
          A Letter from Lillian Smith
          Edited by Gladney, RoseRose Gladney
          Vol. 10, No. 5, 1988, pp. 22-23
          
          This is the final letter in a series published over the last year
by Southern Changes exploring the correspondence of
Lillian Smith. The selection for this issue was written in the fall of
1955 after Smith had spent a month as writer-in-residence at Vassar
College. While there she learned that her book The
Journey had been selected by the Georgia Writers' Association
to receive an award for the best book of nonfiction with the most
literary value written by a Georgian in 1954 In late November, shortly
before her time at Vassar was scheduled to end, she also learned that
her home in Clayton had been burglarized by two young boys and that a
fire, resulting from their activities, had destroyed her bedroom and
study. Almost all of her personal belongings, unpublished manuscripts,
notes, and thousands of letters were lost.
          The following paragraphs are taken from a thank-you letter to
Helen Lockwood, who was head of the English Department at Vassar and
responsible for Smith's visit there. The selected passages reveal much
that epitomizes Smith's response to the circumstances which shaped her
life and, in many cases, determined her perceived status as a
writer. Lockwood and Smith had become good friends during their month
of working together, and Lockwood knew of the Georgia Writers' award
as well as the terrible shock of the fire. With such a friend Smith
shared the sense of humor and awareness of life's absurdities that
fueled Smith's profound critiques of Southern culture.
           This sixth and final selection in the Series of Lillian Smith
letters was taken from a carbon copy of the original in the Lillian
Smith Collection at the Hargrett Rare Book and Manuscript Library,
University of Georgia, Athens.
          Clayton, Ga.
          Dec. 2, 1955
          Dear Helen:
          The award was an absurd occasion--full of the grotesque, the
stupid, the sweet, the good in other words: it was "the South" giving
Lillian Smith an award with a trembling hand. I laughed until I was
weak; I wanted to cry and didn't; and I suddenly felt proud, proud
that these people had found somewhere the courage to do it. I did not
attend the first day of the conference but came in the second day and
attended the luncheon where Flannery O'Conner spoke; also attended a
fantastic round-table discussion of booksellers who were telling
writers "what the public wanted." It was so bizarre that it was
unbelievable, this talk. The high point was reached when the
booksellers agreed most gravely that what the public really wanted was
a book about "how to meet sorrow." "A big book or a little book?" some
one asked. They conferred about this, then the chairman said she
believed that what the public wanted was "a dollar book on how to meet
sorrow." Paula was in the back of the audience; I was midway in the
crowd; but I could not restrain myself from turning and looking at
her. It was altogether wonderful. I wouldn't have missed it.
          The night I received the award there was a big crowd at the
dinner. I had not been asked to speak; they feared I might drop a bomb
of some kind, I suppose. I don't know. Anyway, I had not been
asked. Hyman (No Time for Sergeants) who is a Georgia
boy had been asked to speak. But when they met me Thursday morning
they said to each other and even to me "Oh, she's nice; such a
lady, isn't she? Oh my, and dressed like Park Avenue; let's ask her to
speak; she must speak to us." Well, I must admit I had on my
Sunday beat and my Paris hat (the only one not burned) and my mother's
manners. Well, I spoke (without preparation) and I melted most of them
down. Not all, by any means; but MOST. Fully two-thirds of them came
up after the dinner and shook hands with me. A Baptist minister said
he was going to use some of my talk for his Sunday sermon.... A young
doctor said he had never read one thing I had written but now he was
going to read everything. An old lady said I was so sweet and well
bred, she knew I had the beat intentions in the world, no matter what
I said in my books. It went on and on. Afterward, I went to a friend's
house (I don't have but two or three houses in Atlanta now that I am
welcome in, but I went to one of them) sank into a chair and weakly
asked for the biggest drink she could get in one glass. It was truly a
whale of an experience. Flannery's talk was one of the funniest things
I ever listened to. Do you know--I don't believe she had the vaguest
notion how she shocked the crowd. She told em off; told Georgia off;
told the South off; told would-be writers off. She is a little on the
grim side in personality and not personally very attractive but she
gave a hell of a good speech. There were about thirty of us
there--they might not feel I should be so cozy as to include myself in
the number--who enjoyed every word of it. But the stuffed shirts and
the would-be writer (the place was full of them) began listening and
smilingly because they had heard she was "literary" and "talented" and
nothing she wrote threatened anybody, certainly not on the conscious
levels of their life. But after about two paragraphs they realized
that a nice little snake was sinking her fangs deep into their little
complacency and they began to look at each other and shake their
coiffeured heads and whisper, "Well....what do you know...."
          Next morning, Friday, the WSB-TV actually asked me to be on the
noon news spot. I dashed down and did it. First time, since Strange
Fruit that my presence in Atlanta has ever been
acknowledged. Everybody said everywhere, "Why, you nice person,
have you kept yourself hidden away all these years, making us miss
knowing you?" Honest to God, they said it.
          I smiled and said nothing during the first twenty times it was said
to me (a new myth in this myth-making South is being created and that
is that nobody knows me in the South because I have deliberately kept
people away from me) but the twenty-first time it was said, I said
"I'll tell you why. It is because you have never invited me
before. And Ill tell you why you have never invited me: it was because
I write highly controversial books and you feared to do so. But now
that you have, let's forget why and enjoy each other." The South
cannot bear the truth--not even a teeny-weepy 

truth, if there is any
lie, any fantasy, any myth they can grab hold of instead. When I said
the truth, in a very soft voice, the person's eyes bugged out. She was
as shocked as if I had said two dozen four letter words.
          Well, it was fun. And I must admit it helped me get over the shock
of the fire.
          Affectionately,
          Lillian
          
            Rose Gladney is an assistant professor of American
Studies at the University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa.
          
        