South Toward Home

61Gg+--6UeL._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_At the end of September in 2015, I drove up from Tallahassee to Savannah, Georgia for a weekend. While part of that trip was to visit with a friend who was going to be there at the same time as me, another motivating factor was to make the trip to Flannery O’Connor’s home in Millidgeville, Georgia, a couple of hours away from Savannah. I’d made trips to the homes and relevant locations of other writers I loved (particularly Jack Kerouac and Ernest Hemingway) but I still hadn’t been to the famed Andalusia farm of O’Connor even though I now lived in the (relatively) same part of the country for quite a few years. Since I didn’t know when I would be getting that close to Millidgeville again, I decided I should make a special effort and finally  make the pilgrimage to the town so closely associated with Flannery.

The truth of the matter was that I had not really appreciated the degree to which I was interested in Southern writers. There were those I knew I had a great love for, like the aforementioned O’Connor and her Southern Catholic compatriot Walker Percy, but Andre Dubus and Eudora Welty and, of course Faulkner (though I still stand firmly on the side of Hemingway in the mythological bout between William and Ernest, I certainly appreciate Faulkner’s powers as a writer). But while I read Southern writers and I was aware of the idea of the Southern writer as seen in courses taught on that very topic, I’d never considered myself as someone who was particularly engaged with Southern writers in a meaningful way.

Just before I was going to leave on this trip to Savannah and Millidgeville to go into The South (in all that those capital letters imply), I came across Margaret Eby’s book South Towards Home. I can’t remember where exactly I came across the book, what publication had offered up a favorable review that made it very enticing, but it was on my radar and when it happened to show up at our local Barnes & Noble I was sure to pick up a copy and I made my way through it with the alacrity that is indicative of a well-written and engaging work.

Eby, a journalist and critic who has written for The New Yorker, Vanity Fair, Salon, Slate, and is currently the features and essays editor for HelloGiggles, “a positive online community for women […] covering the latest in culture, female empowerment, style, relationships, friendship, careers, and issues that matter most to young women’s lives,” writes a travelogue of a journey throughout the south to see the landmarks and places closely related to that region’s most prolific writers that in some way illuminates what it is about the South that makes its writers so remarkable and their writing so distinctly and wonderfully southern. What Eby does in this book, and what makes it both so enjoyable and worth reading for the novice as well as the expert, is to seamlessly blend thoughtful travel writing and historical background with a sharp focus and critical eye that speaks to a knowledge and understanding of the source material crafted by these writers. This is a book that both speaks to those who know very little-to-nothing about these writers as well as those who are a bit more familiar with those upon whom she focuses.

I felt this to be particularly true as I represent both sides of that equation. I did not know much of anything about Eudora Welty and Richard Wright beyond the few things I’d read by them, and I was woefully in the dark regarding Harry Crews, Barry Hannah, and even John Kennedy Toole (who so caught the attention of one of my favorite authors, Walker Percy), thus the chapters focusing on them were welcome introductions that encouraged me to either read more by these authors or to read something by one of them for the very first time. But I felt like, as she talked about Welty’s garden or the hot dog vendors of New Orleans that feature so prominently to Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces, I was being better prepared to tackle and understand their work, reflecting Eby’s insight into what is most essential and factors most greatly into our understanding of these writers and their writing.

Those chapters on the authors about which I knew a good bit more– William Faulkner, Harper Lee, and of course Flannery– were just as interesting as well. I particularly enjoyed the chapter on O’Connor, her home in Millidgeville, and the famous peacocks that she brought onto the grounds. But within that, there were many biographical bits of information or observations about O’Connor and her work that I had never encountered before and that made me realize certain things about O’Connor that I had not realized before that moment. Though it is perhaps something that cannot be translated to any kind of quantifiable form, it is this quality that displays that this is a book that is not just restating things or that Eby is writing a book for the novice. This is a book that can hold the interest of someone who has (or likes to think they have) a grasp on these things.

I sometimes feel as though we (those of us in the realm of literary criticism) often shy away from the biographical so much and so greatly that we never take the time to familiarize ourselves with those things to the degree that we should. While I’m not saying that all critical endeavors need to be the byproduct of biography and constantly refer back to the author’s life, there should be more encouragement and space allowed to fully acquaint ourselves with the histories of these authors we work on, something that came to mind as I read South Towards Home, which provides this blend of critical reading of the primary texts with the biographical and historical foundation that helps us as readers to better understand and comprehend what we’re reading.

