As a Floridian who has never experienced a true autumn, my previous falls have been marked with an exploration through literature into cozy sweaters, crisp breezes, fashionable fall boots, indie music playlists, and a deep dive into Southern Gothic Literature.
Characterized by the recurrence of literal and figurative ghosts, strong points of irony, and conflicting values of the New South vs the Old South, the realm of Southern Gothic Literature was dominated and established by forefront writers such as Poe, Faulkner, and O’Connor. Encapsulating October’s crinkled brown leaves and subsequent chill, Southern Gothic undertones pervade comfort and happy endings, instead encouraging readers to marinate in characters whose decisions make little sense and have decidedly ill-fated intentions for one another.
Namely, Katherine Anne Porter’s “Noon Wine” explores truths about the facade of southern hospitality, our weariness to strangers, and the untamed and rugged realities of the conscious mind. If you wish to read Porter’s novel without any insight, stop reading here. I’ll make it a little louder– SPOILERS AHEAD!!
The bulk of the story revolves around an unremarkable dairy farmer, Royale Earl Thompson, whose tides turn for the better after the introduction of one Olaf Helton to the farm, a Swede turned American who supposedly bunked in North Dakota prior to his move to Texas. Under Olaf’s expertise, the farm flourishes – until another stranger saunters into Thompson’s life, bounty hunter Homer T. Hatch.
After an initial bad reaction, Thompson murders Hatch for a perceived attempt at Olaf’s life, only, upon later reflection, realizing he took an axe to Homer for no reason, as Homer never tried to murder Olaf. Escaping conviction but facing a life of ostracization from his community, his sons, and his own wife, Thompson puts his Sunday best on and takes his own life in an abandoned field.
Filled with small town gossip, assumptions, mania and horror, “Noon Wine” speaks to the unpredictability of our own minds, and conversely, the astute certainty of death. Whether it be by a self-induced shotgun wound, the anger of a brother, or worse, in a hospital bed due to old age.
To kick off this fall, read a Katherine Anne Porter novel or two..maybe a Flannery O’Connor short story, or, better yet, Faulkner’s masterpiece, As I Lay Dying. To end on a morbid note,
“We are born knowing death.”
–
Katherine Anne Porter