William Gay, "I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down" (2002).

I wonder. How many times will I have to write a review of a William Gay book before everyone that reads this blog will run out and get one for themselves? This is an essential question because there is a particular imminence to my recommendation. Gay is still alive. How many times have you thought to yourself that you'd like to find a classic American author while he/she is still alive? You have that chance right now. Get in your car (or on your bike) and go to whatever local book store has the largest selection of lamentably obscure fiction. Now buy anything they have by William Gay. He is a living master. And he's about 66 years old. Go give him some of your hard-earned cash while he is still alive, because he won't last forever.

As for me, I'll patiently await the release of his next novel- The Lost Country. I have no other choice, since I've read virtually everything else that Gay has published in book form. Likely there is a treasure trove of unedited work lying somewhere that has never seen the light of day. That stuff can trickle out posthumously. For now I just want Gay to be as prolific as possible. I tried to save something for a rainy day, but I just couldn't. I had to read it sooner rather than later. Today I've finished I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down, an amazingly well-crafted collection of stories that I'm certain will linger in my subconsciousness for a long time. It is constructed with a detailed hand that manages to wend its way into the substrata of my imagination.

In fact Gay writes with such a deft touch that I'm just a little bit scared when I read his stuff. I'm afraid that the events and themes that he writes about will slip off the page and began to manifest themselves in my life. That's the type of power and force that I attribute to the experience of reading his words. He manages to meticulously capture a sense of foreboding inevitability that is at once shocking and believable. There have been numerous times when I was reading his tales when I stopped short in the middle of a paragraph, at once divining what was to happen to one of Gay's characters. It's a heartrending experience, but there is nothing to be done but continue with the thread.

This specific collection underscores one of Gay's repeating obsessions- the idea that there are certain doors that, once opened and traveled through, cease to function as portals forever after. There are actions that entail such severe consequences that they permanently alter a life's trajectory. These form a "before" and "after" that define personal eras. As we watch a protagonist drift toward a certain decision, we become aware of the vicissitudes of fate. These people may know less than the reader, but at a cellular level they seem to realize exactly what they are heading for. In the case of Gay's tales, these destinations are always transformational, and seldom for the better.

Whether it's a successfully married man of thirty years gunning down his wife's annoying lapdog or a straying spouse finally succumbing to the worst sort of temptation, we know that Gay's characters will pay a steep price for their lapses andindiscretions. I can only speculate as to the real-life lessons that William Gay has accumulated. His hardened features seem to betray a series of disappointments and tragedies that have become his inescapable companions. Maybe we are better off with his fictions. They serve, as often as not, as cautionary tales. Perhaps we will subsequently go off and make the same mistakes we've seen documented in his books, but at least we will have a better facility for imagining the worst case scenarios.

William Gay, "Twilight" (2006).

I put off reading William Gay's Twilight for months after I found it on the shelves of a used book store. I had already been through his first two novels over the past twelve months, and I didn't want to run out of his works too quickly. Gay is an older man at 65, and I'm not sure how many more novels he has in him. I like the idea of setting one by for a rainy day. On the other hand, I've become accustomed to thinking about this author as one of my favorites, and I feel some obligation to complete my reading of his output in its entirety. Now I have just one collection of short stories to go, and then I'll have to wait for the publication of his work-in-progress, which is apparently titled The Lost Country.

Unlike Gay's previous two novels (Provinces of Night and The Long Home), Twilight is almost devoid of humor. It concerns a macabre discovery unearthed by siblings Kenneth and Corrie Tyler. Apparently the local undertaker (Fenton Breece) is kinkier than his job should allow. Gay doesn't necessarily linger over the details of Breece's perversions (at least not at first), but the reader is meant to understand that this creep has overstepped the lines of criminal decency. The Tylers are alerted to his activities because they have recently lost their bootlegging father and they have espied Breece removing a precious article from his grave. Upon further investigation, they realize that the man is up to no good.

While one might be tempted to immediately blow the whistle on such a ghoul, sister Corrie see these circumstances as an opportunity for her and Kenneth to escape the poverty of their life, and get out of town. She would like to blackmail Breece, but needs proof of his wrongdoing. This comes in the form of polaroid shots of the undertaker abusing dead bodies in his workshop. Despite her brother's hesitancy, Corrie approaches Breece and demands fifteen thousand dollars for the return of the photos. Now Fenton Breece is a bit of a pampered aristocrat, but he doesn't relish being extorted by a teen-aged girl (especially one that he has lusted after in the past). So he hires the meanest cuss in town to get the photographs back.

