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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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NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE—The #1 New York Times bestselling worldwide sensation with more than 18 million copies sold, hailed by The New York Times Book Review as “a painfully beautiful first novel that is at once a murder mystery, a coming-of-age narrative and a celebration of nature.”

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.

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.

Print length

379 pages
Language

English
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G.P. Putnam's Sons
Publication date

August 14, 2018
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5033 KB
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Popular Highlights in this book

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She laughed for his sake, something she’d never done. Giving away another piece of herself just to have someone else.
Highlighted by 23,736 Kindle readers
Faces change with life’s toll, but eyes remain a window to what was, and she could see him there.
Highlighted by 22,141 Kindle readers
Within all the worlds of biology, she searched for an explanation of why a mother would leave her offspring.
Highlighted by 15,350 Kindle readers

From the Publisher

Editorial Reviews

Review

“A painfully beautiful first novel that is at once a murder mystery, a coming-of-age narrative and a celebration of nature....Owens here surveys the desolate marshlands of the North Carolina coast through the eyes of an abandoned child. And in her isolation that child makes us open our own eyes to the secret wonders—and dangers—of her private world.”—The New York Times Book Review

“Steeped in the rhythms and shadows of the coastal marshes of North Carolina’s Outer Banks, this fierce and hauntingly beautiful novel centers on...Kya’s heartbreaking story of learning to trust human connections, intertwine[d] with a gripping murder mystery, revealing savage truths. An astonishing debut.”—People

“This lush mystery is perfect for fans of Barbara Kingsolver.”—Bustle

“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

“Heart-wrenching...A fresh exploration of isolation and nature from a female perspective along with a compelling love story.”—Entertainment Weekly

“This wonderful novel has a bit of everything—mystery, romance, and fascinating characters, all told in a story that takes place in North Carolina.”—Nicholas Sparks, New York Times bestselling author of Every Breath

“Delia Owen’s gorgeous novel is both a coming-of-age tale and an engrossing whodunit.”—Real Simple

“Evocative...Kya makes for an unforgettable heroine.”—Publishers Weekly

“The New Southern novel...A lyrical debut.”—Southern Living

“A nature-infused romance with a killer twist.”—Refinery29

“Anyone who liked The Great Alone will want to read Where the Crawdads Sing....This astonishing debut is a beautiful and haunting novel that packs a powerful punch. It’s the first novel in a long time that made me cry.”—Kristin Hannah, author ofThe Great AloneandThe Nightingale

“Both a coming-of-age story and a mysterious account of a murder investigation told from the perspective of a young girl...Through Kya’s story, Owens explores how isolation affects human behavior, and the deep effect that rejection can have on our lives.”—Vanity Fair

“Lyrical...Its appeal ris[es] from Kya’s deep connection to the place where makes her home, and to all of its creatures.”—Booklist

“This beautiful, evocative novel is likely to stay with you for many days afterward....absorbing.”—AARP

“This haunting tale captivates every bit as much for its crime drama elements as for the humanity at its core.” —Mystery & Suspense Magazine

“Compelling, original...A mystery, a courtroom drama, a romance and a coming-of-age story, Where the Crawdads Sing is a moving, beautiful tale. Readers will remember Kya for a long, long time.”—ShelfAwareness

“With prose luminous as a low-country moon, Owens weaves a compelling tale of a forgotten girl in the unforgiving coastal marshes of North Carolina. It is a murder mystery/love story/courtroom drama that readers will love, but the novel delves so much deeper into the bone and sinew of our very nature, asking often unanswerable questions, old and intractable as the marsh itself. A stunning debut!”—Christopher Scotton, author of The Secret Wisdom of the Earth

“A compelling mystery with prose so luminous it can cut through the murkiest of pluff mud.”—Augusta Chronicle

“Carries the rhythm of an old time ballad. It is clear Owens knows this land intimately, from the black mud sucking at footsteps to the taste of saltwater and the cry of seagulls.”—David Joy, author of The Line That Held Us

Amazon.com Review

An Amazon Best Book of August 2018: Although this is Delia Owens’ first novel, she long ago distinguished herself as a gifted writer. In the mid-80s, Owens co-wrote with her husband Cry of the Kalahari, which was a best-selling, nonfictional account of traveling and researching Africa’s Kalahari Desert. One of the joys of that book was the Owens’ description of the natural world, and Where the Crawdads Sing is immersed in the natural world as well. The story is set in the 1950s and revolves around a young woman named Kya Clark, who is from extremely rural North Carolina. Known by others as the Marsh Girl, she lives alone in nature—but the draw of other people, and specifically love, brings her into contact with the greater world. This novel has a mystery at its core, but it can be read on a variety of levels. There is great nature writing; there is coming of age; and there is literature. Crawdads is a story lovingly told—one that takes its time in developing its characters and setting, and in developing the story. You’ll want to relax and take your time as well, and when you’re done you will want to talk about it with another reader. – Chris Schluep , Amazon Book Review --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

About the Author

Delia Owens is the coauthor of three internationally bestselling nonfiction books about her life as a wildlife scientist in Africa. She holds a BS in Zoology from the University of Georgia and a PhD in Animal Behavior from the University of California at Davis. 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 lives in the mountains of North Carolina. Where the Crawdads Sing is her first novel. --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.

