Enter your mobile number or email address below and we'll send you a link to download the free Kindle App. Then you can start reading Kindle books on your smartphone, tablet, or computer - no Kindle device required.
To get the free app, enter your mobile phone number.
Other Sellers on Amazon
+ $3.99 shipping
+ $3.99 shipping
A Summer of Faulkner: As I Lay Dying/The Sound and the Fury/Light in August (Oprah's Book Club) Paperback – Box set, June 3, 2005
All Books, All the Time
Read author interviews, book reviews, editors picks, and more at the Amazon Book Review. Read it now
Frequently bought together
Customers who bought this item also bought
About the Author
William Cuthbert Faulkner was born in 1897 in New Albany, Mississippi, the first of four sons of Murry and Maud Butler Falkner (he later added the “u” to the family name himself). In 1904 the family moved to the university town of Oxford, Mississippi, where Faulkner was to spend most of his life. He was named for his great-grandfather “The Old Colonel,” a Civil War veteran who built a railroad, wrote a bestselling romantic novel called The White Rose of Memphis, became a Mississippi state legislator, and was eventually killed in what may or may not have been a duel with a disgruntled business partner. Faulkner identified with this robust and energetic ancestor and often said that he inherited the “ink stain” from him.
Never fond of school, Faulkner left at the end of football season his senior year of high school, and began working at his grandfather’s bank. In 1918, after his plans to marry his sweetheart Estelle Oldham were squashed by their families, he tried to enlist as a pilot in the U.S. Army but was rejected because he did not meet the height and weight requirements. He went to Canada, where he pretended to be an Englishman and joined the RAF training program there. Although he did not complete his training until after the war ended and never saw combat, he returned to his hometown in uniform, boasting of war wounds. He briefly attended the University of Mississippi, where he began to publish his poetry.
After spending a short time living in New York, he again returned to Oxford, where he worked at the university post office. His first book, a collection of poetry, The Marble Faun, was published at Faulkner’s own expense in 1924. The writer Sherwood Anderson, whom he met in New Orleans in 1925, encouraged him to try writing fiction, and his first novel, Soldier’s Pay, was published in 1926. It was followed by Mosquitoes. His next novel, which he titled Flags in the Dust, was rejected by his publisher and twelve others to whom he submitted it. It was eventually published in drastically edited form as Sartoris (the original version was not issued until after his death). Meanwhile, he was writing The Sound and the Fury, which, after being rejected by one publisher, came out in 1929 and received many ecstatic reviews, although it sold poorly. Yet again, a new novel, Sanctuary, was initially rejected by his publisher, this time as “too shocking.” While working on the night shift at a power plant, Faulkner wrote what he was determined would be his masterpiece, As I Lay Dying. He finished it in about seven weeks, and it was published in 1930, again to generally good reviews and mediocre sales.
In 1929 Faulkner had finally married his childhood sweetheart, Estelle, after her divorce from her first husband. They had a premature daughter, Alabama, who died ten days after birth in 1931; a second daughter, Jill, was born in 1933.
With the eventual publication of his most sensational and violent (as well as, up till then, most successful) novel, Sanctuary (1931), Faulkner was invited to write scripts for MGM and Warner Brothers, where he was responsible for much of the dialogue in the film versions of Hemingway’s To Have and Have Not and Chandler’s The Big Sleep, and many other films. He continued to write novels and published many stories in the popular magazines. Light in August (1932) was his first attempt to address the racial issues of the South, an effort continued in Absalom, Absalom! (1936), and Go Down, Moses (1942). By 1946, most of Faulkner’s novels were out of print in the United States (although they remained well-regarded in Europe), and he was seen as a minor, regional writer. But then the influential editor and critic Malcolm Cowley, who had earlier championed Hemingway and Fitzgerald and others of their generation, put together the Portable Faulkner, and once again Faulkner’s genius was recognized, this time for good. He received the 1949 Nobel Prize for Literature as well as many other awards and accolades, including the National Book Award and the Gold Medal from the American Academy of Arts and Letters and France’s Legion of Honor.
In addition to several collections of short fiction, his other novels include Pylon (1935), The Unvanquished (1938), The Wild Palms (1939), The Hamlet (1940), Intruder in the Dust (1948), A Fable (1954), The Town (1957), The Mansion (1959), and The Reivers (1962).
