In this episode of NPR's Book of the Day, Barbara Kingsolver discusses her latest novel "Partita" and reflects on the intersections between music, writing, and her Appalachian identity. Kingsolver shares how her lifelong passion for classical piano—which began in childhood and continued through a college music scholarship—finally found its way into her fiction after two decades of writing. She explains how the novel's structure mirrors a musical composition and follows protagonist Livia, a pianist whose artistic ambitions and personal relationships shape her life's trajectory.
The conversation also explores broader themes of art's value in society, particularly as economic pressures diminish support for creative pursuits. Kingsolver addresses how Appalachia remains misunderstood and misrepresented in mainstream culture, tracing the region's history of exploitation by extractive industries. She discusses the physical realities of aging as an artist, including managing Dupuytren's contracture, and reflects on how her Pulitzer Prize for "Demon Copperhead" elevated recognition of Appalachian perspectives in literature.

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Barbara Kingsolver's life and work illuminate the profound influence of music and art's crucial role in society, particularly during times of economic insecurity. Her reflections trace a personal journey from childhood passion for classical music to integrating that experience into her writing.
Kingsolver's passion for music began in childhood, sparked by her father's classical records. Her father would play pieces like Ravel's "Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun," encouraging the family to imagine stories conjured by the music. This intertwining of storytelling and music fueled her creativity from an early age. She pursued music seriously into college, earning a scholarship for classical piano, but soon realized she lacked the elite caliber required for a concert career. More importantly, the exclusive lifestyle didn't suit her broad curiosity. While leaving behind those ambitions, she found freedom in choosing writing, which allowed her to explore every subject. Music remains essential in her daily life—she continues playing piano, has performed in rock and jazz bands, and often plays with her guitarist husband.
Kingsolver's newest novel examines why we need art and what value creativity brings to our lives. She challenges the notion that art is expendable, especially as economic stresses have led to reduced government funding for the arts, from the NEH to public school music classes. Kingsolver recognizes that many from rural and working-class backgrounds feel alienated from cultural spaces, perceiving fine arts as exclusive to wealthy urbanites. This perception limits broader participation and reinforces existing inequalities.
After two decades and eighteen books, Kingsolver finally incorporated her musical knowledge into her fiction with her latest work, "Partita." The novel tells the story of a woman in Appalachia whose ambitions to become a star classical pianist are derailed. Writing this novel allowed Kingsolver to blend her musical experience with fiction, a process she found unexpectedly joyful. She crafted a love story involving a protagonist fiercely dedicated to music, exploring the tension between personal relationships and artistic devotion, while translating the abstract experience of creating and feeling music into language.
Kingsolver constructs "Partita" by fundamentally shaping its narrative as a musical composition. She organizes the novel around sections named after traditional dance movements—Allemande, Sarabande, Prelude, and Tokada—from classical music repertoire. Each section functions like a movement within a Partita, unique in texture and mood yet intended as a single, complete composition. This structure mirrors how the disparate parts of protagonist Livia's life unite into an overarching narrative, blending Kingsolver's passion for music and storytelling into a literary experience that translates music's layered complexity into words.
At the novel's core is Livia, a talented pianist on the threshold of classical music fame. As a young woman, she falls for Sigurd, a charismatic and ideologically rigid man whose fervor clashes with her artistic dedication. Their intense but brief relationship becomes formative and life-altering, with their competing passions—his for causes, hers for music—pulling them apart. Decades later, a phone call from Sigurd jolts the older Livia, forcing her to reflect on youthful passion now tempered with maturity. Through these reflections, Kingsolver illustrates how different forms of love coexist and evolve, with the deepest thread being Livia's unending longing for beauty and creative expression—a love for art transcending romance.
A defining trauma revealed from the novel's opening is the suicide of Livia's brother Cyrus when she was eleven. Cyrus was her only genuine companion in an emotionally distant household, and this loss establishes both grief and survivor's guilt as the psychological foundation driving her life choices. Kingsolver draws on her own experiences with friends lost to suicide to give the story authenticity and emotional depth, recognizing the lasting impact such grief leaves. Through Livia's lifelong processing of Cyrus's death, Kingsolver extends wisdom and compassion to other survivors navigating similar losses.
