At her death in 1964, Flannery O'Connor left two novels and nineteen short stories and on these her literary reputation finally must rest. The novels, however, are not finished works of art. Both are structurally imperfect, but, of more importance, the very devices and perceptions that are the hallmarks of Flannery O'Connor's skill as a short story writer wear thin and brittle in the larger ambiance of a book-length work. The incisive dialogue loses some of its sharpness: detail and gesture become stylized: even violence, seen in the broader context, fails to shock. This is not to say that the novels are bad novels. But they are not as good as the short stories, and in any effort to delineate the achievement of Flannery O'Connor they must assume a supportive role.

Add to the novels a few short stories that are, by O'Connor standards, distinctly inferior. In my opinion...