On a summer evening some years ago, two of the South’s most celebrated writers, William Faulkner and Katherine Anne Porter, were dining together at a plush restaurant in Paris. Everything had been laid out to perfection: a splendid meal had been consumed, a bottle of fine burgundy emptied, and thimble-sized glasses of an expensive liqueur drained. The maitre d’ and an entourage of waiters hovered close by, ready to satisfy any final whim.
“Back home the butter beans are in,” said Faulkner, peering into the distance, “the speckled ones.”
Miss Porter fiddled with her glass and stared into space. “Blackberries,” she said wistfully.