William Faulkner died of a heart attack on July 6, 1962, in Oxford, Mississippi, where he is buried.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
From As I Lay Dying
Jewel and I come up from the field, following the path in single file. Although I am fifteen feet ahead of him, anyone watching us from the cottonhouse can see Jewel’s frayed and broken straw hat a full head above my own.
The path runs straight as a plumb-line, worn smooth by feet and baked brick-hard by July, between the green rows of laidby cotton, to the cottonhouse in the center of the field, where it turns and circles the cottonhouse at four soft right angles and goes on across the field again, worn so by feet in fading precision.
The cottonhouse is of rough logs, from between which the chinking has long fallen. Square, with a broken roof set at a single pitch, it leans in empty and shimmering dilapidation in the sunlight, a single broad window in two opposite walls giving onto the approaches of the path. When we reach it I turn and follow the path which circles the house. Jewel, fifteen feet behind me, looking straight ahead, steps in a single stride through the window. Still staring straight ahead, his pale eyes like wood set into his wooden face, he crosses the floor in four strides with the rigid gravity of a cigar store Indian dressed in patched overalls and endued with life from the hips down, and steps in a single stride through the opposite window and into the path again just as I come around the corner. In single file and five feet apart and Jewel now in front, we go on up the path toward the foot of the bluff.
Tull’s wagon stands beside the spring, hitched to the rail, the reins wrapped about the seat stanchion. In the wagon bed are two chairs. Jewel stops at the spring and takes the gourd from the willow branch and drinks. I pass him and mount the path, beginning to hear Cash’s saw.
When I reach the top he has quit sawing. Standing in a litter of chips, he is fitting two of the boards together. Between the shadow spaces they are yellow as gold, like soft gold, bearing on their flanks in smooth undulations the marks of the adze blade: a good carpenter, Cash is. He holds the two planks on the trestle, fitted along the edges in a quarter of the finished box. He kneels and squints along the edge of them, then he lowers them and takes up the adze. A good carpenter. Addie Bundren could not want a better one, a better box to lie in. It will give her confidence and comfort. I go on to the house, followed by the
Chuck. Chuck. Chuck. of the adze.
So I saved out the eggs and baked yesterday. The cakes turned out right well. We depend a lot on our chickens. They are good layers, what few we have left after the possums and such. Snakes too, in the summer. A snake will break up a hen-house quicker than anything. So after they were going to cost so much more than Mr Tull thought, and after I promised that the difference in the number of eggs would make it up, I had to be more careful than ever because it was on my final say-so we took them. We could have stocked cheaper chickens, but I gave my promise as Miss Lawington said when she advised me to get a good breed, because Mr Tull himself admits that a good breed of cows or hogs pays in the long run. So when we lost so many of them we couldn’t afford to use the eggs ourselves, because I could not have had Mr Tull chide me when it was on my say-so we took them. So when Miss Lawington told me about the cakes I thought that I could bake them and earn enough at one time to increase the net value of the flock the equivalent of two head. And that by saving the eggs out one at a time, even the eggs wouldn’t be costing anything. And that week they laid so well that I not only saved out enough eggs above what we had engaged to sell, to bake the cakes with, I had saved enough so that the flour and the sugar and the stove wood would not be costing anything. So I baked yesterday, more careful than ever I baked in my life, and the cakes turned out right well. But when we got to town this morning Miss Lawington told me the lady had changed her mind and was not going to have the party after all.
“She ought to taken those cakes anyway,” Kate says.
“Well,” I say, “I reckon she never had no use for them now.”
“She ought to taken them,” Kate says. “But those rich town ladies can change their minds. Poor folks cant.”
Riches is nothing in the face of the Lord, for He can see into the heart. “Maybe I can sell them at the bazaar Saturday,” I say. They turned out real well.
“You cant get two dollars a piece for them,” Kate says.
“Well, it isn’t like they cost me anything,” I say. I saved them out and swapped a dozen of them for the sugar and flour. It isn’t like the cakes cost me anything, as Mr Tull himself realises that the eggs I saved were over and beyond what we had engaged to sell, so it was like we had found the eggs or they had been given to us.
“She ought to taken those cakes when she same as gave you her word,” Kate says. The Lord can see into the heart. If it is His will that some folks has different ideas of honesty from other folks, it is not my place to question His decree.
