Items related to The Florence King Reader
A collection of the author's previous or unavailable works features excerpts from each of her books; a complete novel, When Sisterhood Was in Flower; noted columns and book reviews, and a selection from The Barbarian Princess.
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Review:
The chignoned, post-menopausal author of Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady has given us a feast--an anthology of her fiction and non-fiction written over the past 20 years. King has us dancing with joy as she turns her keen eye and uncivil tongue on sisterhood, the sexes and sex (she's against it these days), politics, and most particularly the South that hatched her. Ms. King is simply what many strive to be and few achieve--a true American original. She's unafraid, unabashed and unleashed from worrying about what anyone else might think.
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The Florence King Reader
SOUTHERN LADIES AND GENTLEMEN1975I used a "good/bad" scale to decide which chapters to include here. The first, "Big Daddy," was a favorite of nearly all reviewers so I felt it should go in. The second, "The Gay Confederation," upset Newsweek reviewer Margo Jefferson (not hard to do), who found it to be a "poorly and tastelessly aimed" exercise in homophobia. You be the judge.BIG DADDYThe South's favorite accolade, "If you're half the man your daddy is you'll be all right," is the locus classicus of the dynastic novel that tempts so many Southern male writers. The halving process fills the author with dark fascination. He must show a long line of men, each of whom was half as good as the daddy before him, until he gets to the autobiographical character who, by definition, has undergone the most complete mathematical reduction of all.The stern, drawling Agamemnon known as Big Daddy dominates this kind of novel, as we see in the apocryphal bestseller, Carmichael's Lament.
Buck Carmichael was coming home from World War II. Home to Carmichael Junction, the town his ancestors founded.His throat tightened but he forced back his tears, clenching his jaw until a muscle leaped in his lean tan cheek. As the train slowed, he peered out the window and picked out familiar landmarks: Carmichael's Feed & Grain, Carmichael's Hardware, and in the distance, on the corner of Main Street, the Carmichael Building.The five-story structure had been built by his father, Big Buck Carmichael, and dedicated to the memory of his grandfather, Old Buck Carmichael. The building housed the family law firm. Big Buck had sent him a snapshot of the office door while he was fighting in the Pacific. Many times, as he crouched in foxholes, Buck had taken it out and looked at it, drawing courage from it while he was fighting for his country. Other soldiers had pictures of their wives and sweethearts, but Buck had a picture of his daddy's door.Now, he took it from his pocket and looked at it once again. What adoor! Even though his grandfather had been dead for twenty-five years, the door still bore his name in honor of his memory. How like his father, Buck thought, to keep Granddaddy's name there. Big Buck had worshiped Granddaddy.CARMICHAEL & CARMICHAELAttorneys at Law Buckley Carmichael, Sr. Buckley Carmichael, Jr. Buckley Carmichael IIIOn the back of the snapshot Big Buck had written: "I added your name so you can come to work as soon as you get back from the war."Buck frowned. He was not sure if he wanted to be a lawyer. He had always thought he would like to be ... a writer. The muscle in his lean tan cheek leaped again as he clenched his jaw. In college he had published a few short stories under a pen name, but he had burned them before he went to war in case he got killed and his father should find them. He had never told his father about his literary ambitions--he didn't dare. Big Buck always said writing was women's work, fit only for the likes of Ellen Glasgow, Margaret Mitchell, Lillian Smith, Flannery O'Connor, Eudora Welty, Carson McCullers, and Lillian Hellman.No, he could not be a writer, but did he want to be a lawyer? He was ashamed of his indecision. A man should know what he wants to do, should have a master plan for his life. His mother had never been able to make up her mind--he wondered if he took after her?It was a frightening thought, and he prepared to put it out of his mind in the usual way. God, but his jaw muscle hurt! The damn thing had been leaping in his lean tan cheek for years.He told himself there was nothing of his mother in him. He was a Carmichael through and through, the spit of Big Buck, who was the spit of Old Buck, who was the spit of the Confederate general, "Swamp" Buck, whose portrait hung in the courthouse.The train pulled into the station. Buck grabbed his duffel bag and stepped out into the hot sunlight, searching the faces on the platform.Suddenly, Big Buck Carmichael stepped out of the crowd and stood before him. Buck swallowed hard. Daddy! Daddy! his heart cried. Helonged to rush forward and throw his arms around his father and kiss him, but of course he could not. Carmichael men didn't do such things. Instead, he forced himself to walk forward calmly and greet the man he adored in a