“Whatever happened, it happened in extraordinary times, in a season of dreams, and in Natchez it was the bitterest winter of them all.” The opening of “First Love” is the best prose Eudora Welty ever wrote. In its welcome sweep, we perceive the “red percussion” of Indian fires in the distance, the mute wheel of gulls, travelers picking through the “glassy tunnels of the Trace” in the “strange drugged fall of snow,” and the “somnambulist” river lifting from its bed in subconscious craving for … [Read more...] about I Read Dead People: Eudora Welty and Failure, “First Love”