“I reckon she never had any use for them,” I say. They turned out real well, too.
The quilt is drawn up to her chin, hot as it is, with only her two hands and her face outside. She is propped on the pillow, with her head raised so she can see out the window, and we can hear him every time he takes up the adze or the saw. If we were deaf we could almost watch her face and hear him, see him. Her face is wasted away so that the bones draw just under the skin in white lines. Her eyes are like two candles when you watch them gutter down into the sockets of iron candle-sticks. But the eternal and the everlasting salvation and grace is not upon her.
“They turned out real nice,” I say. “But not like the cakes Addie used to bake.” You can see that girl’s washing and ironing in the pillow-slip, if ironed it ever was. Maybe it will reveal her blindness to her, laying there at the mercy and the ministration of four men and a tom-boy girl. “There’s not a woman in this section could ever bake with Addie Bundren,” I say. “First thing we know she’ll be up and baking again, and then we wont have any sale for ours at all.” Under the quilt she makes no more of a hump than a rail would, and the only way you can tell she is breathing is by the sound of the mattress shucks. Even the hair at her cheek does not move, even with that girl standing right over her, fanning her with the fan. While we watch she swaps the fan to the other hand without stopping it.
“Is she sleeping?” Kate whispers.
“She’s just watching Cash yonder,” the girl says. We can hear the saw in the board. It sounds like snoring. Eula turns on the trunk and looks out the window. Her necklace looks real nice with her red hat. You wouldn’t think it only cost twenty-five cents.
“She ought to taken those cakes,” Kate says.
I could have used the money real well. But it’s not like they cost me anything except the baking. I can tell him that anybody is likely to make a miscue, but it’s not all of them that can get out of it without loss, I can tell him. It’s not everybody can eat their mistakes, I can tell him.
Someone comes through the hall. It is Darl. He does not look in as he passes the door. Eula watches him as he goes on and passes from sight again toward the back. Her hand rises and touches her beads lightly, and then her hair. When she finds me watching her, her eyes go blank.
Pa and Vernon are sitting on the back porch. Pa is tilting snuff from the lid of his snuff-box into his lower lip, holding the lip outdrawn between thumb and finger. They look around as I cross the porch and dip the gourd into the water bucket and drink.
“Where’s Jewel?” pa says. When I was a boy I first learned how much better water tastes when it has set a while in a cedar bucket. Warmish-cool, with a faint taste like the hot July wind in cedar trees smells. It has to set at least six hours, and be drunk from a gourd. Water should never be drunk from metal.
And at night it is better still. I used to lie on the pallet in the hall, waiting until I could hear them all asleep, so I could get up and go back to the bucket. It would be black, the shelf black, the still surface of the water a round orifice in nothingness, where before I stirred it awake with the dipper I could see maybe a star or two in the bucket, and maybe in the dipper a star or two before I drank. After that I was bigger, older. Then I would wait until they all went to sleep so I could lie with my shirt-tail up, hearing them asleep, feeling myself without touching myself, feeling the cool silence blowing upon my parts and wondering if Cash was yonder in the darkness doing it too, had been doing it perhaps for the last two years before I could have wanted to or could have.
Pa’s feet are badly splayed, his toes cramped and bent and warped, with no toenail at all on his little toes, from working so hard in the wet in homemade shoes when he was a boy. Beside his chair his brogans sit. They look as though they had been hacked with a blunt axe out of pig-iron. Vernon has been to town. I have never seen him go to town in overalls. His wife, they say. She taught school too, once.
I fling the dipper dregs to the ground and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. It is going to rain before morning. Maybe before dark. “Down to the barn,” I say. “Harnessing the team.”
Down there fooling with that horse. He will go on through the barn, into the pasture. The horse will not be in sight: he is up there among the pine seedlings, in the cool. Jewel whistles, once and shrill. The horse snorts, then Jewel sees him, glinting for a gaudy instant among the blue shadows. Jewel whistles again; the horse comes dropping down the slope, stiff-legged, his ears cocking and flicking, his mismatched eyes rolling, and fetches up twenty feet away, broadside on, watching Jewel over his shoulder in an attitude kittenish and alert.