Product details

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B078GD3DRG
Publisher ‏ : ‎ G.P. Putnam's Sons (August 14, 2018)
Publication date ‏ : ‎ August 14, 2018
Language ‏ : ‎ English
File size ‏ : ‎ 5033 KB
Text-to-Speech ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Screen Reader ‏ : ‎ Supported
Enhanced typesetting ‏ : ‎ Enabled
X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Word Wise ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Sticky notes ‏ : ‎ On Kindle Scribe
Print length ‏ : ‎ 379 pages

Best Sellers Rank: #1,513 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #13 in Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Literary Fiction
- #29 in Historical Literary Fiction
- #33 in Women's Literary Fiction

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Delia Owens

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Delia Owens is the co-author of three internationally bestselling nonfiction books about her life as a wildlife scientist in Africa including Cry of the Kalahari.

She has won the John Burroughs Award for Nature Writing and has been published in Nature, The African Journal of Ecology, and many others.

She currently lives in Idaho. Where the Crawdads Sing is her first novel.

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Jim Muccio

Justice in Natural Law

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on March 7, 2022

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I just finished reading (and crying through) the first novel by naturalist Delia Owens entitled, “Where the Crawdads Sing”. She has achieved a literary feat uncommon to naturalists, let alone novelists. 67 weeks at the top? Her readers are not wrong. But first, let’s talk about crawdads…

Do they sing? No. They are tiny freshwater lobsters that live underwater. They only sing, as do Maine, and rock lobsters, when you put them in a pot of boiling water and the steam expands through their exoskeleton. So no, they do not sing, nor do they do anything else that can remotely be depicted as human. However, the phrase, “Where the crawdads, sing”, is fully defined by Owens thus cannot be confused in her novel The reference to their presumed music as defined by Owens is one of her many uses of a colloquialism. She spells it out using the complete phrase, “ Way out yonder where the crawdads sing”. More context for the less colloquial is that the full phrase means in the middle of nowhere. Which is exactly where the story takes place. In the middle of nowhere. It takes place in a marsh (not a swamp, there's a difference) along some stretch of coast on the eastern seaboard of the United States. The exact location doesn’t exist. It’s fictional. Owens includes a map, which I referenced frequently. Mind you, this is no Narnia, this is no Middle Earth, but this is as real a place, even more real, than any presumed backdrop for any other great novel. West Egg for instance. Just like West Egg on the north shore of Long Island, this marsh on the eastern shore of North Carolina cannot be found on any map, nevertheless, it’s a place I would like to visit.

The phrase, thus, refers to being beyond the most remote area of the wild as possible. Off the map, off the grid. Way out yonder where the crawdads sing. A place, very different from, and as remote as, any place in Africa where Owens spent much of her professional life as a naturalist. Beyond anything we know, the marsh she created is truly in the middle of nowhere. It is here where the main character, Kya, finds herself alone. She has been left alone by family and most of humanity. We are witness to the abandonment. As a little girl she is forced to live on her own and survive in the wild. Shades of Jody Foster from the movie Nell…except she speaks English and she has a lot more food to eat. That is, if you like seafood. Mussels and smoked fish, and whatever sprouts from a shabby wild vegetable garden. She was not raised by wolves, or gorillas, but instead by the marsh itself. And a lot of seagulls and other sea birds. The marsh is her mother. Most of us couldn’t fathom the life of Kya--essentially on her own since age seven. Think about that for a moment…if you don’t cry…you should. I cried three times in the first 125 pages of the story. I cried 4 or 5 more times before the end of the story.

This book, I presume since Owens is well read having spent a lot of time on her own, crosses many genres. Her naturalist side shines through as the wild is on display on every page. Yet her story is a murder mystery since the body of Chase Andrews is found dead in the marsh in the prologue. She uses poetry frequently. Her own poetry, which is quite good. And of course, it is a love story of deep dimension. Difficult--to say the least--because finding love in the middle of nowhere is not easy. Unless you find it within yourself. One can’t say it’s a coming of age story, since the novel spans all of Kya’s lifetime…but yes…a Marsh Girl can come of age…and have it all. And of course there is the courtroom scene related to the murder. Pick an author, Grisham, perhaps. We shall see when Hollywood releases their version in a few months how Owens dialogue holds up to Perry Mason. Will the courtroom dialogue be credible? Despite Kya’s profound literacy, which you will discover on her journey, Kya doesn’t pull a Lisbeth Salander (Stieg Larsson) and turn the tables on the court. She’s more humble, crippled outside her marsh, withdrawn from the process, meditating, and mostly concerned with the cat who lives in the court house. If you are rooting for her, as I was, prepare for another bout of tears.

