Why Flannery?

Describing herself to a friend while struggling with the disease that eventually took her life, Flannery O'Connor writes, "I am practically bald-headed on top and have a watermelon face... I stay strictly out of the sun and strictly do not take any exercise. No great hardship." Unhappiness with her physical appearance, coupled with a natural camera shyness, led her to submit a painted self-portrait to her publishers for the dust jacket of an upcoming novel. You can imagine her publisher's shock at receiving the above portrait, which she painted with a palette knife because she felt disinclined to wash brushes.

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 aspire to be like Flannery, to live as a "startling figure" for the blind.

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!

One-Eyed Prophet

One-Eyed Prophet

This is a continuation of the past two weeks’ posts on cynicism, which you can read here and here, but not here.

“I met a man who’s looking for perfection

Said he’s never met a girl who’s good enough

His eyes are getting old, like they’d love to love again

Such a lonely man.”

-Jon Foreman, “A Mirror is Harder to Hold”

We’ve established that cynicism has some flaws, but is there any alternative?

Like a guy who’s afraid of his ex-girlfriend, I jump into the arms of her opposite. “Why hello there, sentimentality!”

If pessimism fails me, then the answer must be optimism.

Flannery—God rest her blessed soul—addresses this issue in her (Insightful! Life-changing!) essay, “The Church and the Fiction Writer”:

We lost our innocence in the Fall, and our return to it is through the Redemption, which was brought about by Christ’s death and by our slow participation in it. Sentimentality is a skipping of this process in its concrete reality and an early arrival at a mock state of innocence.

If I indulge in sentimentality, I skip death and thus never find resurrection. Cynicism mocks the disease, while sentiment covers it with a Band-Aid, a kiss on the head, and an “all better.” Neither offers a cure.

So what now? Like the college grad I am, I’m tempted to say we need a “richer understanding,” a compromise—in other words, “Can’t we just mix the two and call it even?”

A good slap to the face from GK Chesterton stops me from being such a pansy.

“What we need is not the cold acceptance of this world as a compromise, but some way in which we can heartily hate and heartily love it. We do not want joy and anger to neutralize each other and produce a surly contentment; we want a fiercer delight and a fiercer discontent.” He then asks if there is someone who can “hate [the world] enough to change it, and yet love it enough to think it worth changing?... Is he enough of a Pagan to die for the world and enough of a Christian to die to it?”

Love and hate the world? This is a greater demand than I expected!

So often, I can only uphold love by blinding myself to the truth. Here I am doing my darndest to love, when I’m suddenly confronted by an obstacle in the form of a rude or selfish or arrogant person, someone I just can’t handle right now. Instead of asking God to grow my love, to make it better than it is, I avoid the situation altogether by one of two detours.

I can choose cynicism, putting up defenses against this unlovable person, shutting the door so quietly that they will never realized they’re outside. Or I can choose sentimentality, pretending they “aren’t so bad” and glossing over their more distasteful qualities—a path that ultimately leads back to cynicism because I’m really not so good at pretending.

At the foundation, cynicism and sentimentality are both malfunctioning love, a sign that my love is a lot weaker than I thought.

A parable that has consistently encouraged me in the past months is that of the wheat and the tares. Basically, a farmer plants seeds in his field, only to find later that weeds are growing up among the harvest. His servants’ response is similar to my own: “Should we get rid of the weeds?” They’ve seen the problem, and now they have a diagnosis.

The farmer’s answer is unexpected, at least to me: “No, lest as we gather up the tares, the wheat be pulled up with it.”

This is true wisdom. I consider myself perceptive to notice the weeds among the wheat, not knowing that as I reach to eradicate evil I am also uprooting good along with it. When I turn my eye against the ills of this world, I always end up destroying more than I intend. I’m a bumbling surgeon, unable to remove a tumor without cutting the heart.