“Come here, sir,” Jewel says. He moves. Moving that quick his coat, bunching, tongues swirling like so many flames. With tossing mane and tail and rolling eye the horse makes another short curvetting rush and stops again, feet bunched, watching Jewel. Jewel walks steadily toward him, his hands at his sides. Save for Jewel’s legs they are like two figures carved for a tableau savage in the sun.
When Jewel can almost touch him, the horse stands on his hind legs and slashes down at Jewel. Then Jewel is enclosed by a glittering maze of hooves as by an illusion of wings; among them, beneath the upreared chest, he moves with the flashing limberness of a snake. For an instant before the jerk comes onto his arms he sees his whole body earthfree, horizontal, whipping snake-limber, until he finds the horse’s nostrils and touches earth again. Then they are rigid, motionless, terrific, the horse back-thrust on stiffened, quivering legs, with lowered head; Jewel with dug heels, shutting off the horse’s wind with one hand, with the other patting the horse’s neck in short strokes myriad and caressing, cursing the horse with obscene ferocity.
They stand in rigid terrific hiatus, the horse trembling and groaning. Then Jewel is on the horse’s back. He flows upward in a stooping swirl like the lash of a whip, his body in midair shaped to the horse. For another moment the horse stands spraddled, with lowered head, before it bursts into motion. They descend the hill in a series of spine-jolting jumps, Jewel high, leech-like on the withers, to the fence where the horse bunches to a scuttering halt again.
“Well,” Jewel says, “you can quit now, if you got a-plenty.”
Inside the barn Jewel slides running to the ground before the horse stops. The horse enters the stall, Jewel following. Without looking back the horse kicks at him, slamming a single hoof into the wall with a pistol-like report. Jewel kicks him in the stomach; the horse arches his neck back, croptoothed; Jewel strikes him across the face with his fist and slides on to the trough and mounts upon it. Clinging to the hay-rack he lowers his head and peers out across the stall tops and through the doorway. The path is empty; from here he cannot even hear Cash sawing. He reaches up and drags down hay in hurried armsful and crams it into the rack.
“Eat,” he says. “Get the goddamn stuff out of sight while you got a chance, you pussel-gutted bastard. You sweet son of a bitch,” he says.
It’s because he stays out there, right under the window, hammering and sawing on that goddamn box. Where she’s got to see him. Where every breath she draws is full of his knocking and sawing where she can see him saying See. See what a good one I am making for you. I told him to go somewhere else. I said Good God do you want to see her in it. It’s like when he was a little boy and she says if she had some fertilizer she would try to raise some flowers and he taken the bread pan and brought it back from the barn full of dung.
And now them others sitting there, like buzzards. Waiting, fanning themselves. Because I said If you wouldn’t keep on sawing and nailing at it until a man cant sleep even and her hands laying on the quilt like two of them roots dug up and tried to wash and you couldn’t get them clean. I can see the fan and Dewey Dell’s arm. I said if you’d just let her alone. Sawing and knocking, and keeping the air always moving so fast on her face that when you’re tired you cant breathe it, and that goddamn adze going One lick less. One lick less. One lick less until everybody that passes in the road will have to stop and see it and say what a fine carpenter he is. If it had just been me when Cash fell off of that church and if it had just been me when pa laid sick with that load of wood fell on him, it would not be happening with every bastard in the country coming in to stare at her because if there is a God what the hell is He for. It would just be me and her on a high hill and me rolling the rocks down the hill at their faces, picking them up and throwing them down the hill faces and teeth and all by God until she was quiet and not that goddamn adze going One lick less. One lick less and we could be quiet.
Excerpted from As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner Copyright © 1991 by William Faulkner. Excerpted by permission of Vintage, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
From The Sound and the Fury
April Seventh, 1928.
Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting. They were coming toward where the flag was and I went along the fence. Luster was hunting in the grass by the flower tree. They took the flag out, and they were hitting. Then they put the flag back and they went to the table, and he hit and the other hit. Then they went on, and I went along the fence. Luster came away from the flower tree and we went along the fence and they stopped and we stopped and I looked through the fence while Luster was hunting in the grass.
“Here, caddie.” He hit. They went away across the pasture. I held to the fence and watched them going away.
“Listen at you, now.” Luster said. “Aint you something, thirty three years old, going on that way. After I done went all the way to town to buy you that cake. Hush up that moaning. Aint you going to help me find that quarter so I can go to the show tonight.”
