Wise Blood

by Flannery O'Connor

The way things happened, one thing after another, it seemed like time went by so fast you couldn’t tell if you were young or old.

His grandfather had been a circuit preacher, a waspish old man who had ridden over three counties with Jesus hidden in his head like a stinger.

“Do you think, Mr. Motes,” she said hoarsely, “that when you’re dead, you’re blind?” “I hope so,” he said after a minute. “Why?” she asked, staring at him. After a while he said, “If there’s no bottom in your eyes, they hold more.” The landlady stared for a long time, seeing nothing at all.