J
JAMESBJOHNSON
Guest
I'm not a William Faulkner fan, and very little of his bibliography appeals to me.
But recently I read a Truman Capote interview where he claimed that Faulkner is awful but LIGHT IN AUGUST is a masterpiece. I got a copy and read it. It is a masterpiece.
Why?
For the reason that virtually every sentence works to SHOW what's going on. Only at the very end does anyone speculate about motives, the rest of the book is action and deeds that reveal character and motives and conflicts, etc. And it seems so effortless and seamless how the action is choreographed.
There is an abundance of backstory, and Faulkner handled it skillfully, too.
The book is a blending of several stories that come together in the same small town. The stories support each other.
And, its a compelling read. Very hard to put down from the first page.
That night they talked. They lay in the bed, in the dark, talking. Or he talked, that is. All the time he was thinking 'Jesus. Jesus. So this is it.' He lay naked too, beside her, touching her with his hand and talking about her. Not about where she had come from and what she had even done, but about her body as if no one had ever done this before, with her or with anyone else. It was as if with speech he were learning about women's bodies, with the curiosity of a child.
--Chapter 8
Like the cat, he also seemed to see in the darkness as he moved as unerringly toward the food which he wanted as if he knew where it would be; that, or were being manipulated by an agent which did know. He ate something from an invisible dish, with invisible fingers: invisible food. He did not care what it would be. He did not know that he had even wondered or tasted until his jaw stopped suddenly in mid-chewing and thinking fled for twentyfive years back down the street, past all the imperceptible corners of bitter defeats and more bitter victories, and five miles even beyond a corner where he used to wait in the terrible early time of love, for someone whose name he had forgot.
--Chapter 10
Sometimes he would have to seek her about the dark house until he found her, hidden, in closets, in empty rooms, waiting, panting, her eyes in the dark glowing like the eyes of cats. Now and then she appointed trysts beneath certain shrubs about the grounds, where he would find her naked, or with her clothing half torn to ribbons upon her, in the wild throes of nymphomania, her body gleaming ... She would be wild then, in the close, breathing halfdark without walls, with her wild hair, each strand of which would seem to come alive like octopus tentacles, and her wild hands and her breathing.
--Chapter 12
But recently I read a Truman Capote interview where he claimed that Faulkner is awful but LIGHT IN AUGUST is a masterpiece. I got a copy and read it. It is a masterpiece.
Why?
For the reason that virtually every sentence works to SHOW what's going on. Only at the very end does anyone speculate about motives, the rest of the book is action and deeds that reveal character and motives and conflicts, etc. And it seems so effortless and seamless how the action is choreographed.
There is an abundance of backstory, and Faulkner handled it skillfully, too.
The book is a blending of several stories that come together in the same small town. The stories support each other.
And, its a compelling read. Very hard to put down from the first page.
That night they talked. They lay in the bed, in the dark, talking. Or he talked, that is. All the time he was thinking 'Jesus. Jesus. So this is it.' He lay naked too, beside her, touching her with his hand and talking about her. Not about where she had come from and what she had even done, but about her body as if no one had ever done this before, with her or with anyone else. It was as if with speech he were learning about women's bodies, with the curiosity of a child.
--Chapter 8
Like the cat, he also seemed to see in the darkness as he moved as unerringly toward the food which he wanted as if he knew where it would be; that, or were being manipulated by an agent which did know. He ate something from an invisible dish, with invisible fingers: invisible food. He did not care what it would be. He did not know that he had even wondered or tasted until his jaw stopped suddenly in mid-chewing and thinking fled for twentyfive years back down the street, past all the imperceptible corners of bitter defeats and more bitter victories, and five miles even beyond a corner where he used to wait in the terrible early time of love, for someone whose name he had forgot.
--Chapter 10
Sometimes he would have to seek her about the dark house until he found her, hidden, in closets, in empty rooms, waiting, panting, her eyes in the dark glowing like the eyes of cats. Now and then she appointed trysts beneath certain shrubs about the grounds, where he would find her naked, or with her clothing half torn to ribbons upon her, in the wild throes of nymphomania, her body gleaming ... She would be wild then, in the close, breathing halfdark without walls, with her wild hair, each strand of which would seem to come alive like octopus tentacles, and her wild hands and her breathing.
--Chapter 12
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