{"id":62407,"date":"2013-11-12T16:00:33","date_gmt":"2013-11-12T21:00:33","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=62407"},"modified":"2013-11-18T15:12:28","modified_gmt":"2013-11-18T20:12:28","slug":"i-would-like-to-write-a-beautiful-prayer","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/11\/12\/i-would-like-to-write-a-beautiful-prayer\/","title":{"rendered":"\u201cI Would Like to Write a Beautiful Prayer\u201d"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_62422\" style=\"width: 610px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/11\/oconnor-frontislarge.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-62422\" class=\"size-full wp-image-62422\" alt=\"Martha Sprieser, Flannery O\u2019Connor\u2019s roommate at the University of Iowa (Flannery O\u2019Connor Collection, Special Collections, Georgia College Library, Milledgeville, Georgia)\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/11\/oconnor-frontislarge.jpg\" width=\"600\" height=\"846\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/11\/oconnor-frontislarge.jpg 600w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/11\/oconnor-frontislarge-212x300.jpg 212w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-62422\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">Credit: Martha Sprieser, Flannery O\u2019Connor\u2019s roommate at the University of Iowa (Flannery O\u2019Connor Collection, Special Collections, Georgia College Library, Milledgeville, Georgia).<\/p><\/div>\n<p>Flannery O\u2019Connor was a believer. It was at the end of every story: the appearance of holy ghosts, fiery furnaces, judgment day. It was in the twist of her knife. The way she would jam it in a character\u2019s gut, turn it, then rip it up. To make sure she got all the vital organs. The end of \u201cA Good Man is Hard to Find\u201d&mdash;\u201c\u2018Shut up, Bobby Lee,\u2019 The Misfit said. \u2018It\u2019s no real pleasure in life\u2019\u201d\u2014is the most Catholic thing ever.<\/p>\n<p>While she was writing what would become <i>Wise Blood<\/i>, she was also writing <i>A Prayer Journal<\/i>. Literally, journal entries written during her time at the Iowa Writers\u2019 Workshop, addressed to the Lord and asking for his help getting published. \u201cPlease let Christian principles permeate my writing and please let there be enough of my writing (published) for Christian principles to permeate,\u201d she wrote. Also she kind of thought of God as a crazy lover. From November 23, 1947: \u201cDear Lord, please make me want You. It would be the greatest bliss. Not just to want You when I think about You but to want You all the time, to have the want driving in me, to have it like a cancer in me. It would kill me like a cancer and that would be the Fulfillment.\u201d I am also from the South. I am also a writer. God was never anyone special. No one in my family took religion seriously. <!--more--><\/p>\n<p>My mother\u2019s family is from the coast. They have always lived there but they don\u2019t know how they got there. The oldest grave is from the 1600s. The name is Irish. They were indentured servants who jumped overboard or maybe they were pirates who got tired. They were cut off from the mainland for a long time. Their preachers are traveling, itinerant. They pitch tents for weeklong revivals. The ground is sandy and soft and the girls wear spike heels because this is a social thing. There is a lot of theatrical screaming. The preacher, red-faced, sweating: \u201cThe devil is here! He is among us. I seen his little hoof prints all in the ground. I seen them just outside.\u201d At least this is funny.<\/p>\n<p>My father\u2019s family is from the mountains. They are Presbyterian and they know exactly where they come from. My great-grandmother had her own pew at church. You did not fuck with her. Even on those Sundays when she chose not to show up, no one sat in her pew. It was just an empty space in the middle of the church. This was about control, not, like, adoration. \u201cPrayers should be composed I understand of adoration, contrition, thanksgiving, and supplication,\u201d wrote O\u2019Connor. The Presbyterians are the \u201cFrozen Chosen.\u201d Everything in life is predetermined. This place gave me a cold, snake feeling. This is where I grew up.<\/p>\n<p>I want to call the new thing I\u2019m writing <i>Ladies and Gentlemen, We Are Floating in Space<\/i>, like the Spiritualized album, but I probably won\u2019t. I am suddenly interested in astronomy. There is a planet out there where it rains blue glass, sideways, in 4,350-mile-per-hour winds. The universe is accelerating. It is moving so fast that we will eventually leave light behind. If we exist at all, we will all be invisible. This idea appeals to me. I like art that is empty and also big.<\/p>\n<p>January 2, 1947: \u201cNo one can be an atheist who does not know all things. Only God is an atheist. The devil is the greatest believer &amp; he has his reasons.\u201d I do not know all things. I seem to know less and less every year. The psychic I went to the other day said I would live to eighty-six and have many followers. She was Russian and very certain. Flannery O\u2019Connor lived to thirty-nine. Most of the time she was writing she knew she was dying. She did not know she was dying while she was writing her prayer journal.<\/p>\n<p>My mother found God recently. She quotes scripture at the dinner table and I stare at her like she\u2019s crazy. It\u2019s completely disconcerting. Maybe not that recently. I\u2019ve been gone twelve years, which is a long time. Apparently there is a channel called God TV. Before I was eighteen, she bought my cigarettes. Now she has lost her house and moved back in with her mother, down at the coast. My grandmother thinks it\u2019s ridiculous, how much my mother goes to church. I think it\u2019s an act, because she is lonely. One day I\u2019ll be lonely, too.<\/p>\n<p><i>A Prayer Journal<\/i> ends abruptly. The last entry is about cookies and erotic thought. \u201cThere is nothing left to say of me\u201d is the final line. But there was everything left to say. There was \u201cGood Country People\u201d and \u201cA View of the Woods\u201d and \u201cParker\u2019s Back\u201d and <i>The Violent Bear It Away<\/i>. There still is today. Writing books is one way to live forever. Isn\u2019t it? This is something I want to believe. Until all the light goes out anyway.<\/p>\n<p><em>Katherine Faw Morris was born in North Carolina. Her debut novel is <\/em>Young God<em>, forthcoming from Farrar, Straus &amp; Giroux.<\/em><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Flannery O\u2019Connor was a believer. It was at the end of every story: the appearance of holy ghosts, fiery furnaces, judgment day. It was in the twist of her knife. The way she would jam it in a character\u2019s gut, turn it, then rip it up. To make sure she got all the vital organs. [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":617,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[8618,1888,12192,1786],"class_list":["post-62407","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-christianity","tag-flannery-oconnor","tag-prayer","tag-religion"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.4 (Yoast SEO v25.4) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>\u201cI Would Like to Write a Beautiful Prayer\u201d by Katherine Faw Morris<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"November 12, 2013 \u2013 Flannery O\u2019Connor was a believer. It was at the end of every story: the appearance of holy ghosts, fiery furnaces, judgment day. 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