Once I read Demon Copperhead, which is both the best book I’ve read this year and a potential new addition to my pantheon of all-time favorites, I was ashamed at how long I’d let it languish on my bookshelf. The blurb didn’t speak to me, and Kingsolver’s message with Demon was just that: this is a story for the children that society dismisses.

A modern retelling of David Copperfield, which I haven’t read, Demon follows Damon (whose friends all call him Demon), a kid from Lee County, Virginia. The town has historic roots in growing tobacco and mining coal, and the decreased demand for both over the past few decades means that unemployment has risen swiftly and had a dramatic impact - the local poverty rate is 26.2% to the 12.6% national average.

Demon’s father is dead and his mother is an alcoholic with an unfortunate penchant for abusive boyfriends, which ultimately leaves Demon in DSS (the Department of Social Services) hands, where he’s tossed from foster family to foster family in heartbreaking fashion. But while the 560+ page tome takes us through Demon’s life, it starts at the end as he attempts to look back and pinpoint “where things went wrong.” To me, this narrative structure was key, because, without the assurance that he ultimately lived through everything he endured - the book may have been too devastating to get through.

The entire story is narrated in the first person by Demon, an impressive feat on Kingsolver’s behalf. Demon is a realist; never overly optimistic (how can he be?) but also very rarely veering into “woe is me” territory, despite the fact that he has every right. It makes certain scenes particularly tough to read; when you read it, and get to the part with his birthday, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

Through Demon, Kingsolver takes on a number of weighty topics with effective gusto: the flaws of the care system; our country’s collective dismissiveness (disdain, even) of rural populations; how succumbing to addiction can often feel like the only way out; and, on that note, the way in which the pharmaceutical industry preys on pain. It’s heart-wrenching, searing, and eloquent - with wisdom packed into every page. I’m hesitant to say more, for fear of spoiling the narrative arc, but I’ll leave you with my favorite passage.

“A ten year-old getting high on pills. Foolish children. This is what we’re meant to say. Look at their choices, leading to a life of ruin. But lives are getting lived right now, this hour, down in the dirty cracks between the toothbrushed nighty-nights and the full grocery carts, where those words don’t pertain. Children, choices. Ruin, that was the labor and materials we were given to work with. An older boy that never knew safety himself, trying to make us feel safe. We had the moon in the window to smile on us for a minute and tell us the world was ours. Because all the adults had gone off somewhere and left everything in our hands.”