Letter From thenLower Rightnby John Shelton ReednA Mind of the SouthnFebruary 10 was the fiftieth anniversarynof the publication of The Mind of thenSouth, WJ. Cash’s classic and, in thenevent, only book. Reading Cash was anformative experience for most membersnof the symposium-going class ofnSoutherners, so there will be a numbernof gatherings to mark the occasion. Asna matter of fact, there was one onnFebruary 10 at Wake Forest, Cash’snalma mater. Alas, I missed it: I’m innCalifornia this year, cut off from mynroots and also from such delightfulnperks of my profession as hanging outnwith a bunch of my friends and talkingnabout one of my favorite books whilendrinking somebody else’s Jack Daniels.nAs far as I can tell, the anniversarynpassed unremarked here in what usednto be called Baghdad by the Bay,nalthough some of the local intelligentsianwere preparing for a conference ofntheir own the next weekend, somethingncalled the National SexualitynSymposium. I thought about askingnChronicles to stake me to the $245nregistration fee so I could tell you allnabout it, but then I figured Tom Flemingndoesn’t really want me discussingntechniques for extended orgasm ornerotic filmmaking in these pages, muchnless whatever was said at the workshopnon S&M for beginners. I am sorry tonhave missed the “erotic costume ball”nat the San Francisco Airport Hilton,nthough; I had this great idea for ancostume.nBut back to W.J. Cash.nYou know, he really did write anstrange book. One of the strangestnthings about it is that it’s still read andndiscussed fifty years after it was written.nAfter all, historians who don’t agreenabout much of anything else (EugenenGenovese and C. Vann Woodwardncome to mind) do agree that as anhistorian Cash is — well, a good prosenCORRESPONDENCEnstylist. And even his prose isn’t toneveryone’s taste these days. A savingnremnant of my students share mynfondness for great rolling periodsnpunctuated by snappy colloquialisms,nbut more of them seem to wish thatnCash would just get to the point; theyndon’t know what to highlight with theirnyellow markers.nStill, the book is widely read, evennwhen it hasn’t been assigned. One daynin a Buckinghamshire bookshop I spiedna Confederate battle flag from acrossnthe room — on the cover of the Britishnedition. And some of Cash’s greatnbroad-brush generalizations about thenSouth have become almost conventionalnwisdom among college-educatednSoutherners, whether they knownwhere the wisdom came from or not.nAgain and again in his recent book, AnTurn in the South, V.S. Naipaul unwittinglynparaphrases Cash by quotingnhis informants’ “observations” — probably,nin fact, repetitions of things thatnthey read or heard as undergraduates.nIt’s true that many of these ideasnweren’t original with Cash, but he gaventhem popular currency. As BrucenClayton shows in a new biography ofnits author. The Mind of the South hasndemanded and received attention evernsince its publication. It didn’t sneak upnon our notice like, say, James Agee’snLet Us Now Praise Famous Men (publishednthe same year but pretty muchnignored until the 1960’s); it was widelynand favorably reviewed in both thenpopular and the academic press, Northnand South alike, and if its actual salesnwere disappointing — well, tell menabout it. As Alfred Knopf tried tonexplain to Cash, that’s what usuallynhappens with serious works of nonfiction.n(The book later sold very wellnindeed, in overseas and paperback editions,nbut by then Cash’s widow hadnunwisely sold the author’s rights tonKnopf)nEven if the book didn’t make Cashnmuch money, it made him an immediatenliterary celebrity. Many in 1941nsaw it as an antidote for Gone With thenWind, published not long before. Cashnhad actually reviewed MargaretnnnMitchell’s book and had called it “sentimental”n(than which there were fewnadjectives more damning in the mouthnof someone who aspired to a tough,ncynical, Menckenesque style), butnwhen Miss Mitchell and her husbandninvited the Cashes to dinner at thenPiedmont Driving Club, the two writersnhit it off famously, swapping storiesnand compliments. Not surprising, really:nboth moved in the New South’snsmart set and shared its tastes andnassumptions. Besides, “sentimental”nisn’t exactly the right word for PeggynMitchell’s book, just as it’s not exactlynthe wrong word for Jack Cash’s: Cash’sn”man at the center” looks an awful lotnlike Gerald O’Hara.nAfter his book came out. Cash alsonvisited and schmoozed with CarsonnMcCullers, Lillian Smith, RalphnMcCill, and (oddly) Kari Menninger.nOn the strength of his reviews, he got anGuggenheim fellowship, and he set offnto Mexico to write a novel, stopping onnthe way to give the commencementnaddress at the University of Texas.n(After a couple of weeks in Mexico henhanged himself, but more about that inna minute.)nOn the face of it. Cash was ..annunlikely literary giant. Cod knows henwas a mess, as Clayton’s book shows.nJust a few years earlier, thirty-six yearsnold, unmarried, and unable to hold anjob for long, he had moved back tonlittle Boiling Springs, N.C., to live withnhis parents. “Sleepy” (as his friendsncalled him) was supposed to be workingnon his book, but he seemed tonspend most of his time riding hisnbicycle, chopping wood, and dozing innthe sun in front of the courthouse. Hisnrecurrent attacks of “neurasthenia”nand “melancholia” were notorious; henalso suffered from goiter and (secretly)nfrom fears of impotence. He stayed upnnights talking with an unemployednBaptist preacher, drank too much,nsmoked too much, and probably didn’tneat his vegetables.nTrue, he had been a BMOC as anWake Forest undergraduate, a campusncharacter with his pipe and chewingntobacco, terrifying Meredith CollegenAPRIL 1991/41n