Wise Blood, by Flannery O'Connor

"Wise Blood" is written in the Southern Gothic genre. Southern Gothic, a subgenre of the Gothic writing style, is unique to American literature. Like its parent genre, it relies on supernatural, ironic, or unusual events to guide the plot. Unlike the Gothic writing style, Southern Gothic uses these tools not for the sake of suspense, but to explore social issues and reveal the cultural character of the American South. Flannery O'Connor proved herself to be a giant in this genre, joining many other celebrated Southern writers such as: William Faulkner, Erskine Caldwell, Eudora Welty, Tennessee Williams, Cormac McCarthy and Katherine Ann Porter among many others. Over the years, critics have often referred to Flannery 0' Connor's first novel as dark and grotesque.

Flannery O'Connor was the only child of Edward F. O'Connor and Regina Cline O'Connor. Born in Savannah, GA in 1925, she attended Peabody High School and Georgia State College for Women (now Georgia College and State University), where she majored in English and Sociology.

In 1949 O'Connor met and eventually accepted an invitation to stay with Robert Fitzgerald, a translator of Greek plays and epic poems and a respected poet in his own right, and his wife, Sally, in Redding, Connecticut. In 1951 she was diagnosed with lupus, and subsequently returned to her ancestral farm, known as Andalusia, in Milledgeville, GA where she died at the age of 39 years on August 3, 1964.

I am particularly interested in the short story which has become less popular in our times. "Wise Blood" originally appeared as four chapters published in Mademoiselle, Sewanee Review, and Partisan Review in 1948 and 1949. O'Connor then published it as a complete novel in 1952, and the publisher, Signet, advertised it as "A Searching Novel of Sin and Redemption."

According to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, "Flannery O'Connor was a Roman Catholic living in the American South, and her fictions consistently illustrate not merely religious, but theological points of view. By the time of "Wise Blood", O'Connor was herself diagnosed with lupus and was receiving treatment with hydrocortisone therapy at Emory University hospitals in Atlanta."

After her first major attack of lupus in 1950, she had been forced to return home to live with her mother on the family farm. O'Connor's father had died of lupus, leaving her with no illusions about the outcome. Having previously lived in Iowa and in and around New York City, she found her mother's company and the general area of Milledgeville to be difficult. The smart-aleck child coming home, and resentment of mother figures and parents in general, permeates all of O'Connor's fiction, and "Wise Blood" is true to this context and the exploration of life and religious views.

O'Connor explores her recurring concept of an alienated young person returning home coupled with the theme of the struggle of the individual to understand Christianity in Wise Blood. The main character, a young man named Hazel Motes, sneers at communal and social experiences of Christianity. Having returned from serving in the army Hazel is travelling by train to the fictional city of Taulkinham, having just discovered that his family home has been abandoned. His grandfather was a tent revival preacher, and Hazel is told repeatedly that he "looks like a preacher," and although he purporsts to despise preachers, Hazel is facinated by them and attempts to become an anti-preacher.

An interesting cast of characters follows including Miss Leora Watts, Enoch Emery, and a blind preacher, Asa Hawks and his young daughter, Sabbath Lily Hawks. Leora Watts is a prostitute, Enoch Emery is attracted to Hazel's new "Church Without Christ" and believes himself to have wise blood, Asa Hawks is a blind preacher who is not blind, and Sabbath Lily has a wild side and has fixated on having Hazel for her own.

Hazel Motes tries desperately to find freedom from his conscience by choosing to ignore his belief in God. He believes that if he eliminates morality from his life, he can avoid Jesus. The cast of characters in "Wise Blood" are frequently deceptive, chronically unkind, and brutally violent. "Wise Blood" is a spiritually empty, morally blind, cold, hostile place.

In 1979 "Wise Blood" was made into a movie. According to the Rotten Tomatoes website, "from the The Maltese Falcon to the The Dead, filmmaker John Huston created provocative adaptations of stories and novels -- and Wise Blood is considered to be among his most daring."

Pomander Balls: An Easy To Make Holiday Gift

For generations pomanders were given as a New Year’s gift. When I was young my grandmother and mother made them as Christmas gifts, and I have continued with that tradition, but I have also discovered, whatever time of year you choose to create a pomander, they are easy to make and appropriate gifts for any reason, holiday, or season. So, if you are looking for something to keep the children busy have them make this unique gift.

Original pomanders were cases of gold, silver, ivory or china often encrusted with precious jewels and packed with aromatic herbal mixtures whose scents wafted through openings to permeate the air and ward off disease, as it was originally believed, as well as to mask the foul odors arising from unsanitary living conditions. These cases were hung from a chain around the neck or the waist and many were extraordinarily beautiful. Queen Elizabeth I was reported to have worn a girdle with a pomander, and Cardinal Wolsey is said to have carried a hollowed apple or orange filled with spices on his person. Of course not everyone could afford elaborately decorated cases so many folks had pomanders made out of more common materials, which the wearers hoped would be equally effective in keeping the wearer healthy.

My family has always made pomanders using citrus fruits: oranges, lemons, or limes. For a long lasting, fragrant, and beautiful pomander the fruit should be unblemished, nicely shaped, and fairly thick skinned. You will also need whole cloves, powdered orris root, available on-line or through your local health food store, and cinnamon or allspice, depending on your preference.  Dried or powdered orris root smells like violets and has traditionally been used to lend a pleasant scent to freshly laundered linens and to potpourri; but all these spices are quite fragrant lending the pomander its lovely aromatic quality.

