I don’t know why I believe that I’ll find the truth about America in Mississippi. It’s a dreamscape, really. So overlaid with lies, oppressions, and Faulknerian legend that to expect anything authentic about the place is foolhardy. But I persist nonetheless because I’m a sucker for myth and Southern lit.   Last summer it was Clarksdale that called. I was passing through on my annual summer journey from Virginia to teach in Dallas. So we stopped for a couple of nights at the Shack Up Inn. Don’t judge us. O, go ahead. I certainly did. … Continue reading At the Crossroads in Clarksdale →