They were hitting little, across the pasture. I went back along the fence to where the flag was. It flapped on the bright grass and the trees.
“Come on.” Luster said. “We done looked there. They aint no more coming right now. Les go down to the branch and find that quarter before them niggers finds it.”
It was red, flapping on the pasture. Then there was a bird slanting and tilting on it. Luster threw. The flag flapped on the bright grass and the trees. I held to the fence.
“Shut up that moaning.” Luster said. “I cant make them come if they aint coming, can I. If you dont hush up, mammy aint going to have no birthday for you. If you dont hush, you know what I going to do. I going to eat that cake all up. Eat them candles, too. Eat all them thirty three candles. Come on, les go down to the branch. I got to find my quarter. Maybe we can find one of they balls. Here. Here they is. Way over yonder. See.” He came to the fence and pointed his arm. “See them. They aint coming back here no more. Come on.”
We went along the fence and came to the garden fence, where our shadows were. My shadow was higher than Luster’s on the fence. We came to the broken place and went through it.
“Wait a minute.” Luster said. “You snagged on that nail again. Cant you never crawl through here without snagging on that nail.”
Caddy uncaught me and we crawled through. Uncle Maury said to not let anybody see us, so we better stoop over, Caddy said. Stoop over, Benjy. Like this, see. We stooped over and crossed the garden, where the flowers rasped and rattled against us. The ground was hard. We climbed the fence, where the pigs were grunting and snuffing. I expect they’re sorry because one of them got killed today, Caddy said. The ground was hard, churned and knotted.
Keep your hands in your pockets, Caddy said. Or they’ll get froze. You dont want your hands froze on Christmas, do you.
“It’s too cold out there.” Versh said. “You dont want to go out doors.”
“What is it now.” Mother said.
“He want to go out doors.” Versh said.
“Let him go.” Uncle Maury said.
“It’s too cold.” Mother said. “He’d better stay in. Benjamin. Stop that, now.”
“It wont hurt him.” Uncle Maury said.
“You, Benjamin.” Mother said. “If you dont be good, you’ll have to go to the kitchen.”
“Mammy say keep him out the kitchen today.” Versh said. “She say she got all that cooking to get done.”
“Let him go, Caroline.” Uncle Maury said. “You’ll worry yourself sick over him.”
“I know it.” Mother said. “It’s a judgment on me. I sometimes wonder.”
“I know, I know.” Uncle Maury said. “You must keep your strength up. I’ll make you a toddy.”
“It just upsets me that much more.” Mother said. “Dont you know it does.”
“You’ll feel better.” Uncle Maury said. “Wrap him up good, boy, and take him out for a while.”
Uncle Maury went away. Versh went away.
“Please hush.” Mother said. “We’re trying to get you out as fast as we can. I dont want you to get sick.”
Versh put my overshoes and overcoat on and we took my cap and went out. Uncle Maury was putting the bottle away in the sideboard in the diningroom.
“Keep him out about half an hour, boy.” Uncle Maury said. “Keep him in the yard, now.”
“Yes, sir.” Versh said. “We dont never let him get off the place.”
We went out doors. The sun was cold and bright.
“Where you heading for.” Versh said. “You dont think you going to town, does you.” We went through the rattling leaves. The gate was cold. “You better keep them hands in your pockets.” Versh said. “You get them froze onto that gate, then what you do. Whyn’t you wait for them in the house.” He put my hands into my pockets. I could hear him rattling in the leaves. I could smell the cold. The gate was cold.
“Here some hickeynuts. Whooey. Git up that tree. Look here at this squirl, Benjy.”
I couldn’t feel the gate at all, but I could smell the bright cold.
“You better put them hands back in your pockets.”
Caddy was walking. Then she was running, her book-satchel swinging and jouncing behind her.
“Hello, Benjy.” Caddy said. She opened the gate and came in and stooped down. Caddy smelled like leaves. “Did you come to meet me.” she said. “Did you come to meet Caddy. What did you let him get his hands so cold for, Versh.”
“I told him to keep them in his pockets.” Versh said. “Holding on to that ahun gate.”
“Did you come to meet Caddy,” she said, rubbing my hands. “What is it. What are you trying to tell Caddy.” Caddy smelled like trees and like when she says we were asleep.
What are you moaning about, Luster said. You can watch them again when we get to the branch. Here. Here’s you a jimson weed. He gave me the flower. We went through the fence, into the lot.
