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Where the Crawdads Sing by [Delia Owens]

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Delia Owens

Where the Crawdads Sing Kindle Edition

by Delia Owens (Author) Format: Kindle Edition

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OVER 12 MILLION COPIES SOLD WORLDWIDE
SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE
A NUMBER ONE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER

'Painfully beautiful' New York Times
'Unforgettable . . . as engrossing as it is moving' Daily Mail
'A rare achievement' The Times
'I can't even express how much I love this book!' Reese Witherspoon

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For years, rumours of the 'Marsh Girl' have haunted Barkley Cove, a quiet town on the North Carolina coast. So in late 1969, when handsome Chase Andrews is found dead, the locals immediately suspect Kya Clark, the so-called Marsh Girl. But Kya is not what they say. Sensitive and intelligent, she has survived for years alone in the marsh that she calls home, finding friends in the gulls and lessons in the sand. Then the time comes when she yearns to be touched and loved. When two young men from town become intrigued by her wild beauty, Kya opens herself to a new life - until the unthinkable happens.

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'[It] will reach a huge audience though the writer's old-fashioned talents for compelling character, plotting and landscape description'Guardian
'For sheer escapism pick up Where the Crawdads Sing . . . there is writing that takes your breath away' The Times
'All is not as it seems in this heartbreaking coming-of-age bestseller'i newspaper

Print length

379 pages
Language

English
Publisher

Corsair
Publication date

8 Nov. 2018
File size

5657 KB
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Amazon.co.uk Review

An important and timely book told with great sympathy, honesty and an original approach. His family is always present, in the background, but he does not shy away from criticism and asking big questions which many in this country must try and answer -- ANNE SEBBA

Gripping . . . Novelistic in its narrative energy, its jeopardy and its tensions, WHITE DEBT is a rich story so well told

-- ALLAN LITTLE

Honest, compelling and certainly timely, WHITE DEBT lays bare the nature of a crime against an entire race of people, for which there was no punishment. As Thomas Harding has done, all readers should consider; what is my part in the wider story of the British slave trade and how do I make amends where necessary?

-- ELSIE HARRY, African-Guyanese Activist & Poet

Review

"A lush debut novel, Owens delivers her mystery wrapped in gorgeous, lyrical prose. It's clear she's from this place--the land of the southern coasts, but also the emotional terrain--you can feel it in the pages. A magnificent achievement, ambitious, credible and very timely." --Alexandra Fuller, New York Times bestselling author of Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

About the Author

Delia Owens is the co-author of three internationally bestselling nonfiction books about her life as a wildlife scientist in Africa--Cry of the Kalahari, The Eye of the Elephant, and Secrets of the Savanna. She has won the John Burroughs Award for Nature Writing and has been published in Nature, The African Journal of Ecology, and International Wildlife, among many others. She currently lives in Idaho, where she continues her support for the people and wildlife of Zambia. Where the Crawdads Sing is her first novel. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

From the Back Cover

For years, rumors of the "Marsh Girl" have haunted Barkley Cove, a quiet town on the North Carolina coast. So in late 1969, when handsome Chase Andrews is found dead, the locals immediately suspect Kya Clark, the so-called Marsh Girl. But Kya is not what they say. Sensitive and intelligent, she has survived for years alone in the marsh that she calls home, finding friends in the gulls and lessons in the sand. Then the time comes when she yearns to be touched and loved. When two young men from town become intrigued by her wild beauty, Kya opens herself to a new life - until the unthinkable happens.

Perfect for fans of Barbara Kingsolver and Celeste Ng, Where the Crawdads Sing is at once an exquisite ode to the natural world, a heartbreaking coming-of-age story, and a surprising tale of possible murder. Owens reminds us that we are forever shaped by the children we once were, and that we are all subject to the beautiful and violent secrets that nature keeps. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

