Sometimes the only response a critic has to a book is the most uncritical response possible: "Wow." And that's exactly what I said to myself after finishing THE DEVIL HIMSELF. Put simply, it's a novel that bristles with interestingness on every page, full of passages that feel the the most pleasant brain massage possible, and does it all with a greased-griddle glide that makes its heavy regional poetry and malignant darkness go by like the gracefully muscular prowl of a mountain cat.
That author Peter Farris has a delectably light touch with an original turn of phrase simply piles on the pleasure. Lines like "Under a previous owner the Bee had once been a great place to eat, a fish camp famous for shellcrackers fried in deep fat. Now the place inspired nothing but unwanted pregnancies and fistfights" and "He felt a knot in his gut, a rare twist of anxiety. Only the thought of bodies floating facedown in a backwoods pond soothed his discomfort" and “Gnats are considered a condiment in these parts" and "They passed roadside vendors advertising bait and tackle, produce stands with boiled peanuts, melons and lettuce and squash for sale. Countless service stations, many of them abandoned. Baptist churches. Cemeteries housing the Confederate dead. Creeks the color of weak coffee" induce little shivers of joy, as striking images pop up here and there like summer fireflies or tribal fireworks, and it's small wonder that THE DEVIL HIMSELF has been snapped up for film development. It is a feast for the mind's eye as much as the reader's eye.
I could break down the plot, but as good as it is, to me it's almost beside the point of this pure-delight reading flight, the experience of the page, the deliciousness of lightly seasoned servings of prime-filet prose for maximum explosions of flavor. I could go on about its place in Southern Lit, or Grit Lit, and its rich antecedents and peers, but to me that feels too limiting: THE DEVIL HIMSELF is less a part of a tradition than simply a great piece of storytelling that makes maximum use of its place. It is a triumph beyond category.