Flannery O’Connor is a bit of an enigma to me.
Several years ago, I wrote an article on the purpose of art, specifically literature, which opened with a reference to O’Connor’s style: her stories shocked my students. In fact, my seniors frequently lamented how very little of their readings this year possessed anything akin to a happy ending. This is true; for many of my students, our glimpse into reality through the eyes of a realist, naturalistic, or modernist author is a startling awakening, for their young minds have often been exposed to little more than historical works, pulp fiction and saint stories.
My point then was to discuss the varied representations of truth, the purpose of beauty, and ultimately what makes a work of art noteworthy. Flannery’s writings, among others, served as an example of unexpected depth. Yet, perhaps I was a little less than honest in that article. Actually, I continually find O’Connor’s stories a little lacking.
This will be a controversial statement to many O’Connor admirers and lovers out there, including many of my literary friends. Yet, to bolster the fairness of my appraisal, I recently finished a complete perusal of her essays in Mystery and Manners. I felt strongly that if I were to offer a critique of her meaning and presentation, in justice I should seek to fully understand her purpose.
The result is that she remains an enigma to me.
I would declare that a conversation with her would clarify many points for me, yet I think I would fear such a discussion as I am now much more acquainted with her sharp intelligence and biting wit; it makes for a very enjoyable read in her essays but I would fain bear the brunt of it! Still, such a meeting would resolve my mind’s dilemma: we would either find common ground in a thorough analysis of our terms’ significance or we would find our opinions regarding the limitations of art separated by a wide breach of difference.
Most dislike the violence within O’Connor’s stories or the abruptness of each one’s conclusion; indeed, we might more properly term each ending a withdrawal rather than a conclusion for the narrator merely pulls back from the scene and any resolution that may linger in our minds is a partial one at best. Admittedly, many short stories are typified from this “unfinished” quality, for the genre focuses not on character development, plot, nor a nicely tied-up ending but rather on an impression, a truth, a glimpse into life. When reading a novel, we magically open the door into another world, expecting to walk forward more clearly into our own at the end.
Rarely do we even approach such a door as readers of short stories, however; instead, we merely glance in the window and must reflect the inward look back out onto reality.
The nature of our literary encounter is consequently more vivid; the dark and ugly repels us more vehemently, the beautiful stuns us, and the paradoxes and questions befuddle us without the plot to act as guide. Hence, O’Connor’s graphic style – now famous defined as the “Southern grotesque” – may repulse those readers used to gentler treatment.
Still, her directness does not merit our refusal to meet with her.
She herself responds to such criticism with the challenge that those of a Christian perspective should have a sharper eye for the meaning behind the grotesque while secular readers may unwittingly open themselves to deeper truths in being shocked to their senses. (“The Fiction Writer & His Country”, p. 33) She embraces the realist style of her literary comrades while emphasizing that a true presentation of reality will necessarily lead the viewer to the mystery underlying their experience.
Nevertheless, as O’Connor limits herself to portraying what we all could see in our surrounding world – or, more accurately, as she sees herself constrained by her art – her stories often present dismal characters and scenes to us. The hypocritical nature of the self-righteous is laid bare; the selfishness of every person shines in her spotlight; and the steadfast exultation of personal freedom, more desirable than the struggle to be good, threads its way through every tale. The title of her famous story, “A Good Man is Hard to Find”, could truly be a summation of her entire work.
When an author so aptly unveils the emptiness of each soul and society though, does the work ultimately come to nothingness as well?
The majority of critics and lovers of Flannery would adamantly protest. They would likely call me narrow-minded or accuse me of sentimentalism for such a question. Perhaps they would group me with one of her correspondents who chided O’Connor that her writings did not “lift up her heart” and of whom O’Connor suggested had “forgotten the price of restoration.” (“The Grotesque in Southern Fiction”, p 48). Far be it from me, though, to glorify mediocrity and revel in that literature O’Connor claims produces “spiritual purpose for those who connect the spirit with romanticism and a sense of joy for those who confuse that virtue with satisfaction.” (“The Fiction Writer & His Country”, p. 31)
I relish her realism; I simply question whether she puts too many limits on her own art.
