two umbrellas

Thanks to Condalmo, I can listen to William Faulkner reading As I Lay Dying. I already have audio of him reading his Nobel Prize speech. It always feels a bit surreal to listen to authors read, especially one of my favorites (not to mention, dead). It alters the relationship that was already created between myself and the text, although not always in a negative way.

My favorite sentence in Light in August by William Faulkner is the first of Chapter 6: Memory believes before knowing remembers. Time has always been such an important factor in Faulkner’s novels – Sound and the Fury is a book of time, haunted and shaped by its passage and inevitability – but here it seems that this idea is becoming more concrete (to an extent) in that the characters are less influenced by time but become personifications of it. Maybe I am putting time and memory under one umbrella but I feel that the definitions, at least in these novels, are blurring together. The rest of the first paragraph of Chapter 6 is as follows:

Believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders. Knows remembers believes a corridor in a big long garbled cold echoing building of dark red brick sootbleakened by more chimneys than its own, set in a grassless cinderstrewnpacked compound surrounded by smoking factory purlieus and enclosed by a ten foot steel-and-wire fence like a penitentiary or a zoo, where in random erratic surges, with sparrowlike childtrebling, orphans in identical and uniform blue denim in and out remembering but in knowing constant as the bleak walls, the bleak windows where in rain soot from the yearly adjacenting chimney streaked like black tears.

These orphans, including a five year old Joe Christmas, are the personifications of the memories of their pasts – but then again, aren’t we all just the sums of our pasts? – and yet are so bombarded with the ‘bleak’ realities of their present that they become past and present personified in which the difference is negligible. Those who are allowed to move forward, meaning those who will shape the future in this continuum, are those who move.

Lena Grove, who is quite pregnant, comes to Jefferson on foot by way of Alabama. She is looking for the man who got her pregnant and gave her the false promise of a stable life. She is on the move and she arrives in Jefferson armed not with the memories of her Lucas Burch (aka Joe Brown) but with ideas about what her future life. She is the personification of the now, which gives us hope for the future, one that not all will be haunted by the ghosts of their past:

A man will talk about how he’d like to escape from living folks. But it’s the dead folks that do him the damage. It’s the dead ones that lay quiet in one place and dont try to hold him, that he cant escape from.

Lena is a stark contrast from the other characters in the book because of her defiance of this. She is constantly moving, constantly proving the endurance of life.

I first read Light in August when I was in high school* and I remember thinking that this is it. What that ‘it’ was I am not sure I could explain – and even now I am struggling to come to terms with this book. It is hard to think about specifics as it has become a part of my psyche**.

asides:

* I often wonder how my high school English teacher is doing. I would really love to have a cup of coffee and a cigarette with her.

** For some reason when I typed the word psyche it didn’t look quite right, so I decided to look it up in my dictionary application on my mac. Here’s the entry:

psyche

noun

the human soul, mind or spirit: I will never really fathom the female psyche.

I must admit I’m a little bothered by this. Why is it so interesting that women are mysterious? Who finds them mysterious? I find myself to be mysterious but I also find all people in general to be mysterious? Who knows what goes on in other people’s minds? There is a continual connotation of inferiority because no one – not even women themselves – can ‘fathom the female psyche’.

Oh so long ago now, I started a project where I intended to read all of William Faulkner’s novels in chronological order. I have had my ups and downs with this project, a few pit stops, but I have soldiered on. My intention was to attempt to get inside the writing: hear the voice, feel the rhythms and cadences, understand the sense of place and belonging that I felt in his work. I am not sure why I am surprised that the opposite happened.

The other night I woke up in the middle of the night in a state of shock. Before bed I had been reading A Light in August, a book that I have read at least twice already. It was towards the end when the reader learns how Joe Christmas becomes an orphan. It is an uncomfortable section of the book, though many sections have that feel. I didn’t think too much of it, so when I got sleepy enough, I closed the book, thought nothing more of it, and fell asleep. When I woke I was paralyzed with fear. I had the worst nightmare I have EVER had. I won’t – no, I can’t – relay its contents in writing. I didn’t know what to do. I did not move for what seemed like hours trying to decide if I should wake mr. twoumbrellas to tell him. I didn’t know if I could repeat it. The rational part of my brain was trying to take over, telling me that it wasn’t real but there’s that other part, the part that dreamed this horror – how could I even think such things! – that kept reminding me what happened in an awful Clockwork Orange kind of way. Somehow, mr. twoumbrellas woke up and I told him I had a terrible dream and broke down in tears. When I told him what happened, I think even he was a little shocked. As I was recounting the nightmare, I realized straight away it was because of William Faulkner. He has the ability to write about humanity’s evils (even uses the word evil over and over again in Light in August, which in itself becomes a mantra of terror) where you are compelled, forced, intrigued, and disgusted to continue reading because you must, must go on and somehow the writing is still beautiful (see also in Sanctuary).

