10/2021

Published in 1958 as Honey Gal
Put out in the 1980s as this, its original title.
This must have been shocking in the 50s.
Hilariously tears down religion. Psychotic, but makes its point. But then it gets deeply into segregation. Yet continues to be psychotic.
Like often with Willeford... nothing is obvious.

An interesting little novel, originally published in the late 50's, which helps to explain the nature of the writing and story. If you're sensitive to language (especially the derogatory "N" word), perhaps skip this one.

Essentially, I viewed this story as an exploration of a narcissistic, Machiavellian character that has elected to pursue whatever his ego needs / desires at the moment, thinks on his feet, improvises, and of course, will ultimately not find fulfillment from his actions. Nevertheless, Willeford's writing is entertaining and, despite the implausibility of the entire book, the story moves along briskly. Aside from a social commentary on race relations and prejudice, especially in the South, there's not much of serious consequence here. Just a story that will help pass time for some, enrage others, and stimulate others to read more from this author.

Not one of his most interesting narratives, but perhaps his funniest. Brother Springer himself belongs somewhere between Uncle Buck and Jim Jones as a character. An odd, quick read full of all the Willeford calling cards.

Humorous tale of a psychopath who stumbles upon religion as a means to enrich himself in many ways.

If I had any black friends I probably wouldn't lend them this book.

Widely praised as Willeford's masterpiece, I have to disagree. The Burnt Orange Heresy is a much stronger book, not least for its characterization: Reverend Springer feels like a more watered down version of that book's protagonist.

It's still an interesting, profoundly cynical book. Willeford captures racism, white privilege, and white contempt quite sharply as a sociopath ditches his wife, stumbles over a job preaching, and then stumbles into the bus boycott movement. The book is most interesting when Willeford dissects casual, day-to-day racism, not least in his own protagonist.

Still, it's more a curiosity than anything else, and probably only interesting for Willeford completists and crime novel fans.

Honey Gal is the first Willeford novel that I ever read. How did I discover Willeford? An Australian warehouse security guard who reported illegal immigrants to authorities recommended this book to me on a movie forum. I have since lost touch with him. Serves me right, because I clearly want to discover dangerous literature over meeting real people or keeping in touch with them. But I narrated this brief online tryst to show that great art is often consumed by people who are not writing pompous reviews on Goodreads. Willeford is the greatest author recommendation that I have received in my life. The expensive copy I ordered was a bad reprint of the original publication with a crappy black cover that had at its center, the original cover in a small square box. An amateur could have done a better job of the font and spacing in the text inside. The whole thing was unattractive. But there was nothing wrong with the stuff on the pages. It hooked me in allright. A dangerous book like this does not deserve a normie review. I do not expect too many likes for this one.

Other reviewers say Willeford is taking down race relations and religion. But is he? I believe Sam Springer, an accountant, is out to have an adventure. The book was quite descriptive about the food that Sam ate. And his animal passions for a woman of another race. Willeford understood that ultimately every man simply wanted to land a hot piece of ass. And eat good food. How is this satire? It is just reality. Deep in his heart, every man longs to escape his present quarters which includes his lawfully wedded wife.

I remember the leaked videos of Hindu godman Swami Nithyananda, furiously changing TV channels and later rolling around on a bed with the actress Ranjitha. Hahahahha! Swami Nithyananda is still around delivering glorious gibberish. Come on o book reader, you are not as decent as you pretend to be. That is all that Willeford is trying to point out. The joke is not on religion or race relations. The joke is on you, you morally superior Goodreads reader and review writing prick.

I can't get enough of Charles Willeford. His books defy genre, defy expectation, and go places such books are not supposed to go. It would be limiting to call him a crime novelist or pulp novelist, but what else to call him? In any case, this wild, wooly little book follows a third-rate white author who comes upon an opportunity to be a preacher in an all-black church in Civil Rights Era Florida. He's not a believer by any means, but he figures that he can collect a good salary, cough up two sermons every Sunday, and spend the rest of the time working on his second book. When he gets there, however, he enters into flimflammery of another kind, using a Rosa Parks-like incident to unite other parishes in a bus boycott, all while funneling donations to the cause into an account in Atlanta. He also looks to steal a worshiper's hot-to-trot wife while he's at it. This whole crazy scenario starts with our hero opening his first sermon by talking about the life of Franz Kafka, and it gets more fevered from there. Good stuff.

Charles Willeford's The Black Mass of Brother Springer is reminiscent of Patricia Highsmith's Ripley novels with his amoral and whimsical main character, a white man who becomes the pastor of a black church in Jacksonville, Florida named Deuteronomy Springer.

He seems to act against his character when he organizes a boycott of the local bus system for forcing black passengers to sit in the back, but then, in a short time, things get a little hot for him when he raises the ire of local white racists who start gunning for him. What better than to run off with the young wife of an elderly black dentist and hotfoot it to New York?

I have read a number of Willeford's novels and regard him highly, especially for his Hoke Moseley novels.

Come for the Pot, Stay for the Kettle

It was a bright, cold day in April and the clocks were striking 13%.

(Second time through now.)

Charles Willeford is a truly existentialist American writer - without being high-brow. And that’s the virtue of him and his books. He would only get better at it with time (as in the “Cockfighter”), washing away the need to prove his cleverness, though he is clever. He creates characters other writers of the period simply aren’t able to - in a snap of a finger. And for all his finesse, Hemingway himself lacks Willeford’s humor. I don’t believe anyone would read this book and not look at D. H. Lawrence’s and Emily Brontë’s books without contempt for them being phonies.

An amazing Ninteen-Fifites romp in which a sociopathic white writer escapes his wife and job as an accountant, and becomes the pastor of black church in Florida, and ends up involved with the wife on one of his parishioners, and early civil rights protests -- soon a cross is burned . . .