Kingsolver roots Livia's story in her own experiences growing up in small-town Kentucky, where her passion for classical music left her isolated. As a class migrant, Livia faces invisible but profound barriers entering elite musical spaces. Kingsolver explores how fine arts are often perceived as domains for "fancy people in cities," leaving those from less privileged backgrounds feeling unwelcome. Livia's economic background directly impacts her access to necessary training and experiences for a life in classical music, with her sense of exclusion from exclusive cultural institutions shaping both her aspirations and sense of self. Despite exploring these heavier themes, "Partita" weaves together multiple tones—the passionate love story, sensuality, humor, and levity—ensuring the novel celebrates the vitality and richness of lived experience alongside its darker explorations.
Kingsolver discusses how inherited conditions, aging, and physical decline shape her work as both musician and writer, reflecting broader realities many artists face as their bodies change over time.
Kingsolver has Dupuytren's contracture, more common among people of Scots-Irish or Northern European ancestry and known as "Viking disease." It contracts the fascia in the palm, gradually drawing fingers toward the fist and impeding hand function. To manage it, Kingsolver undergoes surgery every few years at the University of Virginia Hand Center, allowing her to maintain mobility needed for piano playing and writing. She credits her skilled surgeon with keeping her hands functional for fifteen years. However, surgery only restores function temporarily—the disease continues advancing, and she cannot fully straighten some fingers. Each recovery achieves less range of motion than before, though she has retained most extension in her left hand, critical for piano practice.
Kingsolver incorporates these lived experiences into "Partita," examining the frustration and grief following career-limiting injuries in music, sports, and other physical disciplines. She reflects on aging's broader reality: everyone eventually lives in a body that cannot perform as it once did, yet society often denies this universal condition. In facing these realities, Kingsolver finds freedom by embracing all versions of herself throughout life, recognizing each decade brought new perspectives and abilities. She's grateful for her career's longevity, the wisdom gained, and the risks taken as a writer.
The condition directly impacts her creative output. She adapts her piano and typing practice, using different fingers to compensate for lost function, but acknowledges she can no longer play all the pieces she once loved. Her awareness of these physical realities shapes her writing thematically and practically, allowing her to write candidly about artistic struggle, adapting to injuries, and maintaining one's identity as an artist despite changing circumstances. This perspective connects personal acceptance of limitation to universal human experience, enriching both her literary themes and her approach to art.
Interviewed at her home in southwestern Virginia, Kingsolver offers a firsthand account of how Appalachia and its people are overlooked, misrepresented, and misunderstood in mainstream culture, and how the region's history of exploitation shapes both perceptions and realities.
Kingsolver stresses that even the mispronunciation of "Appalachia" betrays deep unfamiliarity with the region. People rarely hear Appalachians represent themselves—instead, they encounter the region filtered through others' voices, usually as reductionist hillbilly jokes or poverty documentaries. As soon as she left Kentucky for college, she learned how outsiders view her origins as backward or laughable. Appalachia and rural America are labeled "flyover country," reinforcing their invisibility. Appalachians face not just lack of visibility but active misrepresentation, with outsiders seeing poverty and unemployment but basing perceptions on superficial representations rather than real engagement.
Kingsolver highlights the long saga of exploitation by extractive industries—timber, coal, tobacco—that shaped Appalachia's landscape. These companies controlled entire infrastructures, from stores and schools to courthouses, blocking other industries to sustain a captive mining workforce. They deliberately suppressed education, wanting miners rather than an educated population. When coal was depleted, companies abandoned the region, leaving environmental ruin, scarce jobs, and persistent poverty. Despite this systematic dispossession, those left behind were blamed for their own hardship rather than recognized as victims of structural extraction.
Kingsolver expresses frustration that jokes and contempt toward Appalachians remain acceptable in circles that otherwise recognize such mockery as bigotry. She notes the pervasive belief that Appalachian people vote against their self-interests, a notion ignoring historical roots of economic and political disenfranchisement. The assumption, she says, is that "we're stupid," when outsiders simply aren't seeing the full picture. She describes embracing Appalachian identity in her work, realizing her voice as a writer is inextricably tied to her origins—authentic representation means speaking from within the community, not about it from outside.
Kingsolver's Pulitzer Prize for "Demon Copperhead"—a retelling of "David Copperfield" set in Appalachia—elevated recognition of Appalachian culture broadly. Her neighbors celebrated the win, feeling communal pride as "we won that prize," illustrating how literary recognition can confer legitimacy on a dismissed culture. Kingsolver insists she doesn't speak for Appalachia alone but places herself as part of a lineage of Appalachian writers including Harriet Arno, Robert Penn Warren, Wendell Berry, and contemporaries like Silas House. She describes her role not as bearing a solitary burden but as continuing and amplifying a vital tradition of authentic storytelling from within Appalachia itself.
