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Southern Excursions: Views on Southern Letters in My Time
Few if any are better endowed than George Garrett to comment on the general and the particular, the long and the short, of southern letters in our time. Garrett― a prolific and internationally renowned author of fiction, poetry, drama, and biography as well as a teacher, editor, critic, and frequent jurist for literary competitions―has been immersed in the writers and literature of his native region for almost a half century. Southern Excursions contains more than fifty of the best essays, reviews, and other short pieces of his career. For the connoisseur of good writing, this book is a depository, a treasure, a veritable time capsule of southern, literary, and American culture.
Without sacrificing reverence for modern masters such as Faulkner, O’Connor, and Welty, Garrett has consistently embraced worthy new artists through the years, deftly and judiciously drawing the line between critical acclaim and popular success. Payton Davis, Shelby Foote, Walker Percy, William HoVman, Madison Jones, Reynolds Price, Robert Morgan, R. H. W. Dillard, Wendell Berry, Doris Betts, William Goyen, Mary Lee Settle, Randall Kenan, David Huddle, Allan Gurganus, Dorothy Allison―these are a few of the writers Garrett has championed. If some names sound less familiar, Garrett, in these pages, will inspire readers to swift investigation.
The author’s charm, wit, and anecdotal style make reading Southern Excursions a delight, and yet there’s no mistaking his erudition. Wise like a prophet, with a talent scout’s enthusiasm, Garrett is not afraid to tell unwelcome truths, covering topics that include southern publishing houses and literary quarterlies, the alliance between writers and academia, the state of criticism and theory, and, most eloquently, the persistence of place, memory, and the Civil War as themes in southern letters.
Southern Excursions is a book for the ages, stowing as it does the sage views of one as learned, respected― and modest―in his time as George Garrett. “My strong suggestion [to readers],” he states, “is to plunge in and fare forward. Experience the story before turning to or trusting the opinions and judgments of others, myself included.”
Without sacrificing reverence for modern masters such as Faulkner, O’Connor, and Welty, Garrett has consistently embraced worthy new artists through the years, deftly and judiciously drawing the line between critical acclaim and popular success. Payton Davis, Shelby Foote, Walker Percy, William HoVman, Madison Jones, Reynolds Price, Robert Morgan, R. H. W. Dillard, Wendell Berry, Doris Betts, William Goyen, Mary Lee Settle, Randall Kenan, David Huddle, Allan Gurganus, Dorothy Allison―these are a few of the writers Garrett has championed. If some names sound less familiar, Garrett, in these pages, will inspire readers to swift investigation.
The author’s charm, wit, and anecdotal style make reading Southern Excursions a delight, and yet there’s no mistaking his erudition. Wise like a prophet, with a talent scout’s enthusiasm, Garrett is not afraid to tell unwelcome truths, covering topics that include southern publishing houses and literary quarterlies, the alliance between writers and academia, the state of criticism and theory, and, most eloquently, the persistence of place, memory, and the Civil War as themes in southern letters.
Southern Excursions is a book for the ages, stowing as it does the sage views of one as learned, respected― and modest―in his time as George Garrett. “My strong suggestion [to readers],” he states, “is to plunge in and fare forward. Experience the story before turning to or trusting the opinions and judgments of others, myself included.”
Hardcover
First published April 1, 2003
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August 11, 2021
If you're like me, you'll appreciate the fact that George Garrett chides "the shills and barkers" that aid and abet the literary establishment, those so-called critics who trade in "the crude claims and clumsy commerce of the publishing world." And you'll appreciate his vexation over the fact that "most of our reviewers and critics seem to be deeply and sincerely self-serving," unwilling to apply even the most commonplace of rigors to the subjects of their critical attention.
Most of those quotes are taken from Garrett's 1998 review of a book of criticism by Fred Chappell, a writer whose "flinty integrity" he extols; all are to be found in Southern Excursions: A View on Southern Letters in My Time, Garrett’s own collection of 54 essays, reviews, and interviews spanning more than four decades of a remarkably prolific writing career.