Instead of me getting inside the work of Faulkner, he was able to get inside my head and thoroughly fuck with it.

I needed a break. As soon as I finished it, I took the Parasol to the library to find something new, light, possibly even funny. I found Then We Came to the End (which doesn’t sound very funny – and wasn’t as funny as I hoped) and The Lazarus Project (which is next).

Something will draw me back. I know it will. I can’t give up on this project yet. I’ve been so committed until now. I just need some time off to recover.

I am undecided about Sanctuary by William Faulkner. This novel is more plot driven than the other novels of his that I’ve read. It is about a woman who is kidnapped and taken into the Memphis ‘underworld’ and the trial of the man wrongly accused of murdering another man who tried to protect her. It was a little grotesque and a little odd and yet at times, surprisingly, beautiful.

Beneath the bed the dogs made no sound. Temple moved slightly; the dry complaint of mattress and springs died into terrific silence in which they crouched. She thought of them, woolly, shapeless; savage, petulant, spoiled, the flatulent monotony of their sheltered lives snatched up without warning by an incomprehensible moment of terror and fear of bodily annihilation at the very hands which symbolised by ordinary the licensed tranquility of their lives.

I am always impressed by Faulkner’s tendency to blend his descriptions of animals and humans. In this paragraph he is discussing two dogs that are hiding under Temple’s bed but that last sentence could be describing Temple herself before and during her current situation. These passages are a reminder, particularly in this novel – which focuses on human’s more primitive conditions – of our our animal tendencies and that without our moral conscience these animal tendencies can become evil – as illustrated in the character of Popeye.

There were two other things that struck me: the punctuation and the introduction. First, Faulkner really uses the colon in this novel, so much so that I began to recognize when a colon would be approaching. I liked it even if it was overused but it works. Second, the text I read contained the Introduction that Faulkner wrote for the Modern Library edition in 1932. He writes:

I thought again, ‘[Sanctuary] might sell; maybe 10,000 of them will buy it.’ So I tore the galleys down and rewrote the book. It had been already set up once, so I had to pay for the privilege of rewriting it, trying to make out of it something which would not shame The Sound and the Fury and As I Lay Dying too much and I made a fair job and I hope you will buy it and tell your friends and I hope they will buy it too.

The whole Introduction is interesting and entertaining. He discusses how the writing and the attitude towards writing changes when you try to write specifically for money. I was glad I read it last. It helped me understand the direction of the book.

At some point last year I decided that I would read (and in some instances, re-read) William Faulkner’s novels in chronological order. I decided to do this for two reasons. One, I was getting ready for NaNoWriMo and thought immersing myself in an author – one of my favorites – would be an inspirational and motivating endeavor. Two, I felt somewhat obligated, since Faulkner is one of my favorite – if not, favorite – authors, I should at some point have read all of his works. I thought these were valid reasons and reasons enough to keep me going: there are nineteen novels. I wanted to focus on his novels because that’s what I was writing at the time and I had spent the last three years immersed in the short story. But then a few things happened…

First, I got pregnant. A valid excuse – sort of – of why my work began to fall apart. I blame being pregnant for my inability to finish NaNoWriMo (morning sickness for me lasted morning, noon, and night). But then I became focused on what was happening with my body and starting reading books about that. However, I still decided that at the start of the New Year it would be the Winter of Faulkner. Then it somehow stretched itself to the Spring – and then Summer – and now, the Fall – and most likely (if I continue) the Winter (once again) of Faulkner. Since becoming pregnant and then with the arrival of the Parasol, I have used that as an excuse as to why I haven’t finished reading all 19 novels yet. But that’s not quite it. I have read other books in between Faulkner’s novels. I’ve cheated on him. I will not apologize. I have no regrets. I will, however, ask myself: What happened?