The book is a page turner because this story jumps from the pages and comes alive in your mind. Kya is real. She is alive. She will now exist in literature just as Captain Ahab and his whale. Kya and her Marsh. Owens brought her to life through her thoughts, her paintings, her poetry, and her music. Perhaps the best apologetic for an absent family, Owens walks through the conditions that must have been present for those responsible for her abandonment to receive forgiveness. As well as those who cared, but not enough, to keep her isolated. The reckoning, in the courtroom, was perhaps insufficient. Justice could never be served for the rising fear and prejudice visited upon this young girl by a town full of ignorant people. Yet some did rise above, in their own way, and Kya understood. It’s her understanding of human nature, through the eyes of our own evolution that shows us that we are not too far removed from the animal kingdom. There but for the grace of God…not into the fires of hell but rather into the bountiful Garden of Eden--the Marsh. The sins of the animal kingdom cannot be judged as sins--as when an injured mother fox leaves her kits in order to survive to another day where perhaps she may rear another litter when survival is more certain. Can the momma fox be judged?

This is perhaps Owen’s legacy. Crawdads don’t sing--a fiction at best and anthropomorphism at worst. She knows it. Animals do not take on human characteristics. Only the truly ignorant would believe things move in that direction. Fake naturalists such as Elizabeth Marshall Thomas (The Hidden Life of Dogs) springs to mind as the purveyor of such garbage. Rather we can now look to Owens as the author of something as profound and insightful as from the true greats like Henry David Thoreau who wrote, "In wildness is the preservation of the world”. Here is where Owens lives. Here is where Owens sings. Her voice a whisper above the din but a true voice calling out in the wilderness to be heard above the wind through the palmetto trees or the waves crashing on the sand leading into the marsh. To the gulls who circle above the beach and are friends with Kya as she sleeps. To the other wildlife that saunter by her without pause. She is one of them, not the other way around. Justice, therefore, is a natural one and subscribes to nature’s law. Balance in this natural world can always be restored. This is the true beauty of Owens' novel and no doubt the key to her success. Five-Stars for Owen’s first novel and this literary feat. A must read for everyone who claims they read books. Kya will stay with me, and you, forever...

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David W. Johnson

Metaphysical Values

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on August 14, 2022

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What I liked most about this book is the depictions of believably real (though fictional) characters challenged by real-life issues, with the characters' basic motivations well described and integrated into a story of how the characters succeed or fail against their challenges, and why. I believe the philosophical term for literature of this kind is "metaphysical values."

(I haven't seen the movie so far but probably will see it eventually. Meanwhile, the various trailers that I've seen seem to indicate that the novel's main spirit may have been badly mangled in the movie, possibly to emphasize issues such as racial prejudice and other forms of bias against those who are "different," and other contemporary concerns. From various critical reviews on this website, it also appears that the story itself may have greatly misrepresented what North Carolina was actually like in the 1950s, 60s, and 70s. But I don't see geographical or historical accuracy as necessarily essential to a fictional story concretizing important metaphysical values.)

At the end of the novel, in the Q&A with the author (pp. 376-377), there is a very concise description of what the book is about. The story follows the life of a young girl named "Kya" living mostly alone in fictional marshlands in North Carolina from age 6 to her death from natural causes (unexpected heart failure) at age 64. It's a story of how she survives with minimal help from anyone else. A child of 6 wouldn't have been able to survive alone for long without significant knowledge and experience gained from interaction with other humans, and she did receive minimal interaction with her mother, brother, father, brother's friend Tate (later Kya's first lover and eventual husband after a fateful 2nd love with Chase Andrews), and a married (black) couple in the nearby fictional town of Barkley Cove. Tate and Chase both disappoint Kya deeply, Chase so strongly that Kya becomes the prime suspect when Chase is found dead, apparently murdered. (Chase lied to her about potentially marrying her, and he even tried to rape her, causing her to fear that Chase would keep trying again and again by force.) Before Tate leaves her while he goes to college, she learns to read with Tate's help. He also gives her many old books to read, mostly on life science. She apparently never receives access to any books in literature, history, philosophy, or other general humanities subjects. She remains forever shy and defensive toward most other people despite becoming highly adept at studying the wild animals and plants in the marsh, writing books of her own on her observations, becoming successful as a published author, and painting vivid sketches of what she observed. Along the way, she also learns to count beyond 29 and to count money and make change, again with help from Tate and others.

