This book is everything I dislike about literary fiction: it was disjointed and long-winded, its characters didn't speak like real people, huge personal growth was achieved through looking at a dead mother's letters, forgiveness was granted in seconds for no reason other than it was the final page of the story. The minor flaws dragged me out of a story: non sequiturs placed in double quotes that made no sense when attributed to any character in a room; a character waking up at 7am, having a brief conversation about flowers, and suddenly it is 10am and she has to rush to get ready for a funeral. It felt like Welty was trying too hard to give a portrayal of Southern life, which is awkward because she is Southern herself. It is, at the outside, a simple story about personal growth, but it is hard to find sympathy for a middle-forties protagonist growing up only after her husband and parents are both dead.