The Poisonwood Bible

 

 Usually when I finish a book, particularly a good book, it clings to me like whispers or fading memories as I fall asleep. I'm left with streams of words and disjointed thoughts, praise and criticism. I fall asleep dreaming of the world I’ve just left. With this book, I had an entirely different experience. I was left with a hushed sense of silence. It was an eerie experience; in some ways it was disquieting, but at the same time it was comforting. Life lately has been hectic and this sudden silence, this lack of racing thoughts was something that left me more in awe of this book than anything else could have. There was a calm in the silence. It felt in a way like the humidity before a summer storm: omnipresent if not entirely welcome.

  

 

 

 I sat with the Prince family in Africa for quite awhile after I had finished the Poisonwood Bible. That in itself wasn’t unexpected. There was a lot that went on, a lot that I had to sit with and process, to feel and think through. There’s a great sense of hindsight in Orleanna’s part of the narrative, this thread that runs throughout the book. While reading, I admired how well it bound the story together, teasing the reader with bits of foreshadowing while also grounding the story of this journey in Africa to a sense of something finite, to an ending point, and to a single voice. After finishing the book, turning the last page, and setting the book aside, I marvel at how closely that voice mirrors my experience as a reader- as someone who has in some sense lived through this journey and is now faced with the task of describing it, quantifying it in some way. 

 Much like the moments that Orleanna chooses to highlight, it’s the overarching themes- the big events, and the small surprises- that stick out most in my memory along with her silence. While Orleanna’s thoughts were present throughout the book, they fade away in the latter sections, until only her silence remains. As a character, she is still present, but her narrative, her experiences are told through the voices of the others. It’s as if she sits in silent contemplation of her life, these moments of introspection I had assumed were fleeting now seem less indistinguishable from one another. 

Africa is the reason for her silence as it is for mine, but unlike her I’m beginning to find the words to express my experience post Africa. While my thoughts on the book are far from complete, I know eventually I’ll have something more to say than ‘Wow.’ For right now though, I’ll stick with that and add that green has never been a more ambivalent color than it is now: 

Green 

Jungle green 

Mint green 

Lime green 

Bangala.