Universal Baseball Association

In the next edition of my apparent series of reviews of books that are in one way or another about sports, I made my way through another novel that I’d heard a lot about and knew that I would probably like. Robert Coover’s The Universal Baseball Association, Inc., J. Henry Waugh, Prop. was something I’d come across in a few different places. Books about baseball, books of an existential or philosophical nature, postmodern novels, important American novels of the twentieth century, there were many lists on which Coover’s novel might have appeared that I read and subsequently noted The Universal Baseball Association as a book I needed to read. Motived by finally reading A Fan’s Notes or perhaps because I finally got my hands on my Strat-O-Matic baseball board game from back home, or just because we’re beginning the Major League Baseball season, I felt the push and decided to finally read Coover’s most famous novel.

The novel focuses on the life of the Henry Waugh of the title, a man who has created a dice-based baseball game. But his creation hasn’t stopped there as he’s created a league of players, an entire history that has goes back many years, and the lives of these players that they lead when they aren’t on the baseball diamond. There are families and rivalries and traditions and events that exist beyond the boundaries of the novel. We first encounter Henry in the middle of one of these games, in which Damon Rutherford (who is the son of Brock Rutherford, one of the greatest pitchers in the history of this game he’s created) pitches a perfect game. Henry is filled with a certain kind of joy and elation in the wake of this accomplishment for one of his players, a player who has a pedigree within this game, and thus elects to pitch him again the day after pitching that perfect game. In that game, he ends up on the Extraordinary Occurrences chart and Damon is hit by a pitch and killed. The “death” of this fictitious player causes Henry’s life to go out of control and affects him much like a “real” death would and we witness the crumbling of Henry’s life as a result of this incident. He could just ignore the results of the game or make a change to prevent Damon from being struck and killed, but that would destroy the rules that bind the game and make it “real.”

That’s probably all we need in terms of recapping of the plot and background information because, perhaps not that surprising for a postmodern novel, it’s not the most important thing. The content of the novel, the characters and the conflicts and situations, are more of a device for Coover to explore themes and ideas as opposed to trying to depict something. While it’s not as absurd and surreal as some postmodern novels and somewhat concerned with realism, it’s not as “realistic” as other non-postmodern works. Regarding the thematic and conceptual aspects of the novel, one can see that there are very postmodern notions of what is real versus what is constructed and ontological questions present that arise from Henry and his life. Questions about free will and destiny emerge through Henry and his game, as well as issues of the divine and omnipotence as  Henry is in a godlike role with the world of the Universal Baseball Association that he has created and the ways in which his actions (at least that he is the one rolling the dice). There’s even some sound play going on here with J. Henry Waugh and YHWH, one of the Jewish names for God. As Wilfrid Sheed writes in his review of the book for the New York TimesBaseball and theology might seem to make strange bedfellows. But like a medieval schoolman who could make theology out of just about anything, Robert Coover has spliced the two together and produced a species of baseball scripture. His God is a lonely middle-aged accountant who has devised a dice-game that approximates the probabilities of baseball. That is all. Upon the void he projects the laws of chance, the percentages, what managers call, ‘the book.'”

What makes this such a great novel is the way that it is all of the aforementioned things as well as a depicting of what it is like to be passionate about sports or a game or something like that (in a somewhat similar vein to novels like High Fidelity or The Moviegoer). It is one of the great books that is “about” baseball. Well, let me clarify– it’s not about baseball in the same way as novels like The Natural or Shoeless Joe are about baseball, but baseball and the attendant fandom/fanaticism play a big part in the narrative of Coover’s novel. Postmodern novels are often overwhelmed by their postmodernness to the point where what is happening in the story is totally lost. The subject of the book itself does not matter as much as the theory or philosophy or concept that is being explored. The Universal Baseball Association, by contrast, does all those things and is still at its heart a book that’s about baseball. For someone who does not enjoy postmodernism as much as others but who loves baseball (and the baseball games like that which is depicted in the novel), this makes Coover’s novel both a palatable experience with the postmodern as well as one that reflects my experiences as an occasionally obsessive baseball fan. And while it is a novel, like so many of the best ones, that I feel like I need to read again another time to really pick up everything and appreciate it, I enjoyed that first reading and am looking forward to picking up The Universal Baseball Association again.