BOOK REVIEWS Grit Lit: A Rough South Reader. Ed. Brian Carpenter and Tom Franklin. Columbia: U of South Carolina Press, 2012. 336 pp. $24.95 paper. SOMEBOOKSHAVEAWFULTITLES—MISLEADING OR VAGUE OR TOO LONG OR overly clever or pseudo-poetic. Grit Lit: A Rough South Reader isn’t one of them. And as if this anthology’s title isn’t clear and evocative enough, the cover photo is a close-up of the scuffed, filthy boots and blue-jeaned ankles of an anonymous person lying in the open bed of a pickup truck. We can’t see above the ankles but can assume that this person is either drunk, sleeping, lazing, or dead. This collection of twenty-eight stories, novel excerpts, and memoir pieces presents life on the wrong side of the tracks, on the hotter side of the Mason Dixon line. Brian Carpenter’s twenty-page critical introduction makes a case for the book’s contemporary focus, beginning with Harry Crews rather than William Faulkner or Mark Twain. It then discusseskeyelements of the “Rough South” genre (whichhecategorizes as a subgenre of “Grit Lit”), namely that it tends to be “hypermasculine” as well as “mostly poor, white, rural, and unquestionably violent—Grit Lit’s wilder kin or Grit Lit with its back against the wall and somebody’s going to get hurt” (xxvii). In these pages, a lot of somebodies get hurt. Carpenter isn’t the first to emphasize the undeniable influence of violence on character-formation, but his point is well articulated and hard to refute: in Rough South literature, violence is both destiny and “a means of moral reckoning” (xxii). In many of these pieces, violence also provides a thrill—for the characters committing it, and vicariously for the reader. When Harry Crews, in the excerpt from his memoir A Childhood: The Biography of a Place, describes a man named Bad Eye chopping off the hand of his neighbor, Jay, with an axe for trying to scale the fence into his yard, a reader can’t help imagining Crews smiling a little as he wrote the gory scene. Jay tied off his arm with his belt and then fainted in the ditch. When he woke up, Bad Eye was sitting on the woodpile with the bloody stump of a hand. “This here hand belongs to me now, sumbitch. Found it on my land.” (12) 620 Mississippi Quarterly Fueling much of the violence in this book is an excess of alcohol—typically, liquor (or likker) drunk straight from the bottle, and not purchased in any store. Booze in these works exists for the reasons it exists outside of them: for entertainment, habit, escape. And as in real life, booze has a way of igniting the violence that otherwise would fester as silent rage and humiliation. “He was a damn good boy when sober,” a character explains about his nephew in the excerpt from Tim McLaurin’s novel The Acorn Plan, “but lately Billy got a mean streak in him when he drank too much” (111). That mean streak leads Billy to pick a knife-fight with a soldier passing through town. Yet what ultimately underlies and unites these works, beyond a shared geography of the rural South, is poverty—and it’s poverty that seems to beget the boozing and the violence and any number of destructive and self-destructive acts. The poverty in Grit Lit includes the metaphorical kinds—ethical, spiritual, an impoverished sense of opportunity—yet the metaphorical kinds all spring from the literal. In “Deciding to Live,” Dorothy Allison writes about her childhood as “that long terrible struggle to simply survive” (17). Even when she finally moves away, she hasn’t really escaped: I took a bus to the city and spoke to no one, signed the papers that made me a low-level government clerk, and wound up sitting in a motel room eating peanut butter sandwiches so I could use the per diem to buy respectable skirts and blouses—the kind of clothes I had not worn since high school. (18) To the extent that a theme runs through Grit Lit, it is the effect of poverty on individual psyches and entire communities where the...