“What is it.” Caddy said. “What are you trying to tell Caddy. Did they send him out, Versh.”
“Couldn’t keep him in.” Versh said. “He kept on until they let him go and he come right straight down here, looking through the gate.”
“What is it.” Caddy said. “Did you think it would be Christmas when I came home from school. Is that what you thought. Christmas is the day after tomorrow. Santy Claus, Benjy. Santy Claus. Come on, let’s run to the house and get warm.” She took my hand and we ran through the bright rustling leaves. We ran up the steps and out of the bright cold, into the dark cold. Uncle Maury was putting the bottle back in the sideboard. He called Caddy. Caddy said,
“Take him in to the fire, Versh. Go with Versh.” she said. “I’ll come in a minute.”
We went to the fire. Mother said,
“Is he cold, Versh.”
“Nome.” Versh said.
“Take his overcoat and overshoes off.” Mother said. “How many times do I have to tell you not to bring him into the house with his overshoes on.”
“Yessum.” Versh said. “Hold still, now.” He took my overshoes off and unbuttoned my coat. Caddy said,
“Wait, Versh. Cant he go out again, Mother. I want him to go with me.”
“You’d better leave him here.” Uncle Maury said. “He’s been out enough today.”
“I think you’d both better stay in.” Mother said. “It’s getting colder, Dilsey says.”
“Oh, Mother.” Caddy said.
“Nonsense.” Uncle Maury said. “She’s been in school all day. She needs the fresh air. Run along, Candace.”
“Let him go, Mother.” Caddy said. “Please. You know he’ll cry.”
“Then why did you mention it before him.” Mother said. “Why did you come in here. To give him some excuse to worry me again. You’ve been out enough today. I think you’d better sit down here and play with him.”
“Let them go, Caroline.” Uncle Maury said. “A little cold wont hurt them. Remember, you’ve got to keep your strength up.”
“I know.” Mother said. “Nobody knows how I dread Christmas. Nobody knows. I am not one of those women who can stand things. I wish for Jason’s and the children’s sakes I was stronger.”
“You must do the best you can and not let them worry you.” Uncle Maury said. “Run along, you two. But dont stay out long, now. Your mother will worry.”
“Yes, sir.” Caddy said. “Come on, Benjy. We’re going out doors again.” She buttoned my coat and we went toward the door.
“Are you going to take that baby out without his overshoes.” Mother said. “Do you want to make him sick, with the house full of company.”
“I forgot.” Caddy said. “I thought he had them on.”
We went back. “You must think.” Mother said. Hold still now Versh said. He put my overshoes on. “Someday I’ll be gone, and you’ll have to think for him.” Now stomp Versh said. “Come here and kiss Mother, Benjamin.”
Caddy took me to Mother’s chair and Mother took my face in her hands and then she held me against her.
“My poor baby.” she said. She let me go. “You and Versh take good care of him, honey.”
“Yessum.” Caddy said. We went out. Caddy said,
“You needn’t go, Versh. I’ll keep him for a while.”
“All right.” Versh said. “I aint going out in that cold for no fun.” He went on and we stopped in the hall and Caddy knelt and put her arms around me and her cold bright face against mine. She smelled like trees.
“You’re not a poor baby. Are you. Are you. You’ve got your Caddy. Haven’t you got your Caddy.”
Cant you shut up that moaning and slobbering, Luster said. Aint you shamed of yourself, making all this racket. We passed the carriage house, where the carriage was. It had a new wheel.
“Git in, now, and set still until your maw come.” Dilsey said. She shoved me into the carriage. T. P. held the reins. “Clare I dont see how come Jason wont get a new surrey.” Dilsey said. “This thing going to fall to pieces under you all some day. Look at them wheels.”
Mother came out, pulling her veil down. She had some flowers.
“Where’s Roskus.” she said.
“Roskus cant lift his arms, today.” Dilsey said. “T. P. can drive all right.”
“I’m afraid to.” Mother said. “It seems to me you all could furnish me with a driver for the carriage once a week. It’s little enough I ask, Lord knows.”
“You know just as well as me that Roskus got the rheumatism too bad to do more than he have to, Miss Cahline.” Dilsey said. “You come on and get in, now. T. P. can drive you just as good as Roskus.”