In her essays, O’Connor reveals a very intentional approach to her style, and a laudable integration of art’s purpose. Her insightful essay, “The Nature and Aim of Fiction”, describes how imagination and reason have been separated within the realm of art, which has led to its destruction. She cites Thomas Aquinas, reiterating that art is “reason in the making”, a work that is called to “intrude upon the timeless.” (p. 83) How does she actually let this philosophy inform her own writing?
She seeks to allow the “mystery” of truth to be revealed through an accurate picture of the “manners” of society.
Through “large and startling figures” she startles those readers who are “hard of hearing” into seeing this vision; for those who can see, she strives to show not “what we ought to be but of what we are at a given time and under given circumstances; that is, as a limited revelation but revelation nevertheless.” (“The Fiction Writer”, p. 34)
O’Connor’s talks and articles thus demonstrate her understanding of art, as well as her purpose in choosing her medium. She succeeds, at least to a degree, for many of her readers can recognize in every story the moment of grace, when redemption is extended to one of the characters. Be it the superficial grandmother in “A Good Man”, the restless hobo in “The Life You Save May Be Your Own”, or a myriad of other characters, each person experiences a chance to understand their own flaws and embrace a new life being revealed to them.
Sometimes the character surmounts the interior struggle and experiences mercy; sometimes they tragically reject the opportunity for restoration and descend into nihilism; in other instances, they merely glimpse a truth, and the trajectory of their development remains shadowed.
In all of these stories, their struggle receives more emphasis than the possible resolution because the story’s focus is on a particular moment and not on the denouement.
Do the stories’ effect achieve her intent, though? She claims the truth in these stories will uplift any reader who recognizes them; in a way, grace by its very presence will inspire the reader’s mind whether or not that grace is accepted or its transforming effects described. In the years that I’ve read her works, I’ve grown disinclined to agree. Her brilliance is unquestioned and her use of detail does indeed draw her reader to the mystery; at the end of “The Enduring Chill,” for instance, her use of dramatic color in contrast to the rest of the story’s drab description points to the depth of beauty available beyond the main character’s struggle to surrender control to the Holy Spirit. Each piece of writing contains at least one striking image of truth, which could rub the superficial glaze with which the characters consider reality.
Still, the suffering required to make this change and the depravation of human nature is emphasized to such a degree that the harshness of life is what ultimately remains with the reader at the end of story.
While the picture behind her writing is more complete than, say Hawthorne’s, I am always reminded of Melville critiquing Hawthorne’s work and asking the question, are his writings too dark? Melville contends that they’re not and he would likely see more light in O’Connor’s but I’m as yet unable to concede this point. Other writers, such as Tolstoy and Undset, depict the emptiness of the world and the darkness of the fallen soul while clearly leaving the reader with an impression of grace’s beauty and resilience; I don’t believe I can credit O’Connor with a similar achievement. I commend her for accomplishing her goal of revealing the entirety of “what we are at a given time” but I rue that she cannot allow the mystery to breakthrough more convincingly.
Nevertheless, O’Connor herself begs an author’s allowance from her readers: the writer is limited to their abilities and the reality they have known. If she were still here, I would posit to her that one of her desires remains unmet: she declares that when the fiction writer finishes a piece, “there always has to be left over that sense of Mystery which cannot be accounted for by any human formula”(“The Church and the Fiction Writer”, p. 153). The mystery that lingers after her stories is too particular to her own experience, I would speculate, while the nothingness behind each character’s actions and interior is impressively universal. Would her cutting response to my challenge undercut my position? Possibly. Would she convince me of the contrary? I would be thrilled if she did. Until that conversation, I cast my remarks of criticism upon the waters while applauding the heights her writings did approach.