Earlier this year I finished writing a song called “One-Eyed Prophet.” Like so many things I’ve written, I didn’t realize when I wrote it how much I would need it later. It tells the story of a prophet who is “always honest but never tells the truth.” Here’s the last stanza:

You’ll admit that you don’t know a cure

But you sure love playing doctor

You love the part where we take off our shirts

And uncover all our sores

Oh, what a great relief to see we’re all the same

But lately I’ve been wondering why

There’s no healing in your house

This song was inspired by a cynic I observed, but in the end I found it is actually about me. I’m the one-eyed prophet. I’m the one who is able to see the problem but lacks a cure.

The very end of the song offers a plea: “Your justice and mercy never kissed, so turn your good eye to the things you’ve missed.”

Each of us is constantly vacillating between two goods, justice and mercy. Only one man has ever held both equally, not in a dirty brown hue of compromise, but each in full strength.

Jesus is startlingly blunt about the wickedness man perpetrates. But then he turns around and lavishes love on those wicked people. He sees the most clearly, and He loves best. His love is not accomplished by a smearing of the facts. No, it’s stronger than that. He looks us in the face, and He loves.

His mercy and truth meet; His righteousness and peace kiss.

Somehow, I must do the same.

I’ve been a cynic, a man who’s so afraid of getting hurt that he locks himself in his own house. Now it’s time to try something different, something that requires more bravery than I possess, and more love. I go out as a lamb among wolves, and sometimes as a wolf myself. I think I may have only one eye, but I’m training it to look at God.

Habit of Being, an Introduction

As you might guess from the title and URL of my blog, I love Flannery O'Connor. I named my first car after one of her peacocks (Colonel Eggbert). I fantasize about meeting her in heaven. Also, God.

If you, like most people who are acquainted with Flan Flan, only know her through her most famous story, "A Good Man is Hard to Find," you may wonder what's so great about this woman who wrote Southern Grotesque fiction and died of Lupus in the sixties. Let me help you.

Beginning tonight, I will intermittently make blog entries which present my favorite moments from Habit of Being, a 600 pg collection of Flannery's letters. I'll arrange them by subject so you can know up front whether or not you'll be interested. Consider this entry a sampler plate of O'Connor quotes. Maybe, like me, you'll find yourself steadily falling in love with this woman from Georgia who raised peacocks and wrote stories about men who steal wooden legs from girls. Who knows?

I am doing fairly well these days, though I am practically bald-headed on top and have a watermelon face. I think that this is going to be permanent… I stay strictly out of the sun and strictly do not take any exercise. No great hardship.

1-25-53

I have just got back from 2 days in NYC. There is one advantage in it because although you see several people you wish you didn’t know, you see thousands you’re glad you don’t know.

11-5-49

I have got my last draft off to the publisher and now am raising ducks like a respectable citizen. I have twenty-one. However, if the Lord is willing, I am shortly going to eat all twenty-one of them and start another novel.

10-18-51

I had to go have my picture taken for the purposes of Harcourt, Brace. They were all bad. (The pictures.) 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. We liked your Christmas card very much and recognized yer assorted children.

Early 1952

Miss B. is still violently interested in finding herself a husband and still asks personal questions without any preparation and at the most inconvenient times. I do wish somebody would marry the child and shut her up. I am touched by her but you know what a long way a little goes.

5-23-52

I am taking painting again but none of my paintings go over very big in this house although mamma puts them up and is loth to take them down again. Sister used to teach painting classes in her youth and she says she doesn’t like this modern art because it’s not “smoothed down.” My mamma says it’s not modern art (insulted), it’s very true to nature and there’s no use spending five hours on a painting you can do in two. This refers to the fact that I have been painting with a palette knife because I don’t like to wash brushes.

Summer 1953

Mr. P. is taking a correspondence course in Catholicism. He is not going to be a Catholic or anything—he just likes to get things free in the mail.