manly fashion.Big Buck held out his huge square hand. As Buck took it, it closed around his own like a vise."Welcome home, boy," said Big Buck."Thank you, sir. It's good to be back." Daddy! Daddy! Do you really love me the way I love you? You never said you did. I guess you do, but if only you would say it ... . Daddy, please stop squeezing my hand. My jaw hurts bad enough without having a broken hand, too."I'm sorry your mother can't be here to greet you," Big Buck rumbled in his bass drawl, "but she went to pieces and we had to put her away." He shrugged. "Nerves. You know how women are."Buck smiled, joy and inexpressible relief coursing through him as it always did whenever his father included him in the fraternity of men."Where is she, sir?"His father's eyes hardened; Buck trembled."At Carmichael Memorial Hospital, where else? She's in the new wing I just built."They got into the car and headed for home. As they approached the road to the estate, Buck gazed up at the tall smokestacks of the Carmichael Mills. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of these symbols of his father's power. It made him feel proud to be a man whenever he looked at the hard, towering cylinders reaching up to the sky.Soon they came to the stables, and there, frisking in the grass, was Prince Carmichael, the stallion that sired all their colts. A few moments later, Buck saw something graceful and white at the crest of the hill. Leaning forward, he emitted a hoarse cry of joy."Yes," said his father, with quiet pride. "Carmichael Hall."They went immediately to Big Buck's study, a room full of leather sofas and guns. Big Buck went to the sideboard and poured generous glasses of bonded bourbon for them, then sat down in his armchair with a firm, leathery squish."You bein' away four years gave me plenny time to plan your life, boy."Buck swallowed. For one awful moment he almost said "I want to be a writer." The words were on the tip of his tongue, but then helooked up at the life-sized oil portrait of Old Buck that hung over the mantel. As he gazed at the stern old man, he remembered how, as a boy, he had crept into this room and walked up and down in front of the portrait, terrified yet fascinated by the way his grandfather's fierce eyes seemed to follow him.He could not be a writer, he could not disgrace the Carmichael name! Never again must he think of it.He looked at his father. "That's mighty good of you, sir. What do you want me to do?""Come to work tomorrow. Your desk is waitin' for you, and I hired you a secretary. Old Miz Anderson. You 'member her, you had her sister for sixth grade. She's one of the few sensible women I ever met, the kind of woman who belongs in an office.""Thank you, sir.""And when you have your first son, we'll add Buckley Carmichael IV to the door the day he's born. That'll be my christenin' present to my grandson.""I don't know what to say, sir. You're more than generous."Big Buck smiled the grim manly smile that always covered his deepest emotions."You're my son, I'd do anything for you, boy. Now," he said briskly, clearing his throat. "Speakin' of Buckley the Fourth. We've got to have a mother for the boy, so I want you to marry Puddyface Castlemaine as soon as possible."Buck went numb with horror. Puddyface Castlemaine! Oh, no! Not that simpering belle, that spoiled brat, that goddamned apple of Kincaid Castlemaine's eye! He had known Puddyface all his life and hated her every minute of it. When they were children she had stuck to him like a burr, tagging along on his fishing trips, until his friends called him a sissy and teased him brutally for having a girl around all the time.Worst of all, she had interrupted his precious hours with his father. On Sunday afternoons when he was growing up, Big Buck used to take him into the den for man-talk; guns and politics and crops, and stories about the cavalry charges led by Carmichaels in the War.It was the only time he could be alone with Big Buck, and Puddyface knew it. It was never long before the door burst open and in she came, switching herself and smiling pertly while his mother watchedfrom her hiding place behind the stairwell. His mother had arranged those interruptions, had connived with Puddyface to drive him and his father apart.Later on, he had been forced to date her, and serve as one of her marshals at the deb ball. What a hellacious night that was! The only thing that saved him was her total absorption in her father, Kincaid Castlemaine. She had danced practically every dance with her daddy, freeing Buck to get drunk in the parking lot with the other boys whose dates were dancing with their daddies.As a child, her father had called her "Prettyface," but when she repeated it after him in her baby voice, it came out "Puddyface." From then on, everyone called her Puddyface, until people had a hard time remembering what her real name was. She had even been announced at the deb ball as Miss Puddyface Kincaid Castlemaine.And now, she was going to be the mother of his son! He wanted to die.His father's sharp voice interrupted his thoughts."Well? Say somethin'. You're gettin' the prettiest girl in the state and the Castlemaine money besides. Aren't you happy?"Buck jumped. "Wel...
