Olivia's take: In her novel, Demon Copperhead, Barbara Kingsolver gives body and voice to the vast swath of the rural population of the United States who have been afflicted by the opioid crisis. The story follows Damon "Demon" from birth into young adulthood, focusing largely on his teen years. This form of coming-of-age story gives a glimmer of familiarity to an otherwise (to me) entirely unrelatable life story. Demon is raised in rural Appalachia by a single mother who struggles with substance abuse and quickly finds himself adrift in a world where nearly everyone is struggling to keep their head above water. The community bonds that could've acted as a net to support this young boy have frayed under the weight of addictive substances. Throughout the story, we see how the monetary incentive to institutionalize pharmaceutical dependency is validated by the self-perpetuating nature of a capitalist healthcare system. As it becomes increasingly hard for people to maintain their connections, a divided and dependent community is produced, diagnosed, and easily taken advantage of. However, Demon Copperhead equally shows that that state of humanity is unnatural. Manufactured destruction and isolation are consistently challenged by the resilience and kindness of human beings. This is embodied in the care and responsibility that Demon, even under the most crushing circumstances, shows to those around him.

Bapu's take: Barbara Kingsolver's capacity for empathy is astonishing. I don't know what it feels like to be a poor white child bouncing around foster homes in late 20th century Appalachia, opioid-ravaged bodies falling like leaves all around. But I do know what it's like to be a boy unsure of one's worth, desperately seeking love from people who are too scared and hurt to notice. And Kingsolver gets pretty damn close to all that. America needed Demon Copperhead. No work of art could adequately avenge the greed-fueled killing sprees of Purdue Pharma and associated capitalist absurdities, and who knows if the book will help prevent, even marginally, similar injustices in the future. But it chronicles the hell endured by a generation, as well as the caring and endurance that get survivors through. This is not a perfect book. The almost apologetic call-out to David Copperfield is unnecessary—the story of every child that suffers like this is unique and should be told, and anyway the opioid crisis is a very particular chapter of human history—and some key characters, especially Dori, could have been more deeply developed. But perfection is not as important as honesty, heart-in-my-pen damn-the-torpedoes honesty, which in the end is what elevates the practice of both art and love.

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