WITH THE LATEST INSTALLMENT OF the Texas Book Festival in the barn, it is perhaps a good time to look back at the invention of Southwestern literature—that is, at its conception as a recognizable body of writing with its own characteristic features and canonical authors. At the tail end of the twenties, J. Frank Dobie proposed a new course to be taught in the Department of English at the University of Texas. A lowly instructor with a master’s degree and no aspirations to acquire a doctorate, Dobie wanted to offer a course on Southwestern literature. Immediately, he ran into strong opposition. As the story goes, the full professors in the department solemnly declared that there was no such thing. Dobie’s riposte became part of his legend: “Well, there’s plenty of life in the Southwest, so I’ll just teach the life.” Dobie, incidentally, did not have much use for Ph.D’s, arguing in 1942 that in their theses they “merely transfer bones from one graveyard to another.”
To be fair, the old dons in the English department had a point. In 1929 American literature itself was only beginning to challenge the dominance of British and classical literature in the nation’s colleges and universities. Certainly the concept of the Southwest as a literary region would have been a hard sell to professors who were skeptical of adding American literature to the curriculum. Dobie well understood what he was up against. As his biographer Lon Tinkle observed, Dobie complained that “some of the departments here have no more sympathy for the life of the Southwest than they have for life in Patagonia.”
Happily, Dobie’s proposal coincided with a burst of creative literary interest in the region. In 1930, for example, two books about the Southwest won Pulitzer prizes: The Raven, Marquis James’s biography of Sam Houston, and Oliver La Farge’s novel about Navajo life, Laughing Boy. In Texas things were astir as well. Katherine Anne Porter’s Flowering Judas was published to widespread acclaim, and Dobie’s own Coronado’s Children achieved national standing by being picked as a Literary Guild selection.
In any event, Dobie, who could be very persistent and persuasive, got his course—English 342: Life and Literature of the Southwest—up and running in the spring semester of 1930. He would offer it regularly for the next twelve years, and it would continue in other hands through the rest of the century and into the next. The manner in which Dobie taught the class can be gleaned from a document that survives from the 1940 spring semester, a compilation of the best work done by members of the class. In May the students put together a bound mimeographed anthology. The title page described the work as “A Collection of Stray Mavericks Caught, Roped, and Branded by Members of the ‘Big Corral.’” A student named William H. Cleveland, Jr., was listed as the “Foreman,” and the “Boss O’ the Outfit” was, naturally, J. Frank Dobie. Sixty-nine pages long, the anthology brought together the work of 35 student contributors from a total of 107 class members.
In a brief preface, Dobie, styling himself the “chief ramrod,” enthusiastically endorsed his experience of teaching the course that spring: “Riding with you three mornings a week in the room numbered 201 under ‘the Doric wheat elevator’ has generally been bully business