At her trial for the murder of Chase, the prosecution presents serious evidence against her, but the evidence isn't quite strong enough to obtain a guilty verdict from the jury (beyond reasonable doubt). She has an especially good alibi, although it has weaknesses that leave room to doubt her innocence. Since there are also reasonable doubts about her guilt, the jury verdict is "not guilty." One key piece of evidence, a "shell necklace," remains missing until the very last page of the story, shortly after Kya's death, when Tate (whom she had married by then) finds it. For those who want to be surprised, I won't say more about the details of the ending. Kya certainly would have had to be incredibly resourceful and daring, perhaps far larger than real life, to have been able to construct such a convincing alibi, if she actually was the murderer. The symbolic parallel to the mating rituals of fireflies provides a strong hint about Kya's mental state.

The events of the story are mainly just the backdrop. The story's main focus is on how Kya felt and how she learned so much about nature and life sciences from her own direct observations and from books that she read, without ever attending school at any level for more than one deeply unpleasant day at age 6. Despite how little she learned about humanities subjects and how to deal with other people, the story depicts her as focused on the reality that she was exposed to, and on how she used her natural intellectual capacity to make sense of it as best she could. She certainly functioned on a reality-is-real premise, though without explicitly identifying that premise or comprehending its higher implications for human living; she also felt her emotions without any explicit appeal to any greater mysticism or other-worldly perspective. (Kya shows no superstitiousness or religious worship of natural phenomena.) But the story doesn't attempt to delve further than that into issues of values, why man needs them, and how best to choose and pursue one's values. With access to books, Kya surely would have had the opportunity to do such deeper reading in real life, even if she remained otherwise isolated from most other people throughout her life. She had Tate, along with the two adult townspeople, her publisher, and to some extent her brother Jodie -- all of whom provided emotional support to her during her trial. She is a heroine of sorts, though a severely stunted and crippled one, especially emotionally toward others.

The author describes the story as "primarily about self-reliance, survival and how isolation affects human behavior. Since our species is a social mammal, we have strong genetic tendencies to belong to a group of tightly bonded family and friends." (P. 376.) What "genetic tendencies" does this refer to? How much personal choice do humans have? Man has a non-automatic rational faculty on which he needs to depend for his survival. But he also needs a lot of help from others, especially family, along the way as he proceeds from the stage of a newborn infant to adult life. Without such help in childhood, the stunted growth that may hinder a child's development and readiness for adult living should not be surprising. A more heroic kind of story might explore more fully how much more a person can learn about life from books, and how events might unfold as such a person strives to apply such learnings in practice. Kya certainly makes a valiant and largely successful effort, which, for me, makes Crawdads excellent as far as it goes.

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Louise Glass

Where the Crawdads Sing- Nature Rules the book

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on April 12, 2023

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Where the Crawdad Sings was the debut novel of a non fiction writer who is a learned zoologist, Delia Owens. Miss Owens has an esoteric beautiful way of writing that feels like a fantasy governed by the wild marshes where the heroine, Kyra Clark, the Marsh girl lives. If a book can be sorrowful yet uplifting this book does it with grace and much poetry that fills the pages. Kyra was abandoned as a child by her family and is quick witted enough to live alone and survive with very little help. A black couple help her and she has a teenage romance with a young man . But when he leaves her too, she’s drawn to a wealthy man, good with words and seductive ways, and what follows brings more heartache for Kyra. The descriptions of nature were beautiful beyond belief and this writer has a gift that made Crawdads unique in every way possible. I don’t believe Kyra would have survived her hellish childhood and eventually become an author of nature books if this had been real life. The fantasy the author weaves is spellbinding and I was trapped in it like a fly in a spider web. There was a court trial where Kyra fears she will lose her freedom and her life. The books ending for me was a shock and I felt the author put great thought into it. Snow geese and wildlife are as important to the book as the well drawn out characters. Kyra does have some people who truly care about her and she goes through life as the Marsh Girl, which fits her heart and soul.

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chocolateg

Huge disappointment.

Reviewed in the United Kingdom 🇬🇧 on February 4, 2019

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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.

440 people found this helpful

Viking

Pathetic Verse and Worse

Reviewed in the United Kingdom 🇬🇧 on January 24, 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.

276 people found this helpful

stoaty1

Utter bilge

Reviewed in the United Kingdom 🇬🇧 on March 29, 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.

263 people found this helpful

Amazon Customer

Stunning masterpiece of literature!

Reviewed in the United Kingdom 🇬🇧 on March 29, 2019

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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

maniacmonkey100

Boring about a girl walking through mud.

Reviewed in the United Kingdom 🇬🇧 on June 13, 2020

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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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