Nobody's ever really known what to do with Mary Flannery O'Connor. They didn't know when she was alive, and they haven't known since she died in 1964, at 39, after years of battling through lupus to write her nervy, weird stories about Southerners, sin, religion and the God to whom she prayed so fervently.
O'Connor in 1959 on the steps of her home in Milledgeville, Ga. She's a patron saint to writers who explore the fault lines between religion and belief, transgression and salvation.
The screen adaptations of O'Connor's work have not quite captured her essence either, though some attempts have been more successful than others.
That kind of moment would never have made it into an O'Connor story. She saw the episode, and the best I can say for it is that conceivably it could have been worse, she said.
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