“The canned dream of the South is something I’ve resisted my entire career; it disgusts me,” Hannah said. “And being Southern isn’t always a graceful adjective; it’ll kill you sometimes. Often, it’s shorthand for ‘Don’t bother reading this because it’s just gonna be a lot of porches and banjos.’”
more from a profile written by Wells Tower in 2008
When I came in to work this morning after being out all night with my barber there was an email from H telling me Barry Hannah had died. Barry was 67 – my number in third grade basketball. I had my own trading card and everything. I was four foot ten and eighty five pounds. I was a natural blonde. I wanted to be a coal miner. But enough about me. Barry was a strange writer and a true love of mine (different from being lovers) and like most things in life that I love I have trouble describing why it is that I love it more than the next thing. Often with me it comes down to a writer of special sentences and Barry was one. He didn’t write non sequiturs per say, but his sentences would take you to unexpected places and that blazing talent of his was enchanting to me and a constant reminder of why reading is such an unearthly delight.
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