![]() ![]() He speaks Freak fluently, yet some of his funniest lines unexpectedly betray more sophisticated syntax, and we remember that this is an author with a Ph.D. Author Hal Crowther writes: “Nordan’s is an inclusive fiction like no other, inhabited by more exotically damaged ‘others’-freaks, as he doesn’t hesitate to call them-than any other literary landscape. Nordan’s legacy is best approached through his appreciators, a common fate for our most idiosyncratic-and often greatest-artists. For his part, Nordan preferred the labels “marvelous realist” and “American Gothic.” To friends and family, he was Buddy. In his stories, swamp elves rattle through canebrakes, bands of eunuchs rove the countryside to perform Episcopal baptisms, the spirits of murdered boys see the world through shot-out eye sockets. Nordan is often described as a peddler of a sort of hardboiled, Southern-fried magical realism. The hometown of Lewis Nordan, one of the best-kept secrets of Southern literature, fiercely loved by the too few who know his work, which comprises three small story collections, four novels, and a memoir. It was early spring, cold, and the sun hadn’t been out for days. ![]() Day-old clothes and a fresh shiner over my left eye evidenced nights before in New Orleans and Jackson. His dog, Hazel, kept vigil in the backseat-our very own blacker-than-the-night hellhound, for muscle. We arrived early and haggard from the drive up through the stone-gray flatscape of the Delta-two pallid swaths, earth and sky, punctuated by occasional water towers and a scatter of townships.
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