Granville Sutter is a bad, bad dude from rotten stock. It's no secret that townspeople fear him, and Kenneth Tyler would like to give him a wide berth. Unfortunately Sutter has targeted the young man as the weak link, and believes that the threat of violence against the siblings will compel them to give up the game. Sutter doesn't necessarily approve of what Breece has been up to, nor does he really want to know any of the gory details. He just wants what's coming to him when he delivers the goods to Breece. And he's bound to employ any means to accomplish his mission. Not surprisingly, things turn ugly for the Tylers. Soon enough Kenneth finds himself on the lam, pursued by the maniacal Sutter.

Much of Twilight takes place in a vast tract of overgrown wilderness called the Harrikan. It is in this haunted terrain that Sutter attempts to overcome Kenneth Tyler, and the boy in turn encounters some truly archetypal Southern Gothic figures. Gay is able to make the Harrikan come alive with his efficient yet evocative description of flora and fauna. Interspersed within the woods are the abandoned detritutus of coal and other industrial operations that accentuate the sense that the characters are passing through a forbidden "no man's land". A feeling of impending doom accompanies the text, so that the reader is not sure what might happen next, but remains continuously aware that the possibilities are virtually endless.

William Gay, "The Long Home" (1999).

As I predicted in this blog about a month ago, I have eagerly devoured another heaping portion of Southern Gothic by the talented writer William Gay. This time I chose to read his very first book, The Long Home. As I've previously mentioned, this was the first novel that Gay published after toiling in obscurity for almost forty years. Not only did it garner prizes and critical acclaim, but it ensured that the author would have additional opportunities to access a greater audience. While it's a bit of a shame he's not better-known, I feel privileged to have come across his work. I made no secret of the fact that I was impressed by Provinces of Night, and I'm happy to report that his earlier title stood up to the standard of excellence that I expected.

The Long Home begins with an enigmatic event of great magnitude- a backwoods bootlegger named Hovington is almost swallowed up by a cataclysmic pit that spontaneously forms on his land. Soon after, his homestead is invaded by a darkly malevolent character named Dallas Hardin. This interloper takes advantages of Hovington's rather steady deterioration, moving in on not just the whiskey business, but on the man's wife as well. As the original master slowly fades, Hardin consolidates his power over both the household and the community. He begins to build a small empire of vice and will let nothing and/or no man stand in his way. Even Hovington's beautiful young daughter is held in his power.

That's particularly disconcerting to young Nathan Winer. This seventeen-year-old man has already had his share of misfortune. His father disappeared ten years ago, and his bitter mother suspects that she has been intentionally abandoned. Nathan is put off by her harsh recriminations of her long lost husband, and secretly believes that his Dad met a far worse fate than escaping his shrill harpy of a wife. But there's not much that young Winer can do about any of this. The only paternal guidance he gets is from an elderly neighbor who lives and works on a nearby plot of land. William Tell Oliver has been around a long time, and understands local secrets that he'd rather shunt aside. Still he cares a lot for Winer.

Despite the mild warnings that Oliver delivers to the boy, Winer decides to take Dallas Hardin up on an offer for a job. Hardin is expanding his operation with a large honkytonk, and he needs someone that can help with its construction. When the head carpenter on the project gets caught with his figurative pants down, Hardin decides to let Winer take his place. Even though Nathan has no formal training, he is confident that carpentry is in his blood (his father worked the trade). With a contrary resolve to mind his own business, Winer is brought inextricably into the gritty demimonde of a truly villainous character. Hardin is both devious and determined, and thinks little of destroying life for his own gain.

When Winer falls for Amber Rose Hovington (the orphaned teen who Hardin has "adopted" as his own), a brooding storm threatens to erupt. Secrets and betrayals are exchanged, and all the story's players assume their tragic roles. The violent consequences strike the reader with such force that one can only wonder whether they can be redemptive, or if they merely underscore the essential bleakness of the boneyard of life. Gay has struck a few deep chords of humor into his tale, but one suspects that they are only meant to serve as the sugar that helps the bitter medicine go down. There is a deep despair underlying the beautifully evocative descriptions in Gay's prose. I can only hope that he remains productive in his late years.

Scott Phillips, "Cottonwood" (2003).

You could be forgiven for never having heard of Scott Phillips. The sad fact is that most contemporary American authors languish in almost total obscurity. The few that do break out into a broader public consciousness (like Cormac McCarthy, for instance) never quite reach the status of celebrity. That's likely because of the increasing illiteracy of this country. But it also has to with the predominance of other forms of popular culture. Most of the drones across this wide land can identify even the most untalented actors who appear in mainstream movies. Even so, not everyone in Hollywood gets name recognition. Only the top three or four directors would be recognized by the average citizen. Screenwriters are even more anonymous.