1. Ma 1952 The morning burned so August-hot, the marsh's moist breath hung the oaks and pines with fog. The palmetto patches stood unusually quiet except for the low, slow flap of the heron's wings lifting from the lagoon. And then, Kya, only six at the time, heard the screen door slap. Standing on the stool, she stopped scrubbing grits from the pot and lowered it into the basin of worn-out suds. No sounds now but her own breathing. Who had left the shack? Not Ma. She never let the door slam. But when Kya ran to the porch, she saw her mother in a long brown skirt, kick pleats nipping at her ankles, as she walked down the sandy lane in high heels. The stubby-nosed shoes were fake alligator skin. Her only going-out pair. Kya wanted to holler out but knew not to rouse Pa, so opened the door and stood on the brick-'n'-board steps. From there she saw the blue train case Ma carried. Usually, with the confidence of a pup, Kya knew her mother would return with meat wrapped in greasy brown paper or with a chicken, head dangling down. But she never wore the gator heels, never took a case. Ma always looked back where the foot lane met the road, one arm held high, white palm waving, as she turned onto the track, which wove through bog forests, cattail lagoons, and maybe-if the tide obliged-eventually into town. But today she walked on, unsteady in the ruts. Her tall figure emerged now and then through the holes of the forest until only swatches of white scarf flashed between the leaves. Kya sprinted to the spot she knew would bare the road; surely Ma would wave from there, but she arrived only in time to glimpse the blue case-the color so wrong for the woods-as it disappeared. A heaviness, thick as black-cotton mud, pushed her chest as she returned to the steps to wait. Kya was the youngest of five, the others much older, though later she couldn't recall their ages. They lived with Ma and Pa, squeezed together like penned rabbits, in the rough-cut shack, its screened porch staring big-eyed from under the oaks. Jodie, the brother closest to Kya, but still seven years older, stepped from the house and stood behind her. He had her same dark eyes and black hair; had taught her birdsongs, star names, how to steer the boat through saw grass. "Ma'll be back," he said. "I dunno. She's wearin' her gator shoes." "A ma don't leave her kids. It ain't in 'em." "You told me that fox left her babies." "Yeah, but that vixen got 'er leg all tore up. She'd've starved to death if she'd tried to feed herself 'n' her kits. She was better off to leave 'em, heal herself up, then whelp more when she could raise 'em good. Ma ain't starvin', she'll be back." Jodie wasn't nearly as sure as he sounded, but said it for Kya. Her throat tight, she whispered, "But Ma's carryin' that blue case like she's goin' somewheres big." The shack sat back from the palmettos, which sprawled across sand flats to a necklace of green lagoons and, in the distance, all the marsh beyond. Miles of blade-grass so tough it grew in salt water, interrupted only by trees so bent they wore the shape of the wind. Oak forests bunched around the other sides of the shack and sheltered the closest lagoon, its surface so rich in life it churned. Salt air and gull-song drifted through the trees from the sea. Claiming territory hadn't changed much since the 1500s. The scattered marsh holdings weren't legally described, just staked out natural-a creek boundary here, a dead oak there-by renegades. A man doesn't set up a palmetto lean-to in a bog unless he's on the run from somebody or at the end of his own road. The marsh was guarded by a torn shoreline, labeled by early explorers as the "Graveyard of the Atlantic" because riptides, furious winds, and shallow shoals wrecked ships like paper hats along what would become the North Carolina coast. One seaman's journal read, "rang'd along the Shoar . . . but could discern no Entrance . . . A violent Storm overtook us . . . we were forced to get off to Sea, to secure Ourselves and Ship, and were driven by the Rapidity of a strong Current . . . "The Land . . . being marshy and Swamps, we return'd towards our Ship . . . Discouragement of all such as should hereafter come into those Parts to settle." Those looking for serious land moved on, and this infamous marsh became a net, scooping up a mishmash of mutinous sailors, castaways, debtors, and fugitives dodging wars, taxes, or laws that they didn't take to. The ones malaria didn't kill or the swamp didn't swallow bred into a woodsmen tribe of several races and multiple cultures, each of whom could fell a small forest with a hatchet and pack a buck for miles. Like river rats, each had his own territory, yet had to fit into the fringe or simply disappear some day in the swamp. Two hundred years later, they were joined by runaway slaves, who escaped into the marsh and were called maroons, and freed slaves, penniless and beleaguered, who dispersed into the water-land because of scant options. Maybe it was mean country, but not an inch was lean. Layers of life-squiggly sand crabs, mud-waddling crayfish, waterfowl, fish, shrimp, oysters, fatted deer, and plump geese-were piled on the land or in the water. A man who didn't mind scrabbling for supper would never starve. It was now 1952, so some of the claims had been held by a string of disconnected, unrecorded persons for four centuries. Most before the Civil War. Others squatted on the land more recently, especially after the World Wars, when men came back broke and broke-up. The marsh did not confine them but defined them and, like any sacred ground, kept their secrets deep. No one cared that they held the land because nobody else wanted it. After all, it was wasteland bog. Just like their whiskey, the marsh dwellers bootlegged their own laws-not like those burned onto stone tablets or inscribed on documents, but deeper ones, stamped in their genes. Ancient and natural, like those hatched from hawks and doves. When cornered, desperate, or isolated, man reverts to those instincts that aim straight at survival. Quick and just. They will always be the trump cards because they are passed on more frequently from one generation to the next than the gentler genes. It is not a morality, but simple math. Among themselves, doves fight as often as hawks. Ma didnÕt come back that day. No one spoke of it. Least of all Pa. Stinking of fish and drum likker, he clanked pot lids. ÒWharÕs supper?