“I’m afraid to.” Mother said. “With the baby.”
Dilsey went up the steps. “You calling that thing a baby.” she said. She took Mother’s arm. “A man big as T. P. Come on, now, if you going.”
“I’m afraid to.” Mother said. They came down the steps and Dilsey helped Mother in. “Perhaps it’ll be the best thing, for all of us.” Mother said.
“Aint you shamed, talking that way.” Dilsey said. “Dont you know it’ll take more than a eighteen year old nigger to make Queenie run away. She older than him and Benjy put together. And dont you start no projecking with Queenie, you hear me. T. P. If you dont drive to suit Miss Cahline, I going to put Roskus on you. He aint too tied up to do that.”
“Yessum.” T. P. said.
“I just know something will happen.” Mother said. “Stop, Benjamin.”
“Give him a flower to hold.” Dilsey said. “That what he wanting.” She reached her hand in.
“No, no.” Mother said. “You’ll have them all scattered.”
“You hold them.” Dilsey said. “I’ll get him one out.” She gave me a flower and her hand went away.
“Go on now, fore Quentin see you and have to go too.” Dilsey said.
“Where is she.” Mother said.
“She down to the house playing with Luster.” Dilsey said. “Go on, T. P. Drive that surrey like Roskus told you, now.
“Yessum.” T. P. said. “Hum up, Queenie.”
“Quentin.” Mother said. “Dont let “
“Course I is.” Dilsey said.
The carriage jolted and crunched on the drive. “I’m afraid to go and leave Quentin.” Mother said. “I’d better not go. T. P.” We went through the gate, where it didn’t jolt anymore. T. P. hit Queenie with the whip.
“You, T. P.” Mother said.
“Got to get her going.” T. P. said. “Keep her wake up till we get back to the barn.”
“Turn around.” Mother said. “I’m afraid to go and leave Quentin.”
“Cant turn here.” T. P. said. Then it was broader.
“Cant you turn here.” Mother said.
“All right.” T. P. said. We began to turn.
“You, T. P.” Mother said, clutching me.
“I got to turn around some how.” T. P. said. “Whoa, Queenie.” We stopped.
“You’ll turn us over.” Mother said.
“What you want to do, then.” T. P. said.
“I’m afraid for you to try to turn around.” Mother said.
“Get up, Queenie.” T. P. said. We went on.
“I just know Dilsey will let something happen to Quentin while I’m gone.” Mother said. “We must hurry back.”
“Hum up, there.” T. P. said. He hit Queenie with the whip.
“You, T. P.” Mother said, clutching me. I could hear Queenie’s feet and the bright shapes went smooth and steady on both sides, the shadows of them flowing across Queenie’s back. They went on like the bright tops of wheels. Then those on one side stopped at the tall white post where the soldier was. But on the other side they went on smooth and steady, but a little slower.
“What do you want.” Jason said. He had his hands in his pockets and a pencil behind his ear.
“We’re going to the cemetery.” Mother said.
“All right.” Jason said. “I dont aim to stop you, do I. Was that all you wanted with me, just to tell me that.”
“I know you wont come.” Mother said. “I’d feel safer if you would.”
“Safe from what.” Jason said. “Father and Quentin cant hurt you.”
Mother put her handkerchief under her veil. “Stop it, Mother.” Jason said. “Do you want to get that damn looney to bawling in the middle of the square. Drive on, T. P.
“Hum up, Queenie.” T. P. said.
“It’s a judgment on me.” Mother said. “But I’ll be gone too, soon.”
“Here.” Jason said.
Excerpted from The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner Copyright © 1991 by William Faulkner. Excerpted by permission of Vintage, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Top customer reviews
Faulkner divined a lot of tension, as well as clarity and beauty, into what is likely my favorite book of all time.
So many voices, so much beauty, so Southern---but so universal. If it could only have a character named Scout...but that's another tale.
I have never watched Oprah on television. Thankfully, my wife is a fan. Otherwise I would have missed this opportunity to spend time with my favorite author - William Faulkner.
I was introduced to Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County while I was in college. Back then I was asked to read The Sound and the Fury. I will admit I was more than a little confused with what I was later to learn was Faulkner's hallmark shifting of the narration from one character to another; his disorienting disruptions of a timely chronology.
