Flannery O'Connor is dear to me.
I really, really love her way with words. See:
When someone has a truly great relationship with and passion for words, I feel something well up inside of me. A spark, maybe? I don't know... it's almost as if words make a person immortal. Certain passages have a way of reaching into my soul, and I feel in those moments as if I'm linked to the author by a bond surpassing anything mortal.
A deeply personal SOUL hug?
Suddenly it doesn't matter that Emily Dickinson isn't recluding away in her bedroom right now because she's long since passed away because I KNOW THE TRUTH and the truth is that Emily is my own bosom friend. Her words have immortalized her, endeared her, and become her.
Today, I found a few words written by Flannery O'Connor. They were written in a journal, perhaps a journal that was never meant to be read? Perhaps that's why she's so vulnerable and honest?
But, OH, how grateful I am. I feel less alone.
Flannery O'Connor has also been immortalized because of her words -she is always with us, always sustaining and inspiring us. Her spirit is on earth, floating around libraries and Pinterest and landing in our laps like a neighbor popping in for an unexpected visit.
Except Flannery doesn't care about laundry on the floor and clingy toddlers because she's dead. And dead people have impeccable perspective.