Ó Eyes downcast, the brothers and sisters shrugged. Pa dog-cussed, then limp-stepped out, back into the woods. There had been fights before; Ma had even left a time or two, but she always came back, scooping up whoever would be cuddled. The two older sisters cooked a supper of red beans and cornbread, but no one sat to eat at the table, as they would have with Ma. Each dipped beans from the pot, flopped cornbread on top, and wandered off to eat on their floor mattresses or the faded sofa. Kya couldn't eat. She sat on the porch steps, looking down the lane. Tall for her age, bone skinny, she had deep-tanned skin and straight hair, black and thick as crow wings. Darkness put a stop to her lookout. Croaking frogs would drown the sounds of footsteps; even so, she lay on her porch bed, listening. Just that morning she'd awakened to fatback crackling in the iron skillet and whiffs of biscuits browning in the wood oven. Pulling up her bib overalls, she'd rushed into the kitchen to put the plates and forks out. Pick the weevils from the grits. Most dawns, smiling wide, Ma hugged her-"Good morning, my special girl"-and the two of them moved about the chores, dancelike. Sometimes Ma sang folk songs or quoted nursery rhymes: "This little piggy went to market." Or she'd swing Kya into a jitterbug, their feet banging the plywood floor until the music of the battery-operated radio died, sounding as if it were singing to itself at the bottom of a barrel. Other mornings Ma spoke about adult things Kya didn't understand, but she figured Ma's words needed somewhere to go, so she absorbed them through her skin, as she poked more wood in the cookstove. Nodding like she knew. Then, the hustle of getting everybody up and fed. Pa not there. He had two settings: silence and shouting. So it was just fine when he slept through, or didn't come home at all. But this morning, Ma had been quiet; her smile lost, her eyes red. She'd tied a white scarf pirate style, low across her forehead, but the purple and yellow edges of a bruise spilled out. Right after breakfast, even before the dishes were washed, Ma had put a few personals in the train case and walked down the road. The next morning,Kya took up her post again on the steps, her dark eyes boring down the lane like a tunnel waiting for a train. The marsh beyond was veiled in fog so low its cushy bottom sat right on the mud. Barefoot, Kya drummed her toes, twirled grass stems at doodlebugs, but a six-year-old canÕt sit long and soon she moseyed onto the tidal flats, sucking sounds pulling at her toes. Squatting at the edge of the clear water, she watched minnows dart between sunspots and shadows. Jodie hollered to her from the palmettos. She stared; maybe he was coming with news. But as he wove through the spiky fronds, she knew by the way he moved, casual, that Ma wasn't home. "Ya wanta play explorers?" he asked. "Ya said ya're too old to play 'splorers." "Nah, I just said that. Never too old. Race ya!" They tore across the flats, then through the woods toward the beach. She squealed as he overtook her and laughed until they reached the large oak that jutted enormous arms over the sand. Jodie and their older brother, Murph, had hammered a few boards across the branches as a lookout tower and tree fort. Now, much of it was falling in, dangling from rusty nails. Usually if she was allowed to crew at all it was as slave girl, bringing her brothers warm biscuits swiped from Ma's pan. But today Jodie said, "You can be captain." Kya raised her right arm in a charge. "Run off the Spaniards!" They broke off stick-swords and crashed through brambles, shouting and stabbing at the enemy. Then-make-believe coming and going easily-she walked to a mossy log and sat. Silently, he joined her. He wanted to say something to get her mind off Ma, but no words came, so they watched the swimming shadows of water striders. Kya returned to the porch steps later and waited for a long time, but, as she looked to the end of the lane, she never cried. Her face was still, her lips a simple thin line under searching eyes. But Ma didn't come back that day either. 2. Jodie 1952 After Ma left, over the next few weeks, Kya's oldest brother and two sisters drifted away too, as if by example. They had endured Pa's red-faced rages, which started as shouts, then escalated into fist-slugs, or backhanded punches, until one by one, they disappeared. They were nearly grown anyway. And later, just as she forgot their ages, she couldn't remember their real names, only that they were called Missy, Murph, and Mandy. On her porch mattress, Kya found a small pile of socks left by her sisters. On the morning when Jodie was the only sibling left, Kya awakened to the clatter-clank and hot grease of breakfast. She dashed into the kitchen, thinking Ma was home frying corn fritters or hoecakes. But it was Jodie, standing at the woodstove, stirring grits. She smiled to hide the letdown, and he patted the top of her head, gently shushing her to be quiet: if they didn't wake Pa, they could eat alone. Jodie didn't know how to make biscuits, and there wasn't any bacon, so he cooked grits and scrambled eggs in lard, and they sat down together, silently exchanging glances and smiles. They washed their dishes fast, then ran out the door toward the marsh, he in the lead. But just then Pa shouted and hobbled toward them. Impossibly lean, his frame seemed to flop about from poor gravity. His molars yellow as an old dog's teeth. Kya looked up at Jodie. "We can run. Hide in the mossy place." "It's okay. It'll be okay," he said. Later, near sunset, Jodie found Kya on the beach staring at the sea. As he stepped up beside her, she didnÕt look at him but kept her eyes on the roiling waves. Still, she knew by the way he spoke that Pa had slugged his face. "I hafta go, Kya. Can't live here no longer." She almost turned to him, but didn't. Wanted to beg him not to leave her alone with Pa, but the words jammed up. "When you're old enough you'll understand," he said. Kya wanted to holler out that she may be young, but she wasn't stupid. She knew Pa was the reason they all left; what she wondered was why no one took her with them. She'd thought of leaving too, but had nowhere to go and no bus money. "Kya, ya be careful, hear. If anybody comes, don't go in the house. They can get ya there. Run deep in the marsh, hide in the bushes. Always cover yo' tracks; I learned ya how. And ya can hide from Pa, too." When she still didn't speak, he said good-bye and strode across the beach to the woods. Just before he stepped into the trees, she finally turned and watched him walk away. "This little piggy stayed home," she said to the waves. Breaking her freeze, she ran to the shack. Shouted his name down the hall, but Jodie's things were already gone, his floor bed stripped bare. She sank onto his mattress, watching the last of that day slide down the wall. Light lingered after the sun, as it does, some of it pooling in the room, so that for a brief moment the lumpy beds and piles of old clothes took on more shape and color than the trees outside. A gnawing hunger-such a mundane thing-surprised her. She walked to the kitchen and stood at the door. All her life the room had been warmed from baking bread, boiling butter beans, or bubbling fish stew. Now, it was stale, quiet, and dark. "Who's gonna cook?" she asked out loud. Could have asked, Who's gonna dance? --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Book Description