As I read more, I began to appreciate the genius behind the technique. It was like my days as a newspaper reporter. Each witness to a story had his or her version of what had happened. The more I dug, the more likely I was to emerge with a story that resembled the true event.
While Faulkner's narration and characters appear complex, his themes are simple. He writes about life's great issues - life and death, good and evil, love and hate, wealth and poverty, individual and family, sanity and insanity, success and failure.
Faulkner's characters speak to their ability to transcend their settings and endure their sufferings. They emerge pained, yet ennobled.
Although I am not fond of the heat and humidity, I am looking forward to spending a portion of my summer's reading time in the Mississippi hill country of Yoknapatawpha County.
I strongly suggest getting research materials from a university librray if at all possible to help navigate the stories. In the end, the depth of these novels is profound and extremely rewarding. It was only after I finished them (and read a lot of extra research articles) that I truly appreciated them. These novels are definitely amazing and a great account of southern life in the early part of the 20th century (and after the civil war), and I admire Faulkner more than I ever thought I could.
If you thought James Joyce was complex, try Faulkner!
This is a story that should be read on a sweltering hot, humid day in the summer. But even if it isn't, the reader will still imagine such a day, as the words of the story, subtle but powerful, control the neuronal synapses of the reader. They capture the reader's imagination, framing it uniquely, and offering no flexibility in interpretation. And the characters? They are black stick figures, very suitable as participants in a Martha Graham dance: totally alien to experience, but somehow, through their actions, their dialog, and their introspection, instill appreciation in the reader's mind. Indeed, these characters are not "introduced". What the reader understands of them is to be found in their actions, their dialog, and their introspection.
There is Darl, whose mind exhibits at first keen mathematical and geometric precision: he knows that he walks not approximately fifteen meters ahead of Jewel, but exactly fifteen meters ahead of him (the author again reminds the reader of this distance in the next paragraph, and later, when Jewel is ahead, but now by exactly five meters); the path on which Darl walks circles the cottonhouse at "four soft right angles". Darl is a quasi-Sartrian: experiencing the negation, for "sleep is is-not and rain and wind are was, it is not".
There is the business sense of Cora, ala her optimization of the egg laying habits of her chickens. Her optimism also, and her faith in human nature, makes her overwhelmingly realistic.
There are the carpentry skills of Cash, which beg for recognition, and once his carpentry projects are initiated, they are not to be interrupted, even by a torrential downpour, the latter of which is viewed, while Cash is sawing, as an "illusion of the mind." Carpentry finds semantic equivalence to poetry: he made the coffin "on the bevel" (Faulkner inserts a diagram to make the coffin geometry readily apparent...believing written descriptions inadequate?). His exactitude in his profession does not compare with his judgments of normality: "But I ain't so sho that ere a man has the right to say what is crazy and what ain't".
There is the delightful skepticism and nihilism of Jewel, who finds no utility in God. None at all.
There is Anse, who worries about the neighbors: he wants to maintain an aura of respectability when transporting the coffin. The selection of the proper horse takes precedence over his grief. Socially conscious but also aware of exploitation: "it takes them that runs the stores in the towns, doing no sweating, living off of them that sweats." Religion is his opiate and compensation for this: "there is a reward for us above."
There is Samson, alienated from his neighbors, and unable to grasp the Bundren grief and their individuality.
There is Dewey Dell, self-aware and knowing her place, as not being as "good as town people," and who feels like a "wet seed wild in the hot blind earth" (another Faulkner literary gem here). Dewey recognizes the anxiety of time: It is a "womb", a "hard girdle in which lie the outraged entrails of events." The trip to Jefferson therefore is agonizing in its length, but she relieves her agony in a characteristically standard way: "I believe in God, God. God, I believe in God."
There is Tull, who is protected from the vicissitudes of the world by not thinking about them. Too much thinking he believes is not the will of God. The brain is like machinery, and it "won't stand a whole lot of racking." It is not to be used more than necessary. Tull is to be contrasted with Darl, who "thinks by himself too much."
There is Vardaman, who cannot deal with tragedy (either successfully or unsuccessfully). His mother "is a fish": Vardaman conflates images in the world with images in his mind.
There is the stark-deafening idealism of Peabody, whose view of death is that it is "merely a function of the mind", namely in the minds of those who are grieving for the one who is lost.
And there is the dying woman, Addie Bundren: the narrative center.