1-Page Summary
Barbara Kingsolver’s life and work highlight the profound influence of music and the crucial role of art in society, especially during times of economic insecurity. Her reflections trace a personal journey shaped by classical music, cultural barriers, and the eventual integration of her musical experience into her writing.
Kingsolver’s passion for music begins in childhood, inspired by her father’s love of classical records. In her modest family home, music was a collective experience; her father often played pieces like Ravel’s "Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun" or Tchaikovsky’s "Firebird Suite," encouraging everyone to imagine stories the music conjured. For Kingsolver, storytelling and music became intertwined early in life, fueling her imagination and creativity. She remembers the pleasure of sitting at the piano bench, eager to make music for herself as soon as she could reach the keys.
Kingsolver pursued music seriously into adulthood, earning a music scholarship for classical piano and studying intensely during her first year of college. However, she soon realized she was not destined to be among the few who could sustain a career as a concert pianist in the U.S. While she loved playing, the exclusive focus and narrow lifestyle required didn’t suit her endless curiosity. She found excitement in many other disciplines, ultimately gravitating toward writing, which allowed her to explore every subject. When she chose not to pursue a pianist’s life, she felt free, though also aware of leaving behind her teachers' and her own ambitions. For Kingsolver, the joy was never about becoming a professional musician—it was about the act of making music itself.
Music remains an essential part of Kingsolver’s daily life. She continues to play piano, has performed in bands spanning rock and jazz, and often plays with her husband, a skilled guitarist. This enduring involvement demonstrates her belief in music’s intrinsic value, separate from career ambitions.
Kingsolver’s newest novel examines pressing questions: Why do we need art? What value do music and creativity bring to our lives? She challenges the prevailing notion that art is expendable, especially as society faces economic insecurity.
Economic stresses in contemporary culture have led to the withdrawal of resources from the arts, from national organizations like the NEH down to public school music classes. Kingsolver sees this as a dangerous trend rooted in the misconception that art can be cut without consequence.
Within this environment, Kingsolver recognizes that many people from rural or working-class backgrounds feel alienated f ...
Music and Importance of Art in Contemporary Culture
Barbara Kingsolver constructs her novel "Partita" not by mimicking a musical work, but by fundamentally shaping its narrative as a musical composition. She organizes the novel around sections named after traditional dance movements—such as Allemande, Sarabande, Prelude, and Tokada—drawn from the classical music repertoire of two centuries ago. Each section is designed to function like a movement within a Partita, unique in texture and mood yet intended to be played as a single, complete composition. Kingsolver treats this musical structure as a perfect allegory for the novel: the seemingly disparate parts of Livia's life are united into an overarching narrative, giving thematic coherence to her journey. This deliberate mirroring of musical form embodies Kingsolver's lifelong passion for both music and storytelling, blending them into a literary experience that seeks to translate the layered complexity of music into words.
At the core of "Partita" is the story of Livia, a talented pianist on the threshold of classical music fame. Her journey is both a surface narrative of first love and a deeper examination of devotion to art. As a young woman, Livia falls for Sigurd, a charismatic and intellectually rigid man whose ideological fervor often clashes with Livia’s own artistic dedication. Their relationship, intense and brief, becomes a formative, life-altering experience. Sigurd's driven and magnetic nature captivates Livia, and their mutual attraction is palpable. But their passions—his for causes, hers for music—pull them in different directions, culminating in a love that is as transformative as it is irreconcilable.
The narrative shifts as an older Livia is jolted by a phone call from Sigurd, decades after their relationship’s abrupt end. This intrusion into her settled life forces her to reflect on her youthful passion, now tempered with years of love, compromise, and maturity. Through these reflections, Kingsolver illustrates how different forms of love—romantic, artistic, and mature—coexist and evolve over time. Ultimately, the deepest thread in Livia's story is her unending longing for beauty and creative expression, a love for art that transcends romance and speaks to a universal human need for meaning through creation.
A defining trauma in Livia's life is revealed from the novel’s opening sentence: the suicide of her brother Cyrus when she was eleven. Cyrus, Livia’s only genuine companion in an emotionally distant household, was her confidant and her understanding sibling. This loss establishes both Livia’s grief and survivor's guilt as the psychological substratum driving her choices and motivations throughout life. Kingsolver draws on her own experiences with the loss of friends to suicide to give the story authenticity and emotional depth, recognizing the lasting impact such grief leaves—doubts, longing, and the unanswerable question of what might have changed the outcome. Through Livia’s lifelong processing of Cyrus’s death, Kingsolver extends a measure of hard-won wisdom and compassion to other survivors navigating similar losses.