Perfect for fans of Barbara Kingsolver and Celeste Ng, Where the Crawdads Sing is at once an exquisite ode to the natural world, a heartbreaking coming-of-age story, and a surprising tale of possible murder. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Product details

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B07JZH997Q
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Corsair; 1st edition (8 Nov. 2018)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
File size ‏ : ‎ 5657 KB
Text-to-Speech ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Screen Reader ‏ : ‎ Supported
Enhanced typesetting ‏ : ‎ Enabled
X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Word Wise ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Print length ‏ : ‎ 379 pages

Best Sellers Rank: 13 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)

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Eliza

Complete claptrap

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 18 July 2019

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This story of a six-year-old child left to fend for herself in a Carolina swamp when her stereotype swamp-trash likker-sluggin' pa finally doesn't come home again (we're not told why - hopefully an alligator ate him), is an exercise in cliches. We are asked to believe that this beautiful (natch), sensitive, artistic blah blah little girl raises herself from barefoot illiteracy to womanhood and published fame as a naturalist, with three self-illustrated books on marshland flora and fauna. She is taught to read and overnight to abandon her swamp patois for highbrow English by, gosh, a boy who falls in love with her, and manages to educate her to university level with some textbooks. Said boy, having achieved this Pygmalion-like transformation, then departs to do his own high-class degree, promising to return to his true love, who hangs around the swamp waiting. But he doesn't return because alas! he realises she is a wild creature, a child of nature who would never fit into civilisation, and so on. So he passes on coming back to claim her and Swamp Girl's heart broken. She has a fling with the baddie of the piece, another walking cliche - handsome, privileged, all the girls want to go to the prom with him - and predictably he breaks her heart by marrying an appropriate girl who wears shoes and pearls. Really at this point I was ready to give up on the novel, but there is a murder involved and I wanted to find out whodunnit. The murder itself is just a device and fails hopelessly. The trial is ludicrous, the murder allegations are based on evidence that no prosecuting counsel, fictional or otherwise, would have even remotely considered sound, and the attempts to build suspense during the jury's deliberations are just plain silly.

