It was only about a month ago that I first heard the name Carson McCullers, the writer from the American south who lived during the first half of the twentieth century. It was her novel The Heart is a Lonely Hunter that brought her to my attention. I checked it out from the library, started it on a Friday evening, and thoroughly enjoyed reading it over the rest of the weekend.
Published in 1940, McCullers’ novel explores the deep longing of human beings to relate to, and connect with, their fellow creatures. It centers around a deaf-mute named John Singer, who, despite his condition, becomes an empowering source of comfort to so many others. Singer himself faces an existential plight of loneliness, especially after his best friend and fellow deaf-mute is placed in the hospital.
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter strikes a particularly powerful chord when reading it in today’s climate—one characterized by isolation, loneliness, and a desire to feel accepted, yet characterized also by distrust and a rapid labeling of others. It’s an odd and disconcerting combination, but nonetheless plenty real.
This is unhealthy in all sorts of ways, but it’s also deeply unfortunate: some of the greatest bonds of friendship, after all, are formed when two people of different outlooks and personalities connect through a commonality (perhaps even something quite small). That commonality then becomes the the seed for a rich and lasting friendship.
McCullers, in The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, really taps into the power of these unexpected, and powerfully enriching, connections.
For instance, another character in the novel is Mick: a bright and friendly teenager with many ambitions, but who isn’t particularly adept at fitting in with her peers. Mick also has a strong passion for music, one that, believe it or not, she’s able to convey to John Singer. Despite the latter being older, unable at all to hear the music, and having to rely on his lip reading skills to “listen” to Mick, the young girl finds great solace in her friendship with him.
McCullers wrote The Heart is a Lonely Hunter at the ripe age of 22. This is impressive for several reasons, not least of which is the maturity of vision it presents. She’s able to capture the longing of many different people–not just one or two characters–and demonstrate the irreplaceable value of friendship.
Given the novel’s power to move its readers, it’s not surprising that The Heart is a Lonely Hunter became McCullers most well known work. It was only the beginning of her writing career, however, and when she died in 1967, she left behind a sizable body of writing.
There are plenty of American authors I’ve never heard of (Nelson Algren is another writer who has recently come to my attention). And yet, as I read The Heart is a Lonely Heart, it seemed increasingly strange to me that I had not—so far as I can remember—ever heard a word about McCullers.
Interestingly enough, McCullers shares a number of biographical details with another female writer from the south, Flannery O’Connor (who is fairly well known). Both died young: McCullers at 50, O’Connor at 39. Both suffered the ill fortune of serious physical ailments: rheumatic fever and strokes for the former, lupus for the latter. Both were born in Georgia: Columbus and Savannah, respectfully. And both frequently wrote about outcast characters.
Perhaps those biographical details are largely where the similarities end (I’m not familiar enough with the two authors to compare their fiction). But the fact that I was well aware of one of them and clueless about the other, struck me as odd.
In any case, after enjoying The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, I picked up The Ballad of the Sad Café. It’s not nearly as good as the former, but it does touch upon some of the same themes. And if you want a zany story from the pen of McCullers, this is probably it.
The novella is set in a small and uneventful town in the south. The narrator—who is very much an active participant in the narration—provides us with a story that is now all but over. The story is presented as a kind of folktale, an entertaining yarn involving this otherwise inconsequential town that briefly came stirring to life.
Amelia Evans is the protagonist of this wild and sometimes violent novella. Described as six-foot-two, tomboy-ish, independent, and rich, she’s the central figure of this small town environment. From her town shop to her experimental medicines, the town is almost entirely dependent upon her (even though she’s a rather frosty character). The denizens of this place also enjoy drinking Amelia’s famous liquor, which soothes their souls and puts them in a kind of quiescent stupor.
Such is the tenor of life in this nondescript town.
Much of that changes, however, upon the arrival of a single person: a jovial hunchback who wanders into town and purports to be a distant cousin of Amelia’s. He presents a blurry old picture in an attempt to prove it, and Amelia seems not to dispute it.
Lymon is this newcomer’s name. He’s charismatic and humorous—his ability to wiggle his ears is a big hit—and quickly gets on the good side of Amelia (not an easy feat), as well as just about everyone in town.
Before long, the generally cold and detached Amelia is regularly carrying a smile on her face, a change which is noticeable to everyone. She becomes increasingly drawn to Lymon and his endearing ways. A strong bond forms, possibly even a kind of love. This transforms Amelia into a kind of person she hasn’t been for years, or perhaps ever.
So drastic is in the change in Amelia that it naturally brings a change to the town itself. Case in point: she goes along with Lymond’s idea of opening a café right there in her shop. She also allows for furniture to be rearranged in order that a piano can be moved in. Before long, the café is a bustling place where folks can hang out, purchase food and drink at reasonable rates, and enjoy a night of camaraderie.
Everything is hunky-dory for a while, until the past starts to reinsert itself into the present. When Amelia’s ex-husband—a man named Marvin Macy, with whom she was married to for a whopping ten days—is released from the penitentiary, everything begins to change. The emotionally ironclad Amelia starts to become vulnerable; inner chaos and frustration build and build.
As the details of this complicated and exceptionally brief marriage reveal themselves, themes of loneliness, revenge, bitterness, and requited (and unrequited love) come to the surface. Will the thriving café survive these dynamics, or will Marvin’s sudden presence in the town make for a messy and chaotic affair? Neither outcome necessarily feels predestined.
As mentioned, The Ballad of the Sad Café shares some similar themes with The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. That being said, if you have to choose between these two works of fiction, McCullers’ debut novel is the best choice when it comes to getting acquainted with this talented writer.
Spectatio 
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