So it should be no surprise that the release of The Ice Harvest (2005) did little or nothing to advance the fame of Scott Phillips. After all, he was only the author of the book by the same name. And to add a further factor of remove, he generally writes about Kansas. Middle America has never been particularly sexy as far as the media is concerned. Still Phillips is not necessarily writing inaccessible stories. Among the literary cognoscenti, he is known for writing darkly comic neo-noir crime fiction. Much of his writings have been set in the mid-20th Century and before, but as with most material dealing with betrayal, thievery, and violence- Phillips' themes are easily transportable to the modern mind.

His third novel is titled Cottonwood, and it is his only book that I have read. It takes place in a small Kansan town at the end of the 19th Century. Like many other places located in that geography during that time, Cottonwood is portrayed as a settlement on the cusp of major changes. A stranger from Chicago (Marc Leval) and his wife have recently come to town, and they are building the most elaborate household ever seen in the territory. Leval employs many of the long-time inhabitants in the construction trade, and therefore garners plenty of popularity from the start. He successfully predicts the imminent arrival of the railroad, and therefore inspires confidence in his tale of a new cattle drive route through town.

Leval quickly consolidates his influence by befriending the local barkeep, Bill Ogden. A former farmer and gravedigger, Ogden is at a sort of crossroads in his life. He has left his Dutch immigrant wife Ninna on the margins of civilization, snugly in the arms of the farmhand that he himself hired to till his fields. Oddly this doesn't bother Ogden much, as whatever affection had once characterized his marriage is long gone. So he's pretty much free to pursue his own devices, which includes running his saloon and sleeping with whomever he can wrangle an invitation from. Naturally this is a growing source of conflict between Ogden and Leval as they cement their new business partnership. Mrs. Leval is quite beautiful and equipped with a wandering eye.

There are other troubles brewing on the outskirts of Cottonwood. People have been disappearing during their journeys into the wilderness. It soon becomes clear that a German family called the Benders may have something to do with the waylaid travelers. They run a sort of bed-and-breakfast alongside their freakishly thriving apple orchard, and it seems that many who decide to spend the night end up sleeping there for an eternity. This doesn't bode well for Leval's plans to build a new metropolis, and so he and Ogden set out to confront the situation. Phillips shows a deft touch in integrating regional historical figures (the Benders) into an otherwise fictional narrative. His prose is simple and straightforward, and moves at a brisk pace.
While I wouldn't be tempted to call Cottonwood a "future classic", I can understand why Hollywood has come a'calling to the Phillips homestead.

James Carlos Blake, "A World of Thieves" (2002).

Over the last couple of months I've been doing pretty well pulling recommendations off of Amazon. I've discovered several authors that I have enjoyed, and I'm sure that I'll continue reading their books. Many of these writers work within male-oriented genres. The characters are hard and capable of excessive violence. They are also tortured by the disconnect between the way things should be, and the way the world is. There are a lot of unattractive truths and complicated relationships. Certainly there is also a lot of moral relativism. For the most part, I've enjoyed the themes these authors have explored. If nothing else, they have found a way to avoid easy answers and broad generalizations. That's why they seem so true.

As I finish one title, I'm led to the next in a chain of kinship. In this way I came across the name of James Carlos Blake. The man is the product of the Texas/Mexico borderlands, and a descendant of a noted pirate. As a kid he made pocket change by capturing poisonous snakes. It's been said that Blake is the literary equivalent of film director Sam Peckinpah (The Wild Bunch, Straw Dogs, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia). Certainly Blake manages to pack a lot of bloody incidents into his narrative. His characters seem fated to fulfill their harsh destinies despite the circumstances that might momentarily distract them. It seems a point of confidence for Blake that a man will be what he is meant to be despite his own will.

Buck, Russell and Sonny are not exempted from Blake's convictions. They believe (as the author no doubt does) that thievery is in their blood. A World of Thieves chronicles their adventures in Louisiana and Texas. Sonny is an orphaned teenager that is slowly learning his own place. He has cast his lot with his paternal uncles and intends to find his fortune by hook or by crook. Fraternal twins Buck and Russell started out as gamblers and petty thieves, and slowly worked their way into committing armed robberies. While their eldest brother (Sonny's father) looked the other way regarding the crimes of his siblings, he wanted something different for his son. But when he passed away, Buck and Russell recognized Sonny's true nature and kinship.

A World of Thieves begins with a botched bank robbery that results in the capture of Sonny (whose job is to drive the getaway car). As luck would have it the authorities have very little evidence that Sonny is guilty. He expects to get released quickly, but then finds himself sticking up for an effeminate weakling in his holding cell. As a result Sonny finds himself staring down a life sentence, and he is sent to Angola- a prison plantation in the swamps of backwater Louisiana. Despite history and conventional wisdom our protagonist believes he can successfully escape his imprisonment, and sets off to do just that. Against all odds he succeeds and sets off to rendezvous with his mentors and resume his life of crime.

