In today’s Literary Grab Bag we included a link to a story about writers’ homes. One of those homes belonged to Flannery O’Connor. This got us thinking. It’s been a while since our last reading of Everything That Rises Must Converge, or her novel, The Violent Bear It Away. That said, we expect that you, dear reader, like us, have a stack of books waiting to be devoured. Maybe you didn’t anticipate exhuming the O’Connor tome quite yet. Don’t fret. Her work isn’t going anywhere. Here is an essay to tide you over.

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Well, are you?

America has waged an official war on drugs for nearly thirty years. We can’t say it’s done much good. Proponents point to drug dealers arrested, of youths who, due to abuse education, live drug-free lives. To which detractors applaud, and then ask why millions of federal dollars have done so little to ameliorate the problem at large. Obviously, it’s a taxing issue. After all, calling a drug a drug is complicated enough, a point Ryan Grim’s new book illustrates. But drugs have been around since the dawn. And in literature, they’re pretty much a mainstay. Drugs are the stuff of intrigue, and thrills. They set plots in motion, unhinge characters, and inspire authors. Read Pynchon’s Inherent Vice for proof. The twentieth century saw journalists enter battlefields with little more than a ballpoint and a pad of paper. Sometimes, drugs were the cause of and the relief from their actions. Maybe your drug is purely aesthetic: Visit The Critical Flame for an intoxicating review of DA Powell’s verse. More poetry was made by Petrov and Ilf — two Russian writers whose narcotic humor brought alive their road trip across America. Finally, it’s a look at the homes of five famous American writers, published in O Magazine, which means Oprah, which makes us wince. Somebody better hit us with something strong. — Kevin Murphy

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