I got tired of him. I am still tired of him – or, at least, the thought of reading another Faulkner novel exhausts me. Once I am in a Faulkner novel, I don’t want to get out. There are times, though, when the thought of reading one more just becomes too heavy. The weight of all of his words, paragraphs, and punctuation is sometimes emotionally unbearable. So far, I’ve only read six. I just finished Sanctuary – a book I found to be quite odd and beautiful. As I was getting towards the final chapters, I found myself wandering over to the library (which I recently discovered is only a block and a half from my house) and taking out two books – both written by someone other than William Faulkner. But when I am reading other books, I find that my appreciation of Faulkner only grows and I think, ‘Oh, I am wasting my time. I should be reading Faulkner instead’.

So I always go back to him: he’s just too good. So maybe I am just distracted and am not in the right state of mind for an immersion project. So maybe I should realize that it is no longer a project but a goal. So I will finish – I think.

I’m still plugging away at the Faulkner Project. The Little Parasol is somewhat enjoying it. She loved As I Lay Dying but is not enjoying Sanctuary as much. Maybe it’s the way that I’m reading it; maybe she already has formed her taste in books…Kundera put her to sleep; but, I’ll admit, the essays can be dense and there were often times when I struggled to keep my eyes open myself.

I still enjoyed As I Lay Dying immensely. I am always surprised to find that I still have trouble reading this book. I often find Vardamen very hard to follow – more so than Benjy. However, I have confirmed my good judgement in not reading while I was pregnant. From Addie’s chapter:

He had a word, too. Love, he called it. But I had been used to words for a long time. I knew that that word was like the others: just a shape to fill the lack; that when the right time came, you wouldn’t need a word for that anymore than for pride or fear. Cash did not need to say it to me nor I to him, and I would say, Let Anse use it, if he wants to. So that was Anse or love; love or Anse: it didn’t matter.

…My aloneness had been violated and then made whole again by the violation: time, Anse, love, what you will, outside the circle.

Then I realized that I had Darl. At first I would not believe it. Then I believed I would kill Anse. It was as though he had tricked me, hidden within a word like within a paper screen and struck me back through it. But then I realised that I had been tricked by words older than Anse or love, and that the same word had tricked Anse too, and that my revenge would be that he would never know I was taking revenge…

I gave Ande Dewey Dell to negative Jewel. Then I gave him Vardaman to replace the child I had robbed him of. And now he has three children that are his and not mine. And then I could get ready to die.

I think if I had read that chapter while I was still pregnant I would have cried for days or gone into labor. (Maybe it would have been a good idea since the little Parasol was late.)

Milan Kundera’s The Art of the Novel has been sitting on my bookshelf for too long. I’m not quite sure why I read The Curtain first. I am always intrigued to read about a writer’s philosophy on writing and Kundera never disappoints. I am surprised how frank he seems to be when writing about his own writing. I feel as though I could read this book over and over again and never fully get out of it all it has to offer. While I often find his writing and writing style to be too technical for my own writing, I find that it in is this contrast that I can learn so much. I have also learned that I should really revisit Kafka.

It is an amazing thing: coming back to a novel that you’ve read so many years ago – as an undergraduate, no less, at the height of youthful intellectual study; the time when you thought you knew everything (or at least wanted to, so it was easy to pretend that you did – discovering something was equivalent to understanding) – and realizing that you didn’t know what the hell was going on in that novel. Sure, you could understand it, follow the plot, and get swept away by the writing – but did you really understand what it was saying, at least, to you? Maybe in some slight way. But now as I have finished William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury for the second time, I have a much greater connection with one of the novels that sealed my commitment to Faulkner forever.

I won’t dwell too much on what the book is about – that has been done many times over, particularly in the Norton Critical Edition that I own. While some of the essays are interesting, I try to stay away from too much criticism. I did, however, read the Appendix that Faulkner wrote for The Portable Faulkner in 1946, which outlines the characters from 1699-1945 in the novel: “I should have done this when I wrote the book,” Faulkner wrote. “Then the whole thing would have fallen into pattern like a jigsaw puzzle when the magician’s wand touched it.” I read it to try to refresh my reading memory (which is very, very poor and one of the reasons I started this blog in the first place) and I’ll admit it did become a jigsaw puzzle but it didn’t fall into pattern right away. Although it’s an Appendix, I read it first. Maybe it was cheating, but it didn’t matter. The Appendix is a bit of novella in its own right and there were moments I had to double-back to place what happened in the novel proper or if it happened in the Appendix. At any rate, I could take or leave the critical essays and I try to experience the novels as I read them.