August 1953

I would like to create the impression over the television that I’m a hillbilly Thomist, but I will probably not be able to think of anything to say to Mr. Harvey Breit but “Huh?” and “Ah dunno.” When I come back I’ll probably have to spend three months day and night in the chicken pen to counteract these evil influences… I wish somebody really intelligent would write me sometime but I seem to attract the lunatic fringe mainly. I will be real glad when this television thing is over with. I keep having a mental picture of my glacial glare being sent out over the nation onto millions of children who are waiting impatiently for The Batman to come on.

5-18-55

I don’t deserve much credit for turning the other cheek as my tongue is always in it.

6-10-55

The latest came from a Mr. Semple of Cincinnati who has not read anything of mine but doesn’t really see how I can say a good man is hard to find. He is an industrial engineer, likes to play bridge, is the active type, 31 years old, single etc. etc. I wrote Mr. Semple that I didn’t think I’d like him a bit but he would be crazy about me as I had seven gold teeth and weighed 250 pounds.

6-16-55

Beginning

Good Lord, I’m starting a blog. Now what have I gone and done?

I don’t even know where to begin. I guess embarrassing confessions are as good a place as any. Here goes…

Have you ever seen the movie Julie and Julia? I’ve watched it five times, and the most recent time I borrowed it from the library and considered it an honor to pay the hefty late fee when I lost it in the back seat of my car for over a week. Which is to say, I really like that movie. [Confession #1. More to come.]

Anyway, if you’ve seen the movie, you know that Julie Powell turns her obsession with Julia Child into a blog, in which she chronicles the mishaps and victories that occur while cooking her way through The Art of French Cooking in 365 days. I love this idea. As I was watching Julie and Julia for the fifth time recently, I had already begun working on this blog, and I wondered if I could do anything similarly productive with my obsession with Flannery O’Connor. (If you aren’t familiar with Flannery O’Connor, don’t worry. I hope to remedy that.)

If Julie cooked recipes and by doing so made something useful of her fondness for Julia, could I not do something similar with Flannery?

But upon further reflection, I realized that if I hoped to “cook” my way through Flannery O’Conner’s short stories, I was in for a perilous journey. Yes, Julie had to overcome her fear of eggs, but I would have to steal someone’s wooden leg. Yes, Julie had to endure a season of aspics, but I would have to run away with a special needs girl. And, although Julie admittedly had to overcome many obstacles to stay true to her goal, I would have to suffer a variety of gruesome deaths (shot by a gang of Misfits, gored by a bull, death by baptism, to name a few).

So scratch that.

Really, as I begin this blog all I’m interested in is keeping a record. There are happenings I don’t want to forget, ideas that require processing.

Does the world need another blog, I ask myself? The answer is almost certainly “no.” And yet here I am, sitting at the computer and typing this sentence, placing a comma and then a period at the end—here.

Honestly, I’m a little embarrassed to have entered that ever-widening circle of those who call themselves “bloggers.” There is a certain level of self-absorption that it seems you can’t escape, the same lingering stench that hovers about Facebook and Twitter, smelling of platitudes and faux leather. Does the world really need to know my thoughts about God, or the fact that I sometimes wonder what it would be like to go on a date with Flannery O’Connor? [Awkward confession #2. Many more to come.]

But ultimately I am not the one to decide whether you give your time to this blog. I’m not forcing anyone to read. I wanted to write, so I am. And maybe that’s commendable. If you want to read, please do and please comment.

For readers, here are a few promises I make to you:

1. I will try to be honest.

2. I will quote Flannery. A lot.

3. I will try not to make myself too seriously. I hope you don’t take me too seriously either. Don’t get me wrong, I really don’t want to waste your time with trite blather. That means I edit and revise and try not to say things I don’t mean. But ultimately whatever I write will have a mixture of wisdom and folly in it.

Anyway, I haven’t yet quoted Flannery. How’s this:

“Of course I offer all my critical opinions on long sticks that can be jerked back at once because I really seldom know what I’m talking about.”

Good thinking, Flan Flan.