Wow.
This is a collection of stories that O'Connor was working on when she died of lupus at the age of 39, in 1964. How to describe them? The protagonists are often horrible people who experience brief opportunities to grow. Generally, they do not take advantage of these opportunities. They or others die hideously violent deaths in surprise twist endings. (I may have blunted the surprise a little - sorry.)
O'Connor is considered great by many people who know a lot more than I do, but I struggled to love these stories. They are nearly perfectly crafted and one reads them quickly, even easily. They are frequently extremely funny, and I will concede that O'Connor was an extraordinary observer. As awful as the people in her stories are, they feel organic and strangely believable. But she pulls no punches whatsoever when it comes to describing racial attitudes in the '60s south, and reading much of the (realistic) dialogue made me feel nauseated. If she was too honest about her time and place, that's no failing. But I was glad to turn the last page.
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