The Incompleteness Of It All...Good-bye Barry

"That is what haunts my memory--the incompleteness of everything: you wish it had been a story, you wish it had had meaning; sometimes you don't see any meaning until ten-sometimes even twenty or thirty years have passed." Barry Hannah


You think back about the course of your life at times and are amazed at what crossed your path...sometimes big things that ended up changing the way you think, act, love, or live. You were vaguely aware they were big at the time, but failed to realize the most important part, and that was the brevity of it all. In the late 60's to early 70's I lived next door to one of, if not the greatest, Southern writers of this era. Barry Hannah was teaching at Clemson and finishing his first, very successful book, Geronimo Rex. Geronimo came out in 1972 and went on to win the Faulkner prize for writing as well as a nomination for the National Book Award... and all this was only the beginning. He went on to be recognized as a brilliant and powerful writer, nominated for the Pulitzer Prize and greatly admired by other authors of the likes of Larry McMurtry and Jim Harrison who said Hannah was "one of those young writers who is brilliantly drunk with words and could at gunpoint write the life story of a telephone pole."
Clemson actually had a decent English Department during the early 70's, but how fortunate they were to have the gift of Barry Hannah, I don't think was ever recognized. I was a teenager when I first heard about our new neighbor. He and my mom had an instant connection and that connection was Mississippi. She was proud that the new young writer next door was from her home state, which she loved, so they instantly hit it off. I remember we were a little fascinated by his looks- his unusual reddish-brown colored hair and skin tone creating what we thought was a Native American resemblance. I used to come home late when I was in high school and see a light on in Barry's home office which faced my bedroom. As I drew the curtains, I sensed the greatness that was going on in that office. That sense proved true as I read Geronimo Rex as a Senior in High School and Barry's other books in later years.
I remember the excitement when James Dickey came to Clemson to speak around 1972, right as Deliverance was big. There was a huge party at Barry's house and Dickey arrived in what I remember was a monstrous, turquoise Cadillac convertible. I remember walking by with my boyfriend, hearing the fun and debauchery going on inside and casually thinking, "well that's pretty cool, James Dickey is in there, partying hard." At that age you think those kind of events will be happening on a regular basis, forever.

A year of so later I shared a beer with Barry in Clemson's best bar of all times, The Study Hall. He was only around 30 years old, but he seemed so old and wise to me, being 19. It was a Saturday night, near closing time. It was cold; I remember the long blue coat I had on. The Study Hall was packed with barely enough room to stand. Our conversation began because he recognized me as Mississippi Hazel's daughter. More than the content of our conversation, it was his delivery that sticks in my mind. The slow, unusual, gravelly southern voice between that explosive grin and the throaty drags on a Marlboro. He would have long quiet pauses while he seemed to be taking in everything that was happening around him. I think he was beginning the Bad Barry reign at that time, becoming, as many writers did in the 70's, hostage to alcohol, despair, and a little rage. He was having to teach a full load of courses while trying to produce a second book quickly on the heels of the success of Geronimo. I remember trying to hear him over Trouble No More by the Allman Brothers playing on the jukebox and the subject was the absurdness of assigning grades to student compositions. The lights came on at midnight, we said good-bye and I thought I would see him again in there soon, but I never did. He moved on to teach elsewhere and then left for Hollywood to write sceenplays with Robert Altman. Hollywood was not his place for long and he returned to Oxford Mississippi in 1982 as writer in residence at the University of Mississippi where he stayed until his death at age 67 last month. He left us way too early and there is an incomplete book in the works. Some hearts just wear out sooner than others; some from an excess of feeling, I believe.

I have read all of Hannah's books and he was the main ingredient in my love for "unsafe" fiction. He presented terror, heartbreak, hilarity, love, lust and beauty in every paragraph and it all came together to paint a perfect picture of reality. (Just read the short story Water Liars referenced at the bottom of this post for a small taste.) His books are not really about the carefully constructed plot, because, he says, "I see explosive circumstances with interesting people." That is why some of his finest work can be found in his short stories. His writing is the antithesis of the blandness which is so popular in fiction today. He was a man in love with the shocking and the extreme--with reality.

I have always planned on making a trip to Oxford to visit Faulkner's home, and Square Books. I've heard that Oxonians loved Barry and he was a friend to many in the town. In the back of my mind, meeting Barry again was part of that trip. I would tell him how he influenced my love for and taste in literature just by living next door. I thought there would be Barry Hannahs next door forever, but not true. That conversation won't happen now, just like he won't be riding the streets of Oxford on his purple motorcycle. But I have his books, I have a memory, and with a spirit like his, Oxford and the world still have him too.

A fairly recent photo.. around 2006. Still cute...

"I notice everything. A writer has permission to do that. Language and memory are what it's all about." Barry Hannah

To sample Hannah's writing, read the short story, Water Liars, online at

http://gardenandgun.com/waterliars