damon (later nicknamed “Demon” and “Copperhead” because of his red hair), Agnes is Angus, Steerforth is Sterling Ford or more directly still, his moniker: Fast Forward.
The plot follows the story of Demon, who with a dead father, an alcoholic mother in recovery, and a step-father who beats him up, is sent to foster care. From then he’s confronted with even more of life’s cold insouciance—from being exploited on a tobacco farm and forced to work on a trash dump (that is also a meth lab), to being so starved by his foster parents that he draws pictures of food at night, to sleeping in a dog room. The novel takes on some of Dickens’s themes around wealth and class, with the addition of the opioid crisis, addiction, abuse, and Appalachian history. Riff with wisecracks from Demon and woven in a gripping plot, just like the best of teachers, Kingsolver engages us with these subjects effortlessly, even enjoyably.
What truly sets the book apart as a masterpiece, to me, is the dynamic first-person narration offered in the voice of Demon’s likeable and human character. It feels as though the boy is just talking to you, pouring it all out in one long stream of consciousness. His voice is witty and emphatic, angry and cynical, resigned, yet yearning. But mostly cool. He’s the boy you wish all boys were. You want to get to know him and by the end, care for him as if you do.
There are many tools that Kingsolver uses to land the beats of Demon’s distinguishable voice. I say “beats” because it really does feel as though his voice has a rhythmic formula to it. The sentences break down into short one and two-word punches. The full stops following a “so,” a “whatever,” or a “damn” add weight. Italicized words add emphasis.
Demon often says “thing” and “like”; words like “bonehead” and “shuthole” and “batshit” are not off limits for him. And yet, colloquialisms and slang add to the realness of his voice (and his character). The vulgarity is not jarring; instead, it’s a reminder for the reader about how vulgar life has been with him. In places, Demon’s informal speech makes him even more charming. For example, when explaining why he doesn’t mind church: “I liked looking at the singing women, and the rest you could sleep through. Plus that thing of being loved automatically, Jesus on your side. Not a faucet turned on or off, like with people.”
The simplicity of Demon’s language makes his frequent, profound observations feel unpretentious, digestible, and more believably his: from mundane aphorisms— “people buying apples and green beans usually have some degree of joy in their hearts” —to deeper ones. The road to ruin starts with some choice you made, he muses, “or was made for you. By the bullies that curdled your heart’s milk and honey, or the ones that went before and curdled theirs.”
Demon’s discerning eyes for the world come from having spun his childhood pain and hardship into wisdom and resilience, from having turned his own heart’s curdled milk and honey into milk and honey again. It’s the ultimate show of character that keeps us rooting for him to the end.
Kingsolver writes metaphors and similes for Demon which spark sympathy, make us laugh, and illuminate his likeable character even more. When he visits his post-rehab mom in their home, the service worker says “Sorry, time’s up,” which he equates some years down the line with girls saying “Pull out now, quick!” He compares his first experience of intimacy and connection to not being hungry. School without football is like “a church with no Jesus;” aunts in the kitchen are standing close like “cigarettes in the pack” and “uncles splayed on furniture like butts in the ashtray.” His first sweetheart’s laughter is like “a glove box popping open and candy spilling out.”
As an artist, Demon depicts the world in his comics. But for us readers, who can’t see what he draws, he animates the world with zesty words and lively metaphors until our own imaginations feel shaken like a piggy bank. We fall in love with his descriptions, but mostly with this boy who has been through so much and shown that “a person can get used to everything except hanging by the neck.” And yet, there is his heart still cracked open, his brain full of juice and vivid images.
Even though this novel achieves no less than to make us feel the night sweats of addiction, the stomach contractions of hunger, the gravel-bag heaviness of grief, the heartache of being wanted by nobody and nowhere, the devastation of having your dreams turn to dust with the snap of a kneecap, it is ultimately life-affirming. It breaks you down, only to build you right back up again. Again, in Demon’s own perceptive words: “Yes, life sucks, hungry nights and hurtful people, but compared to buried in a box, floating in a universe of nothing and never? I wouldn’t trade. I watched a pinwheel of green fire swirl up over the treetops throwing white sparks. My dad, mom, and little brother were missing out on a lot of amazing shit.” And so is everyone who hasn’t yet read Demon Copperhead.