The Review of Contemporary Fiction

Southern Excursions: Views on Southern Letters in My Time, by George Garrett, edited by James Conrad McKinley
reviewed by Irving Malin

Untitled document

George Garrett. Southern Excursions: Views on Southern Letters in My Time. Ed. James Conrad McKinley. Louisiana State Univ. Press, 2003. 315 pp. $35.00.

Although the “excursions” in this surprising collection vary in length and form—essays, book reviews, tributes, introductions, dialogues—they are all gracefully written. They demonstrate that even in this solemn (absurd?) time of theory, there are critics whose written voice is always present. Garrett’s words are his—they are not as cranky or moralistic or Jamesian as those of Winters, of Blackmur, of Leavis. Garrett recognizes that southern literature is one of the easy categories used to place writers who are, in some ways, remarkably different. He ranges widely, from Truman Capote to Madison Jones to David Madden to James Dickey to his own fiction. Who exactly is a “southern” writer? Garrett understands that many “southern” writers, especially after World War II, inevitably moved to other regions. Thus the notion of place is insufficient to categorize such works as The Confessions of Nat Turner or Death of the Fox. Garrett writes: “Sometimes imaginary history, and at its heart an imaginary sense of place, not only haunts our lives with ghostly voices and echoes but is, finally, stronger, even more accurate that the cut, shuffled, and dealt world of hard facts.” I am pleased to see Garrett, a master of “southern” letters, a founder of the fellowship of “southern” writers, rebel against the very category in which he is usually placed. And he continually surprises me when he proclaims In Cold Blood a work of art, or condemns many of the omissions in the Encyclopedia of Southern Culture, or defends, in a conversation with George Core, the virtues of the Hudson Review (and other quarterlies). It is impossible to review this hefty collection of excursions; I can say that at times Garrett says enough in one sentence to make most other writers envious. Garrett defies convention, constructs real arguments, and remains a true ghostly presence in the “south.” Therefore, I honor his excursions; he makes me watch my strides; he points out things I hadn’t seen; and he makes me rethink my rash assumptions.


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The Review of Contemporary Fiction Southern Excursions: Views on Southern Letters in My Time, by George Garrett, edited by James Conrad McKinley reviewed by Irving Malin Untitled document George Garrett. Southern Excursions: Views on Southern Letters in My Time. Ed. James Conrad McKinley. Louisiana State Univ. Press, 2003. 315 pp. $35.00. Although the “excursions” in this surprising collection vary in length and form—essays, book reviews, tributes, introductions, dialogues—they are all gracefully written. They demonstrate that even in this solemn (absurd?) time of theory, there are critics whose written voice is always present. Garrett’s words are his—they are not as cranky or moralistic or Jamesian as those of Winters, of Blackmur, of Leavis. Garrett recognizes that southern literature is one of the easy categories used to place writers who are, in some ways, remarkably different. He ranges widely, from Truman Capote to Madison Jones to David Madden to James Dickey to his own fiction. Who exactly is a “southern” writer? Garrett understands that many “southern” writers, especially after World War II, inevitably moved to other regions. Thus the notion of place is insufficient to categorize such works as The Confessions of Nat Turner or Death of the Fox. Garrett writes: “Sometimes imaginary history, and at its heart an imaginary sense of place, not only haunts our lives with ghostly voices and echoes but is, finally, stronger, even more accurate that the cut, shuffled, and dealt world of hard facts.” I am pleased to see Garrett, a master of “southern” letters, a founder of the fellowship of “southern” writers, rebel against the very category in which he is usually placed. And he continually surprises me when he proclaims In Cold Blood a work of art, or condemns many of the omissions in the Encyclopedia of Southern Culture, or defends, in a conversation with George Core, the virtues of the Hudson Review (and other quarterlies). It is impossible to review this hefty collection of excursions; I can say that at times Garrett says enough in one sentence to make most other writers envious. Garrett defies convention, constructs real arguments, and remains a true ghostly presence in the “south.” Therefore, I honor his excursions; he makes me watch my strides; he points out things I hadn’t seen; and he makes me rethink my rash assumptions.

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