For convenience sake, find a large plate or bowl to empty your whole cloves into. Working with the fruit over the bowl makes the process less messy. You will be working with citrus and will get sticky fingers, so keep some hand wipes nearby. Stud the surface of your chosen fruit evenly and closely with the whole cloves producing a tight “coat of mail” effect over the entire body of the fruit. To prevent your whole cloves from breaking off use a stiff toothpick to first pierce the skin of the fruit, then inset the clove into this pre-punctured hole . Once you start making your pomander it is important to finish the clove embedding process as soon as possible, otherwise the fruit will begin to dry making it difficult to work with.

When the fruit has been completely studded with cloves lay it in a bowl with the pomander spice mixture made up of equal parts orris root and cinnamon or allspice. Each piece of fruit will require about two tablespoons of the spice mixture. Turn the fruit daily in the spice mixture until completely cured. The length of time required to completely cure will depend on the size of the fruit; be patient. The pulp will dry slowly, the juices will seep out mingling with the spices, and the skin will slowly shrink. When the process is completed the pomander will be light, dry, and quite fragrant. A plus to the curing process is as your new holiday gift cures it emits a beautiful, spicy fragrance, a sort of holiday essence for the household.

Tie the completed pomander with a decorative ribbon for hanging in closets or bathrooms, or place in a drawer to keep your linens or delicates smelling sweet. Wherever you decide to use them their fragarence will last for years and can often be recharged simply by placing them back into the spice mixture for several days. What better way to keep the children busy, create lasting memories, and wonderful gifts all at the same time.

Happy Holidays!

I Love Books

When I was very young my paternal grandmother, Grammie Conn, would sit me on the footstool in front of her chair, brush my hair, then for what seemed like hours on end she would recite poems and nursery rhymes to me. A shy child, as I grew I preferred to spend my free time with my nose buried in a book. I loved the way I could get lost in another world when reading, literally transported; books became my own little time machine through which I explored a world much larger and – I believed - more interesting than my own.

My mother was an avid reader herself and did not discourage me from reading, but sometimes I had to bend her rules a little - like hiding under the bedcovers after lights out with a flashlight reading until I fell asleep, when I woke I would continue on and be late getting ready for the school. I would try to read at the dinner table, I read when I was suppose to be doing chores, I would even hide books within my text books at school, pretending I was studying while really I walking through the Amazon, slaying dragons, or falling through a rabbit hole to another world . As my family life became more chaotic and unstable books became my anchor and my escape.

Phantom Tollbooth was published in 1961, the year I was born. I discovered Norton Juster’s novel through the school’s library sale when I was in Fourth or Fifth grade. It was not the first book I had ever read, but it was so different that I remember it to this day. The tale begins with the protagonist, Milo, returning home from school to find an anonymous package containing a miniature tollbooth and a map of Lands Beyond. He puts the tollbooth together, gets the map, drives through the tollbooth in his toy car and finds himself driving on a road in a place called Expectations. Thoroughly enjoying the ride, he pays no attention to the map and gets lost in the Doldrums, a grey place where thinking and laughing are not allowed. However, he is found there and rescued by Tock, a watchdog with the body of an alarm clock, and together they continue their travels.

While Phantom Tollbooth is far from being in the literary fiction category, the writing inspired me. Many literary novels were once simply popular writings that collected admirers and stood the test of time. Writings that begin as popular with the masses are often skewered by critics. Conversely authors declared literary geniuses by modern critics may really prove to be no better than a middle-brow wordsmith.

I read somewhere that literary fiction can be described as well-written with distinctive characters that grow and change, rich dialogue, and interesting story lines, but doesn’t that describe every good tale? Is it not possible that a story categorized as “popular fiction” eventually become recognized as literary fiction if it stands the test of time by exhibiting a well crafted phrasing in a style that is vivid, original, and paints a lasting picture in the reader’s mind?

Which Do You Prefer?

From This:

“Come back to me, come back to me”, you imagine a voice calling while you watch the setting sun.

As the light fades, night comes courting. His siren song is enthralling coaxing you from the comfort and safety of your kitchen, to the soft glow of the dooryard, and onward into the still of the night.

Gunmetal clouds paint the hills in dancing moon shadows; sky and mill pond dress in flannel grays forever reflecting their kinship. Leafy boughs beckon, caress, and enfold you in their warm embrace. Fireflies dance over the swaying grass accompanied by bullfrog’s bassoon, chirping peepers, owl’s throaty woodwind, and coyotes’ chorus.

Dreams pour out of your eyes, your ears, your mouth and float just out of reach on the dark night air. You grasp at their wisps, chasing after them as they flee into the morning. Shimmering like diamonds in the dew, they evaporate in the light.

So you shade your eyes against the brightness of the day. Brush your teeth and wash your face, and dress to go to work and as you’re getting ready to get into the car and drive to the office you think you hear a voice call.

"Come back to me and remember. I’ll wait for you. Do not forget from where you came. Eden is under your feet.”

To This:

The light fades, night comes courting, coaxing you from the comfort and safety of your house to the soft glow of the dooryard, and onward into the night.

Gunmetal clouds paint the hills with moon shadows. The night sky and mill pond dress in flannel greys forever reflecting their kinship. Swaying boughs beckon. Fireflies dance over the grass to a bullfrog's basso profondo and a chorus of peep frogs.

Dreams flow from your eyes, your ears, your mouth and float away on the dark night air. Grasping at their wisps you chase after them as they flee toward morning; like diamonds in the dew they evaporate with the dawn.

So you wake and shade your eyes against the brightness of day. Brush your teeth, wash your face, and dress to go to work. As you open the front door you hear voices in the wind:" "Come back, come back and remember me. Do not forget from where you came. Eden is under your feet."