"You've got good blood! I know you wouldn't shoot a lady! I know you come from nice people! Pray! Jesus, you ought not to shoot a lady.... "Lady,"...There were two more pistol reports and the grandmother raised her head like a parched old turkey hen crying for water and called, "Bailey Boy, Bailey Boy!" As if her heart would break. "Jesus was the only One that ever raised the

Flannery O'Connor Writing is an ancient art, used from long ago to convey various aspects, including entertainment, education, recording of history, critiquing and rebuking, writing revelations and many other purposes. There are various forms of writing, in which authors engage to put forth their feelings and intention. Additionally, history has many prolific and congruent writers who made names for themselves through writing instinctively about various themes and issues. Among the writers

Flannery O'Connor was born in Savannah, in the Deep South-East of the United States in 1925. Her adolescence was marked by the death of her father, from whom she later inherited the disease, deadly enemy with whom she fought, without surrender, for a lifetime. (Ann, pp74-78) However, her childhood was marked by more or less serene moments; she was taken to be, at the age of 6 years, a minor

He then utters the story's baffling last line, "It's no real pleasure in life" (O'Connor 1955b, 456). Thus, "A Good Man is Hard to Find" can be read as something of the inverse, or parallel, parable to "Good Country People": In the former, nihilism, or the absence of belief, wins out over faith, despite the Misfit's ugly admonition that his anti-programmatic perception of the world is ultimately not firm

Flannery O'Connor's literature has been described as grotesque, Catholic, Southern, and even gothic. Her work has also been recognized for its harsh humor and criticism of the south. Much of her literature reflects the hostilities she experienced against racist southern attitudes, social structures, and southern ways of life. She was awarded three O. Henry awards for short fiction during her life as well as numerous grants and fellowships. After her

Dark thunderclouds now literally crowd around him, the worst "crouched behind the car" ("The Life You Save May be Your Own"). Mr. Shiftlet, his almost-empty shirtsleeve flapping outside the driver's window, begins driving into a storm: a stray lone wolf outside Noah's Ark. As the storm is about to "Break forth and wash the slime from this earth" (O'Connor) Mr. Shiftlet seems, especially now, a demon of deceit. But