The novel is split into for sections each representing a different day in the lives of the Compson family. Throughout my reading there were a few questions I had about the order of the sections: April 7, 1928; June 2, 1910; April 6, 1928; and April 8, 1928. Each day has its own idiosyncrasies and could stand alone yet they could never stand alone. I often found asking ‘How would the novel be different if the sections were ordered differently?…Could they be ordered differently?” I was often reminded of the famous quote from Macbeth:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in the petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

I didn’t return to the quote until I finished the novel and I had forgotten the significance of those first few lines – “the petty pace from day to day” – and how it leads to the end of the quote “Signifying nothing.” I realize that my question is most likely moot (even if it could be an interesting experiment to see how the novel could change if ordered differently) and taking each ‘day’ as it comes until each day is both significant and meaningless.

While it could be easy to fall into the trap of taking the novel too superficially in using this quote as a ‘key’, it does allow me, especially in my second reading, to experience the novel’s superb execution rather than the significance of time, chivalry, race, family, tragedy, etc… What I found most interesting is how quickly and easily I can forgive Faulkner for his style. The first section is told from the point of view of Benjy, an ‘idiot’, whose narrative has no ties to linear time. (It would also be interesting to see what the novel would look like if it were printed in different colors, each representing a change in time, as Faulkner once suggested.) The June 2, 1910 section is a huge leap into the intellectualism of Quentin, Benjy’s brother, where – again – time doesn’t quite follow a linear pattern but we are also given pages of italics and prose poems. The final two sections are more traditionally told. Each section perfectly executed. I am able to experience the writing without getting caught in the language. There is no disconnect between the writing on the page and what is being said.

Why then, do I have less tolerance for writers today who have similar styles? And what is the difference between style and voice? I may have answered my question with that question. I find that I am less forgiving of contemporary writers who try to write with writing in mind – or writing with visuals in mind. I am not opposed to new styles but I can’t help but think that novels are still about reading and listening to what’s on the page rather than visualizing the page itself. I will try to be more open to contemporary and experimental styles of writing but I know I will always go back to Faulkner’s definitive voice.

aside As I await the impending birth of my daughter, I had to take a break from Faulkner. Next on the list would have been As I Lay Dying, which is not quite the material for a oversensitive, hyper-hormoned, first-time mom to re-read. So, I decided on The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz. What a great choice considering my questions of style and voice. I am almost finished with the book and Diaz has a similar ability to execute voice unlike many (of course, not all) of his peers.

I recently finished Flags in the Dust by William Faulkner. In this novel he takes his fateful turn into Yoknapatawpha County and tells the saga of the Sartoris men. While there are important women involved (these are the characters that move the story – if there were no women, the men would just sit around and drink themselves to death in a quiet solitude; maybe this is what Faulkner wanted), the story is about the men and their endurance, or attempts to endure. Faulkner’s writing is complex and slow, like his characters, and I enjoyed savoring each sentence – no matter how long.

A few nights ago I was out to dinner with some co-workers and the woman sitting next to me told me that she was never really in to William Faulkner. My first thoughts about these kinds of statements are usually those of a proud mother: not quite shocked; but maybe this person just doesn’t know all of the good things there about Faulkner and if I go into a ramble of what I know and love then there is no reason why this person, too, would not come to know and love his writings as well.

So while thinking of how I could express to this woman how one could love this slow, complex, masculine, unforgiving, and unrepentantly overwritten novel, I thought of the two page passage about mules. Mules, taken individually, may not be that exciting. Maybe it’s not the best route to take when persuading someone how great a work (or an author’s entire catalogue) may be. But I couldn’t help it – passages like this are why I am endeavoring to read all (ok, most) of his works:

Round and round the mule went, setting its narrow, deerlike feet delicately down in the hissing cane-pith, its neck bobbing limber as a section of rubber hose in the collar, with its trace-galled flanks and flopping, lifeless ears, and its half-closed eyes drowsing venomously behind pale lids, apparently asleep with the monotony of its own motion. Some Cincinnatus of the cotton fields should contemplate the lowly destiny, some Homer should sing the saga of the mule and his place in the South. He it was, more than any one creature or thing, who, steadfast, to the land when all else faltered before the hopelss juggernaut of circumstance, impervious to conditions that broke men’s hearts because of his venomous and patient preoccupation with the immediate present, won the prone South from beneath the iron heel of Reconstruction and taught it ride again through humility and courage through adversity overcome; who accomplished the well-nigh impossible hopeless odd, by sheer and vindictive patience. Father and mother he does not resemble, sons and daughters he will never have; vindictive and patient (it is a known fact that he will labor ten years willingly and patiently for you, for the privilege of kicking you once); solitary but without pride, self-sufficient but without vanity; his voice is his own derision…

aside Up next is The Sound and the Fury. This is the first of Faulkner’s works that I am rereading. I’m only a few pages in and I am taking a completely different perspective on the book.