Kingsolver roots Livia’s story in her own experiences growing up in a small Kentucky town, where her passion for classical music and reading left her isolated a ...
The Novel "Partita": Musical Structure, Characters, and Themes
Barbara Kingsolver discusses how inherited conditions, aging, and physical decline shape her work as both a musician and a writer, reflecting broader realities that many artists must face as their bodies change over time.
Kingsolver explains that she has Dupuytren's contracture, a condition more common among people of Scots-Irish or Northern European ancestry. Known colloquially as "Viking disease," it contracts the fascia in the palm, gradually drawing the fingers toward the fist and impeding hand function.
To manage the condition, Kingsolver undergoes surgery every few years at the University of Virginia Hand Center. This medical intervention allows her to open her hands back up and maintain the mobility she needs for both piano playing and writing. She credits a skilled surgeon and his team with keeping her hands functional for the past fifteen years, even thanking him in her book acknowledgments for his ongoing care.
Despite surgery, the disease continues to advance. Kingsolver cannot fully straighten some fingers, particularly noting a loss of extension in one hand. While surgery restores some function, each recovery achieves less range of motion than before. She has retained most of the extension in her left hand, which is critical for her piano practice, but the loss is noticeable and permanent.
Kingsolver incorporates these lived experiences into her writing. In her novel "Partita," she examines the frustration and deep grief that can follow career-limiting injuries, not only in music but also in sports and other physical disciplines, and the necessity of accepting permanent changes to one’s abilities.
She reflects on the broader reality of aging: everyone eventually lives in a body that cannot perform as it once did, yet society often avoids acknowledging these truths or insists that such limitations should not have to be accepted.
In facing these realities, Kingsolver finds a kind of freedom. She accepts and embraces all the different versions of herself throughout her life—recognizing that each decade brought new perspectives and abilities—and is grateful for th ...
Physical Limitations and Aging As an Artist
Barbara Kingsolver, interviewed at her home in southwestern Virginia, offers a firsthand account of how Appalachia and its people are overlooked, misrepresented, and misunderstood in mainstream American culture, as well as how the region's history of exploitation shapes perceptions and realities.
Kingsolver stresses that even the mispronunciation of “Appalachia” betrays a deep unfamiliarity with the region. She remarks that people are not used to hearing Appalachians represent themselves, if they hear from them at all. Instead, most people only encounter Appalachia filtered through someone else's voice—usually in the form of reductionist hillbilly jokes or poverty documentaries that fail to capture the region’s nuance.
Kingsolver explains that, as soon as she left Kentucky for college in Indiana, she learned just how people outside Appalachia view her origins as backward, laughable, or simply unworthy of consideration. Appalachia and most of rural America, she says, are labeled "flyover country," reinforcing their invisibility in the wider culture. She recounts feeling invisible and unrepresented unless her identity is reduced to a caricature.
Appalachians, Kingsolver notes, face not just a lack of visibility but active misrepresentation. Outsiders see poverty, unemployment, and so-called demographic and ethnic monoculture, but, according to Kingsolver, these perceptions are based on superficial or artificial representations, not on real engagement or understanding.
Kingsolver highlights the long saga of exploitation by extractive industries—timber, coal, tobacco—that have shaped both the physical and social landscape of Appalachia. These companies didn’t just own the mines or fields; they controlled the whole infrastructure, from stores and schools to courthouses and local governments. This monopoly allowed coal companies to block the arrival of other industries, such as fiber mills and factories, limiting economic opportunities in order to sustain a captive mining workforce.
Deliberate policies suppressed education, as companies wanted miners rather than an educated and potentially dissenting population. As Kingsolver puts it, these limits on employment and educational opportunities were planned, not accidental.
When the coal was depleted, the companies abandoned the region, leaving environmental ruin, scarce jobs, and persistent generational poverty. Despite this systematic dispossession, those left behind were blamed for their own hardship, rather than recognized as victims of structural extraction.
Kingsolver expresses frustration that jokes and contempt toward Appalachians are still acceptable in circles that otherwise recognize such mockery as bigotry when directed at other groups. Educated people who avoid disparaging others often feel comfortable ridiculing or dismissing Appalachians as an exception.
She also notes the pervasive belief that Appalachian people routinely vote against their self-interests, a notion that ignores t ...
Appalachian Identity, Representation, and Exploitation
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