I single out Garrett's condemnation of compromised critical practice not because it represents a literary outlook that emerges from this collection of writings, nor because of my own admiration for tough-minded critical evaluation. I single it out because the writer that emerges from this collection well personifies the very definition of what it means to be a compromised member of a literary "establishment [that] remains largely unquestioned, unchallenged."
Not one of Garrett's here-assembled writings, in fact, would be accurately characterized as generally negative or critical in tone or content. Often they are hyperbolically reverential in tone. We learn, for instance, that the war novels of William Hoffman "have all the subtlety and power of Conrad or Henry James at their best and finest," that Randall Kenan's A Visitation of Spirits “is breathtaking in its explicit virtuosity," and that we ought to "reserve a seat of honor at the high table of the art of fiction for Dorothy Allison," a perfectly worthy writer but one hardly assured a place in the canon of Southern literature, let alone in that of American letters more generally.
To be sure, there is a sprinkle of dissent here ("the southern novel has gradually become a genre, every bit as formulaic as science fiction, the thriller, the historical romance, or the old-fashioned western") and a quibble of reproof there ("Terminal cuteness is the dread disease of too much new southern writing, especially first-person stories about eccentric families.) Yet, as you read, notice that such judgements are never followed by actual indictments, or applied to any of the works Garrett undertakes to review. What those few broad pronouncement are followed by, often, is the names of fellow writers who are exceptions to the general rule, individual carve-outs if you will.
Where flourishes of unparsed criticism do tilt above the happy weeds, they are largely prosaic and mostly reserved for the deceased: the writing in Mary Johnston's The Long Roll, published in 1911, is "dated" (stunner); James Dickey was "infected with the insidious virus of celebrity" (likewise).
Coming to Garrett's contemporaneous review of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, I held out hope for fireworks: a little-known writer punching straight up. What could be easier? Instead, in a not unserious review, what I found was a lot of giddy cheerleading ("an excellent book [that] will no doubt be treated as such by even the most rebellious reviewers") drowning out a down or two of hard-nosed critical evaluation (a "deliberate suppression of [Capote's] self…appears to be the cause of certain weaknesses.")
Not coincidentally, I suspect, the most subtly critical review in the book—emphasis on subtly—is directed toward Hubert Alexander's biography of the writer Peter Taylor. Like criticism, biography is one step removed from the work of the poet or storyteller. Arguably, it’s a secondary pursuit, a reaction to the literary creator or creation that has come before. And like criticism, very often the words of the biographer can sting.
Garrett himself published eleven novels, eight collection of short stories, eight books of poetry, and three stage plays. Despite the book at hand, more often than not he and his work were on the receiving end of critical practice. It's hardly inconceivable, then, to think that his own reviews were shaped by the blows his critics had dealt, and that he might cast a suspect eye toward critic and biographer alike.
He certainly wouldn't be the first aboard that boat. Many are the successful poet or novelist whose weak-tea judgements or criticism of the critics have resulted in failed critical endeavors (scanning my shelves: Howard Moss, A.S. Byatt, Zadie Smith, just to name a few); few are the ones who can live up to the achievements of serious critics like George Steiner, Calvin Trilling, or Cynthia Ozick.
Garrett, to be fair, anticipates my judgement, and leaps to his own defense with this trite gem:
Americans have been conditioned to react favorably to such sentiments. Who's not been told by their parents or teachers 'if you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all'? In the schoolyard, that's all well and good. Applied to the culturally important practice of evaluating literary art, such sentiments are altogether lacking in integrity, flinty or otherwise.
Alfred Kazin said "the interest of criticism lies in itself, in the thinking that it practices." Much the shame it is, then, that Garrett's "critical code" has barred from gaze some substantial portion of his own surely supple thinking. In my book (or review, as the case may be), it's wholly irresponsible, and an act that only serves to tarnish the legacy of an otherwise admired literary figure. ©Jeffrey L. Otto, August 11, 2021
Most of those quotes are taken from Garrett's 1998 review of a book of criticism by Fred Chappell, a writer whose "flinty integrity" he extols; all are to be found in Southern Excursions: A View on Southern Letters in My Time, Garrett’s own collection of 54 essays, reviews, and interviews spanning more than four decades of a remarkably prolific writing career.