I was a little surprised by William Faulkner’s Mosquitoes. It was quite different from Soldiers’ Pay and yet so very similar. As I progress through Faulkner’s writing, I am guessing that it will be a unique contribution to his body of work. The style of these two novels is very similar. The subject matter couldn’t be more different. I wonder if it is fair to judge a book by what it is about – meaning can writing style outweigh its authenticity? I am not implying that Mosquitoes is not authentic. It is a jazz age novel; a novel of its time; but something about it seemed forced.

Mosquitoes follows a four day yachting trip starting in New Orleans. The passengers are all artists summoned together by a Mrs. Maurier who likes to surround herself with artists but is not an artist herself. She also doesn’t understand them – male or female – or even approve of many of their bohemian tendencies. She brings along her niece and nephew who are a new generation of the carefree spirit. However, they are not attached to art or philosophy; they are just young. The group is rounded out by a sculptor, a writer, a painter, and a few others who fit the jazz age personas. I had lost track who was who for some of the lesser characters as not much distinguished them from each other. Their conversations were superficial and while Mosquitoes may have been a novel of the loneliness of this superficiality – where persona overtakes the individual. As I was reading I continually asked myself: can you define something by using the word itself? If so, that should be the hallmark of authenticity; but, reading The Great Gatsby and Mosquitoes are two different experiences.

Then, again, this is Faulkner. For me, Faulkner is about style, creating a world through a mosaic of language and dialogue. With Mosquitoes Faulkner threads dialogue, language, and art masterfully until it becomes a collage of ennui. In that sense it works beautifully even if at times it is overwritten.

aside I am sorry to say that I am very behind schedule. I finished Mosquitoes at least a month ago. My discipline is lacking a bit. I’m only a third of the way into Flags in the Dust and I imagine it will take me a while to get through it.

Soldiers’ Pay is my start to what I am calling my “Winter of Faulkner” (although at the rate I’m going it may lead to the Spring and Summer of Faulkner). Soldiers’ Pay is Faulkner’s first novel (written in 1926) and it is obvious that this is a young work. The characters are young and naive (despite surviving World War I) and their perspective on the world reflects that. Yet, I can easily forgive them – historically, WWI, of course, was unprecedented.

Faulkner’s novel follows soldiers’ homecomings, one whose family had thought he had died, and the effects they have on the people they left behind. It is interesting to read with the perspective that soldiers that have seen combat are romantic heroes. Those at home – particularly the women – still believe in the glory of war and its chivalric justice. When Mahon returns with the inability to see or effectively communicate and with a disfiguring scar on his face, he is a not so subtle reflection of the realities of a new kind of war. “Can nothing at all move me again? Nothing to desire? Nothing to stir me, to move me, save pity?…” Margaret Powers asks herself.

There are few that consider him a hero. Many try to force a life upon him, although he is dying – a life that was supposed to happen had there not been the war. The reality of the situation often is so fervently resisted it is disorienting for a modern reader. However, Faulkner builds his characters in such a way that one cannot help but sympathize with this inescapable need. Soldiers’ Pay is about character and Faulkner skillfully creates his characters through dialogue. The novel is thick with dialogue that often becomes a whirlwind of character dynamics. All of their struggles, fears, and desires are revealed by what they say and don’t say. Margaret Powers is a particularly interesting character. Margaret is a woman who is trying to make sense of the war, the loss of her first husband in the war, and what a ‘modern’ woman is supposed to do after living so much life in a such a short time. Often her actions and words are on opposite poles as she tries to control situations that are out of her hands: she does everything she can to keep Mahon’s father from knowing that his son is dying – reassurances are constantly made; she even decides to marry Mahon despite all of her talk to Gilligan (another soldier) about not getting married and their obvious relationship with each other. However, what is fascinating is how all of the characters talk their way through novel. There are even sections of dialogue that are structured as a drama. In just one page the reader gets the perspective of ‘The Town’, Young Robert Saunders, Cecily, George Farr, Margaret Powers, and Gilligan.

Knowing many of Faulkner’s later characters, Soldiers’ Pay was an enlightening place to start with his works (I know I should have started with New Orleans Sketches but I’ll have to order that one; but Mosquitoes, I’m sure, will have similarities.) I am looking forward to following how Faulkner grew in his character development.