grasses

Most of us have learned to be dispassionate about evil, to look it in the face and find, as often as not, our own grinning reflections with which we do not argue, but good is another matter. Few have stared at that long enough to accept that its face too is grotesque, that in us the good is something under construction.

“No writer should ever be ashamed of staring,” says O’Connor in this piece about her racism and love of odd birds.