|THE LAST SUNSET, GLOUCESTER|
ON BALANCE, A MONTH OF SUFFERING.
NOT WITHOUT JOY, BUT A MONTH OF SUFFERING.
In the photo on the front of Conversations with Flannery O’Connor her arms are bare, her lips a little chapped, her eyes large, penetrating, intelligent, and clear. She never pandered, never flattered, never tried to smooth over. I realized today that she seemed to have no close friends, no confidante. As Richard Gilman said, "No writer I’ve known had such devotion to art, felt so much a conduit rather than a source, expected so little beyond internal satisfactions. Something she wrote in an essay reprinted here [in Mystery and Manners [?]] seems to me to convey an essential quality of her lonely, besieged, and unnoticed life and to be a motto for the risks she took and the things she made: 'The writer has no rights except those he forges for himself within his own work.' ”
Here's this week's Aleteia column--"The Sorrowful Violence of Racism."