If this flimsy and wholly ridiculous plot line were in any way to be redeemed, it might have been through quality of writing because of the interesting environment of the swamp and its wildlife, but even in this the novel fails. The only passable passages are indeed the ones in which Ms Owens describes the swamp life. The dialogue is ridiculous, the love scenes are stitched together out of worn-out cliches, and the suspension of disbelief required of the reader is just asking way too much.

I have no doubt that Delia Owens is an excellent naturalist and ecologist and an asset to her field. But as a novelist, she doesn't cut it. Don't waste your money on this book.

1,700 people found this helpful

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countrygirl

Total claptrap

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 13 April 2020

Verified Purchase

What a ridiculous book The only redeeming feature was the descriptions of the marshlands - all the rest was unreadable rubbish. Absurd plot, dreadful dialogue, terrible sex scenes - absolutely nothing to recommend this over-acclaimed novel. The notion of an illiterate marsh girl self-educating to the level of an academic research scientist beggars belief. Then the appalling poetry! I wish I had given it up long before I struggled to finish it. I couldn’t be bothered in the end - and I hate to abandon a novel.

586 people found this helpful

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chocolateg

Huge disappointment.

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 4 February 2019

Verified Purchase

After all the rave reviews I was expecting something exceptional but was completely underwhelmed. I felt the the characters were underdeveloped and the plot rushed and implausible. Wish I’d saved my money and waited until i could pick up a cheaper secondhand copy.

443 people found this helpful

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Viking

Pathetic Verse and Worse

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 24 January 2020

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“Where the Crawdads Sing” has an enticing title. Unfortunately, it’s the best thing about the book. The natural science - of which there is too much - may be accurate; I cannot tell. The rest of the book is bad beyond belief. The plot is rickety; the characters are barely one-dimensional; the prose is sugary and sickening. As for the dialogue...most “sound” like cartoon characters. The nadir, though, are the truly dire poems, dropped haphazardly into the text. How this waste of space came to be published escapes me totally. Perhaps one can fool most of the people all the time. This is said to be the author’s first novel. On the evidence of this trash, she would be well advised not to think about a second.

274 people found this helpful

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stoaty1

Utter bilge

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 29 March 2020

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A tale of a poor, uneducated yet strangely beautiful girl who grows up alone in a swamp while writing poetry and studying quantum physics.

260 people found this helpful

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Amazon Customer

Stunning masterpiece of literature!

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 29 March 2019

Verified Purchase

This genuinely a novel that I could not put down for a number of reasons. The author’s unsurpassed knowledge and understanding of ‘nature’ and the natural world is more than matched by her beautiful descriptive poetic prose. Her keen and insightful observations on our society, on relationships,love, prejudice, racism and sexism are intermingled with a fast paced and gripping story which takes us on an emotional journey that, although set in the 30’s through to the 70’s, is even more relevant today than it was then. In the era of ‘me too’ - we should take heed and learn from this incredible, vivid and at times disturbing reflection on humanity (or inhumanity) as seen through the eyes of nature itself. We have a lot to learn from this book about our natural world and our relationship with it. I place this novel amongst the classics of all time - an easy match for any of the greats - Thomas Hardy, DH Lawrence JD Salinger. Delia Owens is up there with the very best. This book brought me to tears many times and pulled at every emotion you can possible think of. Congratulations on an epic first novel. Thank you for the experience- I will carry it with me for the rest of my life.

287 people found this helpful

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maniacmonkey100

Boring about a girl walking through mud.

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 13 June 2020

Verified Purchase

The blurb of this book suggest an interesting crime thriller with twists and turns along the way. That couldn't be farther from the truth. The book - at least the first 100 pages of it - is just simply a little girl walking through mud. That's it, that's the plot. The dialogue is also horribly written, with the author writing down the pronunciations rather than just the words, essentially making it near impossible to read and understand, which in itself is incredibly frustrating. The murder part does happen, but it's not a big plot point, just randomly placed here and there to act as a break from reading about a girl walking through mud.

As said above, I am currently only 100 pages in and already falling asleep every time I pick it up. I can see that the end of Part 1 is in sight, so I will keep going until then at least, but if nothing changes, I'm afraid I will have to stop reading.

I don't usually quit on a book, but this one is so dull, frustrating to read and waffles on and on and on that I may just have to make an exception.

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Where the Crawdads Sing Kindle Edition

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