Blake's spare prose keeps the reader's eye moving quickly through the pages. There is very little extraneous description- the writing is almost entirely focused on the action. I found this a bit unfortunate, as the novel's settings have enormous atmospheric potential. The characters blunder through the murky wilderness, raise hell in raucous oil-boom towns, and make pit stops along isolated desert roads- but Blake skims over all of this, rushing toward his eventual goal of utter destruction. He also inverts traditional morality in such a way as to make the villains heroes, and vice versa. He punctuates his narrative with moments of brutality, but for the most part he makes a crime wave look like a humorous romp. I don't think this approach does his material justice.

William Gay, "Provinces of Night" (2000).

In my current campaign to read some of the lesser known contemporary Southern Gothic writers, I came across the name of William Gay. Assuming that he was a new young voice in the tradition of Faulkner, McCarthy, and O'Connor, I picked up Provinces of Night with substantial expectations. In examining its jacket I spotted a blurb from Steve Yarbrough that read, "It is time to stop calling William Gay an exciting new voice. In Provinces of Night he proves that he is simply one of our finest voices." That's high praise from a fairly successful regional author, and it reinforced my preconceptions about the author. But there is a particular irony to those words, because Gay is a 65-year-old man who published his first book in 1999.

This native Tennessean has been writing short stories since 1958, but for decades he toiled in obscurity. He is a veteran of the US Navy, and served in the Vietnam War. Throughout his life he has spent time living in New York City, Chicago and Lewis County, TN. He has worked as a carpenter, drywall-hanger and painter. Gay comes from the sort of background that expects its inhabitants to eke out a working class living. His people are solidly rural and Southern, and belong to a tradition that extends backward to the first days of Reconstruction. Few of his neighbors could have expected him to eventually develop a following as an established author. But that's exactly what has happened over the last ten years.

Gay's first published novel (The Long Home) earned him the James A. Michener Memorial Prize. It also attracted the attention of Doubleday, the publisher of Provinces of Night. His second novel tells the story of several generations of the Bloodworth clan. These hardy sons of the dust refuse to be settled by their surroundings. Each generation in turn strikes out to find some elusive freedom, at once beyond and wholly determined by their inheritance. Patriarch E.F. is approaching the end of his life, and has finally slowed down enough to begin his ruminations over a misspent life. His sons are occupied with their own quests- defining their own relationships with the land and kin.

The third generation is represented by Fleming Bloodworth, an atypically cerebral teenager who is largely left to his own devices. His father (Boyd) has abandoned him in the pursuit of his wayward wife, and Fleming is alternatively repulsed and fascinated by his extended family. His aging grandmother would like to take him in, but has her hands full with keeping up with the chores and her increasingly crazy youngest son. Uncle Brady keeps a pack of feral dogs on the family property, and is not shy about offering his clairvoyance and hexing services for a fee. He is suspicious of his siblings, and displays an outright hostility for E.F. Every one of the Bloodworths is completely capable of complicating what should be honest and straightforward interactions between themselves and the world.

As if there weren't enough players filling his pages, Gay has created a large cast of peripheral characters with complicated idiosyncrasies and warped agendas of their own. Although the book is a modest 290 pages long, it manages to convey enough information so that the reader knows what these folks are about. Gay's writing style is densely evocative. His sentences are the type that may require a pause for a re-read, but the essential economy becomes clear once one processes the words. His prose is so beautifully wrought that (at times) I was overwhelmed by his sense of place. It would be easy for Gay to be intimidated by the literary heritage that informs his work, but he manages to confidently tell an entertaining and moving tale. I'll definitely be returning to his territory.

Tom Franklin, "Hell at the Breech" (2003).

Having sampled Tom Franklin's writing in his short story collection Poachers, I thought that I'd return to the well for a novel. Hell at the Breech is (nominally) historical fiction about a backwoods war pitting town vs. country folk in Alabama's Clark County. Apparently the author first heard tales of this feud while growing up in the very state where it happened. One might expect a litany of violence, unremitting vengeance and good old Southern backstabbing- and if that is the type of thing you are interested in, you can indeed find it all right here. However don't expect to find some pulpy, breezily entertaining read. Franklin's got the goods, and while comparisons to William Faulkner and Cormac McCarthy may be presumptuous, they may not be completely out-of-order.

The cycle of mayhem is set off when two young rural brothers decide to play 'highwaymen" along an isolated dirt road out in the sticks. Macky and William Burke merely want to get a few funds so they can visit the local prostitute, but they inadvertently set off a chain of events that builds steam until the region's inhabitants become inextricably involved in a series of bloody conflicts. Sheerly by accident they manage to kill a man. Fortunately for them, they are able to slink away without their deed being witnessed. When the murder is discovered by the victim's cousin, an insidious plot is hatched to extend the violence outward. The poor folk of the Mitcham Beat have been oppressed by the 'city ways' of nearby Grove Hill and Coffeeville for far too long.

