Her publisher refused to use the portrait and soon sent a photographer to her farm in Georgia. After the photo shoot, Flannery writes, "I had to go have my picture taken for the purposes of Harcourt, Brace. They were all bad. The one I sent looked as if I had just bitten my grandmother and that this was one of my few pleasures, but all the rest were worse."
Which is how we get gems like this:
This is how I usually imagine her. There's something guarded in her posture. Her eyes are aggressive in the manner of an animal aware of being observed. In many photos she is smiling, but even in her smile, one notes a barely restrained mischief, coupled with an intensity of perception. It's this perceptive quality that marks both her personality and her work. Never leaving their perch, her eyes reach farther than her arms, grip harder than her fingers.
At this point, you're thinking, Wow, this guy is really into Flannery O'Connor!
Congratulations. You caught me red-handed.
When I reach that point in a friendship where I feel safe enough to confess that I am infatuated with a dead Catholic writer of Southern Gothic literature whose house was guarded by an army of peacocks, I always receive the same response: "Oh my God! Me too!"
But just in case I someday meet someone who doesn't share my obsession, this blog entry is an attempt to shed light on the question, why Flannery?
It wasn't immediate. When I first read her work, I was equal parts impressed and confounded. Mystery and Manners enlightened and fortified, but Wise Blood completely mystified me, so much so that I never finished it. I started reading her short stories. A traveling Bible salesman steals a girl's prosthetic leg. A boy drowns himself in an attempted baptism. Each story, I would turn to the last page and have no idea what I had just read.*
My admiration didn't truly solidify into something more until I began reading her letters. You see, I'm not as much enamored with her work, as with Flannery herself.
Condensing her mission statement into one sentence, Flannery writes, "You have to make your vision apparent by shock--to the hard of hearing you shout, and for the blind you draw large and startling figures."
This has become a sort of creed for me. Increasingly I am certain that, for those who desire such an aim, to live righteously requires an act of violence.Flannery O'Connor lived by this violence. She lacked that useful camouflage, by which most of us distort ourselves to fit in more easily with those around us. Whether by choice or some kind of innate deficiency, Flannery lacked this adaptation mechanism. She was undiluted.
Fellow Southerners were scandalized by her writing. When she published Wise Blood, people hid copies in their closets, embarrassed to own such scandalous material. One cousin even sent her a note with just one sentence: "I do not like your book."
And yet, she was not revered by the writing world either. Initial reviews were scathing. Even the positive ones could be condescending. "If this is really the unaided work of a young lady," one author wrote, "it is a remarkable product." To which Flannery's mother irately responded, "Does he suppose you're not a lady?"
The key facets of Flannery's identity were rejected by those to whom she was most dedicated. To fellow Catholics, she was offensively profane. To fellow writers, she was offensively Catholic.
But really, she was just Flannery. Obstinately so.
Every age makes its own war against the godly. One generation will attack them for being too merciful, while the next attacks them for being too harsh. One age condemns Jesus for calling Himself God, while the next despises Him for calling Himself a man. Decades pass, while humanity proves that saying of GK Chesterton, when he writes that "there are many, many angles at which one can fall, but only one angle at which one can stand straight."
In response to a humanity that is always changing, most of us choose one of two options. One: we submit, mimicking the specific limp of our age until it becomes our own. Or two: we revolt, falling left when those around us fall right, painting ourselves black to combat an aggressive white.
One submits, the other revolts, but neither stands fast.
Spiritual violence is to laugh in grave situations, to be kind when kindness is out of season, to stand in silence when accused, to cast out demons in an age of materialism, to defend beauty against brutal efficiencies, to pray small prayers in secret while big men make shows of doing good, to marry for life, to make peace, to value others before yourself... to write very, very long sentences.I know that she wasn't perfect, and I readily admit that the Flannery in my head is a mere caricature of the historical figure. Ms. O'Connor is merely one bold soul among a host of men and women who in every age have taken hold of a kingdom by violence.
I have many answers to the question, "Why Flannery?" But on this day in particular, July 24th, I must admit that my admiration for Flannery largely stems from her strong resemblance to another bold soul. In all of her coy humor, her bravery in the face of fearful circumstance, her keen sight, and her goodness, I know that one chief reason I love Flannery is because she reminds me of my mom.
Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you!
*If you are interested in checking out the literature of Flannery O'Connor, I recommend you start with "Revelation" or "Parker's Back," which are two of my favorite stories, both of which can be found in the collection, Everything that Rises Must Converge. If you are a writer, I also recommend a collection of her essays and speeches on the craft, entitled, Mystery and Manners. Either way, let me know what you think. I'd love to discuss!