I single out Garrett's condemnation of compromised critical practice not because it represents a literary outlook that emerges from this collection of writings, nor because of my own admiration for tough-minded critical evaluation. I single it out because the writer that emerges from this collection well personifies the very definition of what it means to be a compromised member of a literary "establishment [that] remains largely unquestioned, unchallenged."
Not one of Garrett's here-assembled writings, in fact, would be accurately characterized as generally negative or critical in tone or content. Often they are hyperbolically reverential in tone. We learn, for instance, that the war novels of William Hoffman "have all the subtlety and power of Conrad or Henry James at their best and finest," that Randall Kenan's A Visitation of Spirits “is breathtaking in its explicit virtuosity," and that we ought to "reserve a seat of honor at the high table of the art of fiction for Dorothy Allison," a perfectly worthy writer but one hardly assured a place in the canon of Southern literature, let alone in that of American letters more generally.
To be sure, there is a sprinkle of dissent here ("the southern novel has gradually become a genre, every bit as formulaic as science fiction, the thriller, the historical romance, or the old-fashioned western") and a quibble of reproof there ("Terminal cuteness is the dread disease of too much new southern writing, especially first-person stories about eccentric families.) Yet, as you read, notice that such judgements are never followed by actual indictments, or applied to any of the works Garrett undertakes to review. What those few broad pronouncement are followed by, often, is the names of fellow writers who are exceptions to the general rule, individual carve-outs if you will.
Where flourishes of unparsed criticism do tilt above the happy weeds, they are largely prosaic and mostly reserved for the deceased: the writing in Mary Johnston's The Long Roll, published in 1911, is "dated" (stunner); James Dickey was "infected with the insidious virus of celebrity" (likewise).
Coming to Garrett's contemporaneous review of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, I held out hope for fireworks: a little-known writer punching straight up. What could be easier? Instead, in a not unserious review, what I found was a lot of giddy cheerleading ("an excellent book [that] will no doubt be treated as such by even the most rebellious reviewers") drowning out a down or two of hard-nosed critical evaluation (a "deliberate suppression of [Capote's] self…appears to be the cause of certain weaknesses.")
Not coincidentally, I suspect, the most subtly critical review in the book—emphasis on subtly—is directed toward Hubert Alexander's biography of the writer Peter Taylor. Like criticism, biography is one step removed from the work of the poet or storyteller. Arguably, it’s a secondary pursuit, a reaction to the literary creator or creation that has come before. And like criticism, very often the words of the biographer can sting.
Garrett himself published eleven novels, eight collection of short stories, eight books of poetry, and three stage plays. Despite the book at hand, more often than not he and his work were on the receiving end of critical practice. It's hardly inconceivable, then, to think that his own reviews were shaped by the blows his critics had dealt, and that he might cast a suspect eye toward critic and biographer alike.
He certainly wouldn't be the first aboard that boat. Many are the successful poet or novelist whose weak-tea judgements or criticism of the critics have resulted in failed critical endeavors (scanning my shelves: Howard Moss, A.S. Byatt, Zadie Smith, just to name a few); few are the ones who can live up to the achievements of serious critics like George Steiner, Calvin Trilling, or Cynthia Ozick.
Garrett, to be fair, anticipates my judgement, and leaps to his own defense with this trite gem:
Like a lot of other writers these days, I do a certain amount (when asked) of newspaper and magazine book-reviewing, working within the allowable boundaries of that brisk familiar form. One part of my own critical code is that, when space and attention are so rare and so competitive, I can't see any good reason to review a book that I really don't like.
Americans have been conditioned to react favorably to such sentiments. Who's not been told by their parents or teachers 'if you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all'? In the schoolyard, that's all well and good. Applied to the culturally important practice of evaluating literary art, such sentiments are altogether lacking in integrity, flinty or otherwise.
Alfred Kazin said "the interest of criticism lies in itself, in the thinking that it practices." Much the shame it is, then, that Garrett's "critical code" has barred from gaze some substantial portion of his own surely supple thinking. In my book (or review, as the case may be), it's wholly irresponsible, and an act that only serves to tarnish the legacy of an otherwise admired literary figure. ©Jeffrey L. Otto, August 11, 2021
Displaying 1 of 1 review