County Sheriff Billy Waite is growing weary and preparing to retire from his long career as a lawman. He understands the barely repressed hostilities and resentments borne on the chests of the cotton farmers in Mitcham Beat. When he learns of Arch Bledsoe's death, he knows there is going to be trouble. Bledsoe was a popular store owner and aspiring politician who was extremely popular in the outlying rural areas of the county. Not only was he free with the bootleg whiskey he stocked at his shop, but he had the only outdoor croquet court for hundreds of miles. When his surviving kinsman "Tooch" Bledsoe decides to form a local gang called 'Hell-at-the-Breech' to avenge his cousin's death, he is able to recruit a small band of potential outlaws, ready and wiling to take the fight to the towns. Soon he has built his own little fiefdom in the wilderness.

"Tooch" begins his efforts close to home. He and his men (including the Burke brothers) start to lean on the neighboring farmers. They let them know that sides must be chosen. Either they will assume the banner of the 'Breech', or they must keep silent and stay out of its way. When several independently-minded dirt-scratchers challenge his growing authority, they find themselves on the wrong end of some unlucky mishaps. A few of them end up six feet under the cold, hard ground. As news of this filters back to Grove Hill, pressure builds on Sheriff Waite to get some satisfaction. He intends to get to the bottom of this rash of violence and bring the appropriate ne'er-do-wells to justice. Problem is there isn't a lot of love for him out in the cut. And eventually the "Breech" strikes closer to home.

Franklin's prose is spare and precise. He doesn't waste a lot of time examining the inner lives of these simple and brutal men, but rather conveys character and motivation through their laconic verbal interchanges, and their deeds. Many of the incidents he describes are brutally violent and gory- yet never sensationally so. The visceral nature of the evils perpetrated among the cotton fields and dense woods is conveyed without unnecessary elaboration. And yet even within the most malicious perpetrators, he finds strains of humanity. The reader understands how the hardscrabble conditions of life in rural southwestern Alabama (in 1897) led to bloodletting and betrayal. Franklin's account is all-the-more convincing because it is essentially true. This is exactly how historical fiction should be written, even if it doesn't adhere strictly to the 'facts'.

Harry Crews, "The Knockout Artist" (1988).

It's really a shame that when Harry Crews was recommended to me fifteen years ago that The Knockout Artist wasn't the title lent to me. If it had been, I likely wouldn't have put the author aside for as long as I have. A Feast of Snakes (1974) was mildly entertaining, but I thought it exposed the author as a gritty pulp-meister who had a limited ability to build substantial characterization. Everybody who appeared in that book came off as cartoon stereotypes. My experience with Classic Crews (a collection of some of his earliest works) put him back on the map of quality Southern scribes, as far as I was concerned. I decided I had made a hasty judgment and sought out one of his most critically-acclaimed works.

The Knockout Artist tells the story of Eugene Biggs, a Georgian farm boy who strikes out for bigger adventures in the city. He travels to New Orleans and meets a trainer named Budd, who schools him in the fine art of fisticuffs. Eugene quickly ascends the ranks of the local fight scene, and begins to get some opportunities to meet tougher opponents. Although he lacks the ability to put his man on the canvas, he is wickedly deft and able to shuck-and-jive his way to many victories on points. As long as he is successful he receives the admiration and attention of his adopted father figure. But then he gets clocked by a power punch, and his tragic flaw is exposed (he has a weak chin). He can't beat the count and loses his first match. The floodgate now open, he loses three subsequent bouts and is dropped by his manager/trainer. On his way out the door, Budd retorts that Eugene could probably knock himself out. In frustration, the young fighter does just that.

Left alone and abandoned on the street in the most insidious Southern port, Eugene finds his way waiting tables at a restaurant. It is there that he catches the eye of a young socialite named Charity. She is a beautiful, vibrant, and intelligent girl who has a suspicious interest in bedding Eugene. It is soon revealed that Charity is close to receiving her doctorate in psychology, and has an academic interest in the grittier, lowlier class of people- such as washed-up young boxers. While Eugene does indeed feel patronized by the attentions of Charity, he has also become cynical and is lacking quality alternative options. Not only does he bed Charity, but he actually allows her to put him up in a fancy apartment. Thus begins a relationship that carries us to the main events in the book.

Somehow Charity has convinced Eugene to perform his inimitable self-knockout trick in front of paying audiences. She has arranged for him to be compensated well for his efforts. In return, she requests only that he allow her to document his life-story via tape recorder while they have sex. While he doesn't cotton to having his brain picked and battered, he does find both money and Charity attractive, and so agrees to the arrangement. Through these public appearances, Eugene comes into contact with some of the seedier denizens of New Orleans, and the story widens to include additional subplots. The main thread finds Eugene and a friend taking up a Cajun youth in order to make him into a champion fighter in his own right.