SOUTHERN LADIES AND GENTLEMEN1975I used a "good/bad" scale to decide which chapters to include here. The first, "Big Daddy," was a favorite of nearly all reviewers so I felt it should go in. The second, "The Gay Confederation," upset Newsweek reviewer Margo Jefferson (not hard to do), who found it to be a "poorly and tastelessly aimed" exercise in homophobia. You be the judge.BIG DADDYThe South's favorite accolade, "If you're half the man your daddy is you'll be all right," is the locus classicus of the dynastic novel that tempts so many Southern male writers. The halving process fills the author with dark fascination. He must show a long line of men, each of whom was half as good as the daddy before him, until he gets to the autobiographical character who, by definition, has undergone the most complete mathematical reduction of all.The stern, drawling Agamemnon known as Big Daddy dominates this kind of novel, as we see in the apocryphal bestseller, Carmichael's Lament.
Buck Carmichael was coming home from World War II. Home to Carmichael Junction, the town his ancestors founded.His throat tightened but he forced back his tears, clenching his jaw until a muscle leaped in his lean tan cheek. As the train slowed, he peered out the window and picked out familiar landmarks: Carmichael's Feed & Grain, Carmichael's Hardware, and in the distance, on the corner of Main Street, the Carmichael Building.The five-story structure had been built by his father, Big Buck Carmichael, and dedicated to the memory of his grandfather, Old Buck Carmichael. The building housed the family law firm. Big Buck had sent him a snapshot of the office door while he was fighting in the Pacific. Many times, as he crouched in foxholes, Buck had taken it out and looked at it, drawing courage from it while he was fighting for his country. Other soldiers had pictures of their wives and sweethearts, but Buck had a picture of his daddy's door.Now, he took it from his pocket and looked at it once again. What adoor! Even though his grandfather had been dead for twenty-five years, the door still bore his name in honor of his memory. How like his father, Buck thought, to keep Granddaddy's name there. Big Buck had worshiped Granddaddy.CARMICHAEL & CARMICHAELAttorneys at Law Buckley Carmichael, Sr. Buckley Carmichael, Jr. Buckley Carmichael IIIOn the back of the snapshot Big Buck had written: "I added your name so you can come to work as soon as you get back from the war."Buck frowned. He was not sure if he wanted to be a lawyer. He had always thought he would like to be ... a writer. The muscle in his lean tan cheek leaped again as he clenched his jaw. In college he had published a few short stories under a pen name, but he had burned them before he went to war in case he got killed and his father should find them. He had never told his father about his literary ambitions--he didn't dare. Big Buck always said writing was women's work, fit only for the likes of Ellen Glasgow, Margaret Mitchell, Lillian Smith, Flannery O'Connor, Eudora Welty, Carson McCullers, and Lillian Hellman.No, he could not be a writer, but did he want to be a lawyer? He was ashamed of his indecision. A man should know what he wants to do, should have a master plan for his life. His mother had never been able to make up her mind--he wondered if he took after her?It was a frightening thought, and he prepared to put it out of his mind in the usual way. God, but his jaw muscle hurt! The damn thing had been leaping in his lean tan cheek for years.He told himself there was nothing of his mother in him. He was a Carmichael through and through, the spit of Big Buck, who was the spit of Old Buck, who was the spit of the Confederate general, "Swamp" Buck, whose portrait hung in the courthouse.The train pulled into the station. Buck grabbed his duffel bag and stepped out into the hot sunlight, searching the faces on the platform.Suddenly, Big Buck Carmichael stepped out of the crowd and stood before him. Buck swallowed hard. Daddy! Daddy! his heart cried. Helonged to rush forward and throw his arms around his father and kiss him, but of course he could not. Carmichael men didn't do such things. Instead, he forced himself to walk forward calmly and greet the man he adored in a manly fashion.Big Buck held out his huge square hand. As Buck took it, it closed around his own like a vise."Welcome home, boy," said Big Buck."Thank you, sir. It's good to be back." Daddy! Daddy! Do you really love me the way I love you? You never said you did. I guess you do, but if only you would say it ... . Daddy, please stop squeezing my hand. My jaw hurts bad enough without having a broken hand, too."I'm sorry your mother can't be here to greet you," Big Buck rumbled in his bass drawl, "but she went to pieces and we had to put her away." He shrugged. "Nerves. You know how women are."Buck smiled, joy and inexpressible relief coursing through him as it always did whenever his father included him in the fraternity of men."Where is she, sir?"His father's eyes hardened; Buck trembled."At Carmichael Memorial Hospital, where else? She's in the new wing I just built."They got into the car and headed for home. As they approached the road to the estate, Buck gazed up at the tall smokestacks of the Carmichael Mills. