I perpetually have trouble with flipping the adjectives in the title, something I blame on seeing posters with the inverted version all throughout my teenage years and 20s. Since Flannery was a good Southern Catholic writer who wasn’t afraid to get gritty or mean or dirty, I expected to like her more than I did. Maybe it was my mood, a malaise of sorts. Title story has a family driving to Florida for vacation, winding up murdered by a serial killer on the loose. The rest of the stories are a blur, packed with dialect, brooding, country bumpkins gone to the city, one legged girls getting swindled out of their wooden leg by the Bible salesman.