What makes The Knockout Artist impressive is the vast range of characters Crews is able to bring to life. Far from being limited to the depiction of working class toughs and outcasts, this book presents a wide range of folks, freakish in varying degrees in outward appearance and/or psychological makeup. While everybody is distorted at some level, their humanity is drawn broadly enough so there is virtually no one without redeeming qualities. There was a certain complexity to these personalities that I found largely absent in Crews' other books. Although there were plenty of bleak and depressing events in the narrative, The Knockout Artist contains a germ of hope- which seems to be a rare discovery within the works of this author. Perhaps Crews was merely mellowing in his advancing age, but I enjoyed the compassion he bestowed upon his protagonist. It made the book more than just ugly.

A Trip to the Library. Tom Franklin, "Poachers" (1999)

Having whet my appetite for Southern Literature, I went to the Carnegie Library main branch in Oakland for some reading material. With a new baby in the house, I figured I'd try to find ways to save money. I used to frequent the library a lot more than I have in the last couple of years. When I started exploring the world of graphic novels and comics, I decided that I didn't want to spend an inordinate amount of money just trying to familiarize myself with what was available. At the library I could find out which ones should be in my collection, and maximize my resources. I'd stumble out with arm-loads of stuff. I discovered plenty that was worthwhile, and a fair amount that made me thankful I had merely borrowed them.

On this trip I wanted to concentrate on finding novels written by authors I had either read previously, or had learned about through Amazon. I had to make a stop in the 'graphic novel' section first. I've been receiving 'snail-mail' notices that I owe money for a comic I took out two years ago. The few times I've gone to the Carnegie recently, I've always made a point of locating that particular item on the shelf (no one ever borrows it) and showing it to the desk clerk nearby. Invariably I am told by staff that I actually owe nothing at all, and shouldn't be receiving those notices. It's a bit of a hassle, but I'm never actually kept from grabbing more books, so I don't complain too much. Believe me, if I owed for the thing I'd simply pay the fine and be done with it.

Anyway I did find a few choice items with pictures, and then made my way into the low-ceilinged concrete rooms in the back. This is where they keep the fiction, jammed together and lit with God's awesome fluorescence. Overwhelmed by the claustrophobic atmosphere and the quantity of books, I tried to recall the name of an author I was interested in. After a few minutes I settled down, and was able to concentrate. I chose writers who I associated with the Southern Tradition- George Saunders, Charles Portis, George Singleton, Harry Crews, and Tom Franklin. I didn't really think that I could read all 9 or 10 books within the initial three-week lending period, and so I planned to renew whatever was left by accessing the Carnegie site on the internet.

I started in on the stuff this past week. I read the A.M. Homes book that I reviewed earlier. I went through a collection of Singleton's stories that lacked focus, and failed to match the expectations I had formed based upon previous readings of his work. And I followed that up with Franklin's Poachers (1999). Tom Franklin was born in the small town of Dickinson, Alabama and received an MFA from the University of Arkansas. He currently teaches at the University of Mississippi. His short stories reflect the untamed interior landscapes of the Deep South. In his introduction to Poachers , Franklin sheds light on his upbringing with tales of his nascent hunting career. To hear him tell it, it was an activity that he felt pressured to engage in to prove his manhood. But whatever nostalgia he has for hunting is tinged with gore and self-doubt.

However the three brothers featured in the eponymously-titled story of Poachers take to the wilderness with such natural aplomb that it is impossible for them to function in polite society. They are teenage orphans, who rely on their deep knowledge of the swamps and woods to sustain them. They have very little contact with any of their own species, and would be perfectly happy if it were to remain so. But after a run-in with a new game warden, they are inevitably targeted as transgressors. Their confrontation with a shadowy vigilante is brutally savage, yet deftly told. Franklin has a way of miring his readers in the kudzu-choked corners of his stories. There are plenty of grisly details and horrific consequences accompanying plaguing the author's gritty characters. Yet the humanity at their core is made undeniably present through Franklin's keen observations.

Fortunately I picked up another of Franklin's titles in Oakland the other day. When I finally make it through the Portis book, and some of the other dross I no doubt accumulated, it will be refreshing to return to the fierce places of this writer's fresh imagination.

My Attraction to the Southern Gothic Tradition.

Sometimes it's hard to account for the direction of one's interests. For some reason I've been drawn to Southern Gothic literature for much of my reading career. Sure, it started out with William Faulkner. I started with his most difficult work- The Sound and the Fury. I didn't know what the hell I was doing with that book, but I plowed through despite myself. I understood it to be about the madness of one insular Southern clan and their relationship with their region's history. I didn't get much further than that. Yet I knew I had touched on something great, and resolved to continue my explorations of this seminal American author. I read his most accessible book next (The Reivers) , and realized that Faulkner was not just deliberately obtuse.

