Once in a blue moon, I finish a book with such awed wonder that I feel compelled to contact the author and say, “My God, what a majestic work you’ve done!” That’s how I felt when I put down Barbara Kingsolver’s latest novel, The Lacuna. There were times, reading it, that I found the tension of the plot almost unbearable, not only because any one of the story’s multiple layers of meaning can break my heart, but because the surface story itself magnificently explores the many faces of love and loyalty. I’ve seen some reviews expressing disappointment in The Lacuna because it isn’t The Poisonwood Bible. If you read The Lacuna, you’ll see how ironic those reviews are. If she reads them, Kingsolver must have some grim laughs at the way life imitates art.