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of these symbols of his father's power. It made him feel proud to be a man whenever he looked at the hard, towering cylinders reaching up to the sky.Soon they came to the stables, and there, frisking in the grass, was Prince Carmichael, the stallion that sired all their colts. A few moments later, Buck saw something graceful and white at the crest of the hill. Leaning forward, he emitted a hoarse cry of joy."Yes," said his father, with quiet pride. "Carmichael Hall."They went immediately to Big Buck's study, a room full of leather sofas and guns. Big Buck went to the sideboard and poured generous glasses of bonded bourbon for them, then sat down in his armchair with a firm, leathery squish."You bein' away four years gave me plenny time to plan your life, boy."Buck swallowed. For one awful moment he almost said "I want to be a writer." The words were on the tip of his tongue, but then helooked up at the life-sized oil portrait of Old Buck that hung over the mantel. As he gazed at the stern old man, he remembered how, as a boy, he had crept into this room and walked up and down in front of the portrait, terrified yet fascinated by the way his grandfather's fierce eyes seemed to follow him.He could not be a writer, he could not disgrace the Carmichael name! Never again must he think of it.He looked at his father. "That's mighty good of you, sir. What do you want me to do?""Come to work tomorrow. Your desk is waitin' for you, and I hired you a secretary. Old Miz Anderson. You 'member her, you had her sister for sixth grade. She's one of the few sensible women I ever met, the kind of woman who belongs in an office.""Thank you, sir.""And when you have your first son, we'll add Buckley Carmichael IV to the door the day he's born. That'll be my christenin' present to my grandson.""I don't know what to say, sir. You're more than generous."Big Buck smiled the grim manly smile that always covered his deepest emotions."You're my son, I'd do anything for you, boy. Now," he said briskly, clearing his throat. "Speakin' of Buckley the Fourth. We've got to have a mother for the boy, so I want you to marry Puddyface Castlemaine as soon as possible."Buck went numb with horror. Puddyface Castlemaine! Oh, no! Not that simpering belle, that spoiled brat, that goddamned apple of Kincaid Castlemaine's eye! He had known Puddyface all his life and hated her every minute of it. When they were children she had stuck to him like a burr, tagging along on his fishing trips, until his friends called him a sissy and teased him brutally for having a girl around all the time.Worst of all, she had interrupted his precious hours with his father. On Sunday afternoons when he was growing up, Big Buck used to take him into the den for man-talk; guns and politics and crops, and stories about the cavalry charges led by Carmichaels in the War.It was the only time he could be alone with Big Buck, and Puddyface knew it. It was never long before the door burst open and in she came, switching herself and smiling pertly while his mother watchedfrom her hiding place behind the stairwell. His mother had arranged those interruptions, had connived with Puddyface to drive him and his father apart.Later on, he had been forced to date her, and serve as one of her marshals at the deb ball. What a hellacious night that was! The only thing that saved him was her total absorption in her father, Kincaid Castlemaine. She had danced practically every dance with her daddy, freeing Buck to get drunk in the parking lot with the other boys whose dates were dancing with their daddies.As a child, her father had called her "Prettyface," but when she repeated it after him in her baby voice, it came out "Puddyface." From then on, everyone called her Puddyface, until people had a hard time remembering what her real name was. She had even been announced at the deb ball as Miss Puddyface Kincaid Castlemaine.And now, she was going to be the mother of his son! He wanted to die.His father's sharp voice interrupted his thoughts."Well? Say somethin'. You're gettin' the prettiest girl in the state and the Castlemaine money besides. Aren't you happy?"Buck jumped. "Wel...
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- PublisherSt Martins Pr
- Publication date1995
- ISBN 10 0312117892
- ISBN 13 9780312117894
- BindingHardcover
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- Number of pages417
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