An unexpected side effect of growing up–and a happy accident of collegiate coincidence–is that, over the past few years, I’ve become good friends with my sister. Reared in the same intellectual soil and having inherited the same idiosyncratic neural wiring, we talk fluidly, range widely. Our overlapping areas of interest (Southern culture, North Carolina history and politics, town & university history, gardens) are especially well-trodden because she’s just graduated with a degree in American Studies, her concentration in Southern Studies. I rely on her to Dante me through the black-and-white world of the past, picking out, say, the saintly congressman from the sleazy one, both of them sweating through their seersucker.
Over the past few weeks, all of these beautiful, reverent reviews (here are five of them, you ought to take a look) of James Agee’s long-thought-lost Cotton Tenants have been coming out online, and I’ve been reading and re-reading them, scanning the library catalog for a copy, pressure building, until, last Thursday, I launched a no-holds-barred pester campaign (ie, sent an email) to convince Charlotte to buy it. Of course I cracked before she did, and am holding it in trust for myself until Monday, until after my Organic Chemistry exam. At which point, I’ll spend the next few days on an Ageean Spree (third-hand pun, lowest of the low!), and start Orgo II on Thursday. I haven’t read any of his work, although I am guilty of having let people think I’ve read Famous Men (“lapidary,” “lyrical,” “baroque”).
The only thing I do know about cotton comes from The Quest of the Silver Fleece, the Alabama Stitch Book, and this one time my grandmother, before she died, pulled over on the side of the road to pick me a dried-up stalk of it; we kept that stalk in a green vase by the TV, before it was stolen. Different vantages. I’m looking forward to reading it, Monday, to talking about it with someone better-equipped to cut through to the heart of it.