“Miz Welty,” the Southern boy writers all called her. They would have removed hats in her presence, had any of them been wearing one. Eudora Welty commanded the shy respect that a literary grand lady ought, although in person she was modest, retiring, self-deprecating—as if she might wish to disappear rather than stand on a platform. Perhaps she knew that her own disappearance was the surest way into the bodies of her fictional characters, into the landscape of their lives, and therefore into the hearts of their stories. Perhaps hers was a personality better suited to living a written rather than a public existence.
She died in July of 2001, a couple of months before the world underwent the most profound of its most recent transformations. Although she wrote many books and received the Pulitzer Prize, she is probably best known for the story in her oeuvre that least represents her: the ubiquitous “Why I Live at the P.O.,” an over-anthologized, oft-imitated light piece that showcases little of her writerly virtuosity and only ingeminates a regrettable regional pigeonholing. The story is a funny bit of unreliable narration, and a pleasure to hear Welty read on audiotape (“Burdyburdyburdyburdy!” she sings; “There I was over the hot stove, trying to stretch two chickens over five people and a completely unexpected child into the bargain, without one moment’s notice,” she complains). But because of its postmistress speaker’s relentless, nattering voice, the reader is robbed of Welty’s usual narrative presence, which is both more arresting and more bizarre. If not “Why I Live at the P.O.,” often an anthology will include “A Worn Path,” which comes closer to capturing Welty’s larger talents but still holds tight to the prescribed regionalism that many want to assign to its author.
Photo: Marion Ettlinger
To read the rest of this article, please visit our online store to purchase a copy of the issue or order a subscription.
