Well, it seems I've been reading too many Flannery O'Connor short stories again. I can always tell when I've overdone it. If you hear me complaining about the the lupus that I don't have, or if I start talking about naming my firstborn Joy-Hulga, it is definitely time to rip The Habit of Being out of my hands and tell me to get a life. I wish I could say, "Don't worry. I'm not going to go get a giant tattoo of a peacock on my arm to symbolize my undying love for a dead author or anything rash like that." Oh wait. Sheesh.
I recently read Brad Gooch's biography, Flannery, and it really didn't help with my obsession. However, it did make me feel lazy and unaccomplished, which is how any great book or work of art usually affects me. It's strange. Even though I can't watch movies with violence, unless they feature zombies, I can stomach O'Connor's grim and gritty depictions of lost souls being offered a chance at spiritual life. O'Connor's characters get gored by bulls, drowned, murdered, and I can't get enough of them. If you've never read an O'Connor short story, you should be tarred and feathered. I would suggest starting with "Greenleaf" only because it is my favorite. Plus, if anyone is interested in the sort of "prayer healing" that Mrs. May despises, perhaps we can try it out one day.
Future goals: live on a farm like this, dedicate myself to art, write well. Sigh.
"Greenleaf" is an odd choice of favorite, but I've always liked it. Some of the stories in ETRMC are just a little too polished, but this one isn't.
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