I continued my exploration with As I Lay Dying, and decided that the book was probably where I should have started with this author. It was straightforward, and yet encapsulated many of the elements and themes that Faulkner is celebrated for. I particularly enjoyed the multiple narrators. The more I consumed, the more I became addicted to tales his about fictional Yoknapatawpha County. I found Absalom, Absalom and Light in August, and figured out that these works would live inside me forever. My Faulkner phase came upon me so fast and hard that I quickly came close to exhausting his entire oeuvre. Wanting to extend my relationship with his extraordinary work, I chose to save his trilogy (The Hamlet, The Town and The Mansion) for a future date.

Having moved on to other things, I soon found myself pining for Southern literature in the tradition of the master. I heard about a contemporary author named Cormac McCarthy, who was said to be influenced by the man from Oxford, Mississippi. The first title I picked up was Suttree, and I was immediately hooked. Not only was it written in the same spirit, but it exhibited some of the stylistic mannerisms I had come to love. As with his progenitor, I quickly went through all of McCarthy's books. And as I read them over the years, McCarthy evolved into a master in his own right. While there is no denying the craftsmanship of his early works, one would be hard-pressed not to recognize The Road as a modern classic. If he never hits that level of excellence again, I will still feel that he met his full potential.

After Faulkner and McCarthy, I knew I was hopelessly addicted to stories set in the South. Someone recommended Harry Crews, and I found him to be a harder-edged, trashier writer who caricatured his gritty Southern locales and the inhabitants that populated them. Due to proximity, I also became fascinated with the enigmatic qualities of West Virginia. I encountered the posthumous stories of Breece D'J Pancake, the singular literary voice of the Mountain State. His short career (punctuated by his 1979 suicide) was a tantalizing glimpse into the dark ways of the backwoods hollers. His work moved me to begin my own personal explorations into the mysteries of the state. I became aware of the excellent documentary filmmaker Jacob Young, and his subject from Boone County- Jesco White.

It's hard to say just what compels me to sustain my travels through this shifty and evocative terrain. The culture and politics of its people are about as far from my own upbringing as possible. Maybe it's the fascination with the 'other' that keeps me returning to this region. Or perhaps its because it's the one part of America that seems to hold on to its authenticity. If there exists a place in the United States beyond the reach of the homogenized suburban development and the consumer hell of strip malls, then it is surely to be found somewhere on a Southern back-road.

Cormac McCarthy, "The Road" (2006),

Although I make a serious effort to spend as much time reading as possible, it's very rare for me to read an entire book in one day. Besides the fact that I have more responsibilities and priorities than ever, I am a notoriously slow reader. I'm usually satisfied if I get through 100 pages over several hours. So it's notable that I completed the entire length of Cormac McCarthy's The Road in a single day. I'm certain that it's partially attributable to my appreciation for the author's previous works. I've gotten through almost all of them. And I was particularly looking forward to The Road, because of its post-apocalyptic theme. But I also found it eminently readable, despite its relentlessly bleak tone.

The Road is the tale of the relationship between a father and his young son, and their struggle to survive a harsh world. Something has occurred to make living on the Earth virtually unmanageable. McCarthy never explicitly outlines the cause of the transformation, but certain clues suggest that it might have been the result of a nuclear war. There are ashes over everything, and the sun is perpetually obscured by the particulate matter in the atmosphere. Naturally this means that all plant life is either dead or extremely unhealthy. Without feed animal husbandry is impossible, and so food supplies are almost non-existent. People aren't able to rebuild from the ashes of civilization because agriculture is seemingly impossible. The survivors are left to salvage the remains.

McCarthy increases the mystery and tension by leaving out the exposition that most writers would be tempted to include in the book's early chapters. We don't know who the father was before the disaster. We are told that he once had a wife, but she couldn't bear life without hope. Their boy was born after the key transformational event, and he knows nothing of what society used to be like beforehand. His father realizes that those "old days" are slipping away forever, and exist only in his receding memory. It's for this reason that he chooses not to talk too much about the past to his son. We don't know exactly how long the pair has been wandering, but we know that it's been at least several years. It is obvious that love for his boy represents the only reason for the father to stay alive.

The descriptions of their surroundings are concise and matter-of-fact. This is unexpected considering the author's usual penchant for long, meandering, occasionally indecipherable paragraphs. For the first time in my experience with McCarthy's work, I was actually propelled along by the rhythm of his writing. The horror is explicitly drawn whenever the father and son encounter something new. Meanwhile we are aware of much unspoken nastiness that they have apparently become desensitized and detached from. The reader is often asked to consider the plight of the main characters, and ask him/herself whether or not he/she would continue on, or just give up altogether. As our heroes search through the ruins of one tableau after another, it's quite clear that a commitment to persevere has to be renewed daily.

