He was one of the most hard-scrabble-looking writers upon whom I've ever laid eyes. Numerous times over the years, I saw acclaimed rural carpenter turned novelist William Gay sit on author's panels at the Southern Festival of Books and not say a whole lot that I can remember. I *think* he may have mentioned once that literary notoriety had not changed his life much and that he still lived in a trailor.  His presence was most humble, as if he felt he didn't belong there. But belong he did. More so than most anyone else there. My friend, author-philospher Bill Peach, whom I hold in most high esteem, wrote the following about Gay who died Thursday:

"William Gay, the Hohenwald, Tenn., native who late in life earned a following as one of the most acclaimed Southern writers of recent years, was reportedly found dead last night from heart failure at his Lewis County home. He was 68.

"A Vietnam veteran who served in the Navy, Gay had been writing since he was 15 years old, supporting himself with carpentry and drywall-hanging jobs as well as a stint on a television-tube assembly line. It wasn't until 1998, however, that he published his first short stories, followed by his prize-winning first novel, The Long Home, in 1999.

"Its celebrated follow-up, Provinces of Night, made Gay's literary name as an heir to the tradition of Faulkner and Flannery O'Connor. Of his three published novels and collected short stories — with a fourth novel, The Lost Country (excerpted here at Chapter16.org), as yet unpublished — Gay's works were twice filmed.

"Gay's hard-living reputation only enhanced his literary mystique. He traveled often, however, and was scheduled to do a reading Monday at Lincoln Memorial University with fellow writer Sonny Brewer."