The Road would be nearly unbearable if there weren't such a tender relationship at its core. The depth of feeling exchanged between Papa and "the Boy" is clearly evident, and the dialog between them makes up a large portion of the book. In fact there are very few other characters that McCarthy introduces directly into the narrative. When the few exceptions occur, these figures are usually employed merely to advance the understanding we have about our protagonists. What degree of humanity have they been able to preserve despite the unthinkable pain that accompanies them? How do they relate to others when the inexorable message of life is "kill, or be killed"? If this incredible work doesn't evoke both dread and introspection in its readership, then the scenario it's based on is probably inevitable. This is a tremendously important book, and a true classic in every sense.

Harry Crews, "Classic Crews" (1995).

Over a decade ago one of my friends tried to get me into Harry Crews. Usually I have to ask to borrow a book, but in this case it got shoved in my face. This particular friend was just a bit too concerned with being a hipster, so I felt the need to approach his recommendation with skepticism. He also pushed Neil Gaiman and Barry Gifford on me, and I wasn't very impressed. Still it was true that I claimed to like Southern Gothic writers, and I was assured that Crews fit the bill. I took Feast of Snakes home and read it in a few hours. It was mildly entertaining, but I felt like its portrayals of "white trash" were too stereotypically condescending. The writing style was also on the wrong side of a bit-too-clever. I thanked my friend for letting me borrow the book, while silently resolving to forget about Harry Crews.

Then a couple of weeks ago, I brought a documentary called Searching For the Wrong-eyed Jesus over to a buddy's house. Featured in the film was a grizzled, beat-up, old southerner telling stories about growing up in the Deep South during the mid Twentieth Century. My buddy recognized him as one of his favorite writers, and talked me into taking home a volume called Classic Crews. Despite my initial reaction to Crews, and the subsequent purchase of another novel that I found mediocre (Scar Lover), I decided I'd give the author one more chance. Hell, here was a reader whose tastes I respected, and he was pushing Harry Crews. This volume was older stuff, and (as the title suggested) considered 'classic' work. Surely it must be worthwhile.

Well, it turns out that the material in this book is quite good. It begins with an autobiographical account of Crews' childhood in Bacon County, Georgia. His family were tenant farmers, and lived alongside an African-American brood of sharecroppers that featured an old woman who had been born into slavery. When Crews got so sick that he was confined to his bed, this wise elder would sit alongside him and distract him from his pain with tall tales. The author would credit that time as the start of his love for story-telling. The extreme poverty he grew up within was made bearable by the charms of the Southern oral tradition. No doubt that gift helped him through the years after his stepfather slipped into alcoholism, and his mother brought him to Jacksonville, Florida. Crews' childhood was rough and largely unsupervised, and obviously informed his fictional content and style.

Classic Crews also contains two relative early short novellas. The first is called The Gypsy's Curse (1974), and sketches the world-view of a young man who labors under severe physical disabilities. Marvin is deaf, mute and has undeveloped legs, but his upper body is so developed that he can perform amazing feats of balance that people will pay to see. He lives with an adoptive father figure named Al, a punch-drunk old negro, and an addled youth who aspires to be a boxer. Together they inhabit an old-school gym, where bodybuilders and boxers seek physical perfection. People may underestimate Marvin, but they do so at their own peril. When his girlfriend Hester decides that she is going to move into the gym, its comfortably depressing atmosphere is radically altered. The story proceeds at a brisk pace to its inevitably catastrophic end.

Car (1972) deconstructs the American love affair with the automobile. At its center is a motherless family toiling in the largest auto graveyard in the southeastern United States. The dreamer of the brood is Herman, who has decided to 'become someone' by eating an entire Ford Maverick. While his father and siblings initially resist the idea, they are eventually caught up within the spectacle surrounding his well-publicized effort. After all, Herman's made his decision, and they might as well profit from it. A local hotel has sponsored his strange project, and it is gradually gaining nationwide attention. Car has more satirical social commentary than I have learned to expect in Crews' fiction . The message of the novella is reinforced by a personal essay detailing the author's own experiences with cars, which precedes Car.

I don't know whether Classic Crews is just extremely well-edited, or if there is a lot more to Harry Crews than I thought. Perhaps the collection really does represent the best of what he has to offer. In that case I probably don't need to keep returning to the well. On the other hand, I might just be developing a taste for the writer's fascinatingly unique settings and situations, and his deft characterizations of eccentric Southerners. I have to admit a willingness for further exploration.