I came to Jefferson MS by way of Mulberry Plantation SC and Andalusia Farm GA, in search of times lost, of glimpses of the past (and of the Self) in the cracked and smoked mirrors where long-dead writers conjure (wands morphing into pencils into Underwoods and Royals). Faulkner both did and did not disappoint.
His best in this volume seems to be “The Jail”, (1951) which Malcolm Cowley, (vachement) helpfully, tells us was written as a prologue to the last act of “Requiem for a Nun” (which I may now have to read). This bit of narrative is quite good, poetry even, Faulkner at his stream-of-consciousness and cinematographic most-capable. It’s easy to imagine this as a video or short film, as I’m sure Faulkner did when he conjured the words onto pages.
I can’t resist quoting one lengthy passage that touches upon a theme I’ve raised elsewhere:
“…only the aging unvanquished women were unreconciled, irreconcilable, reversed and irrevocably reverted against the whole moving unanimity of panorama until, old unordered vacant pilings above a tide’s flood, they themselves had an illusion of motion, facing irreconcilably backward toward the old lost battles, the old aborted causes, the old four ruined years whose very physical scars ten and twenty and twenty-five changes of season had annealed back into the earth; twenty-five and then thirty-five years; not only a century and an age, but a way of thinking died;”
At other times, he (Faulkner) is rather less engaging; downright off-putting indeed. “Old Man” had great potential as a story, but the story gets lost in Faulkner’s word-conjurings. I also found it geographically confusing if not actually impossible. How did our convict get from northern Mississippi (east side of Old Man River) to somewhere below Caernavon without actually passing any cities, including New Orleans? Faulty history is another one of Faulkner’s faults (reference to the slave revolt in Haiti (1828-ish) in “Absalom Absalom” and the real revolt around 1803.) Flawed history is bad. (Interestingly, Caroline Gordon criticized Faulkner’s “A Fable” for what might be called a lack of vraisemblance.)
Setting aside these bits of his sloppiness, Faulkner at his worst is insufferably pretentious. He seems to love to hear himself conjure endless streams of words, obscure ones to boot, and frequently, but, frankly, someone should have told him when he’d gone overboard and forced him him to re-write some passages. (I’ll spare you a quote and let you find your own examples.)
This, of course, brings me to the central question…the audience. I know Faulkner influenced other writers; Flannery O’Connor and Jack Kerouac come to mind. I also understand that by 1945 (the year MCowley initially put together this portable collection), Faulkner’s earlier works were out of print, but that this compilation engendered something of a Faulkner revival such that he won the 1949 Nobel Prize in literature (belatedly it seems, and strangely, in 1950…) I’m not sure what drew readers and publishers to Faulkner initially…I suppose stream-of-consciousness was somewhat avant-garde…although I can understand why his books went out of print. What I don’t get is how this volume triggered a revival. Faulkner can be good, even very good. But overall he’s not that good. He and his admirers have a higher opinion of him(self) than I do. Maybe pretentiousness is considered a sign of the deep-thinker, the artist, the uber mensch. I’m more a partisan of consistent and non-elitist readability.
I don’t know. I probably wouldn’t read any more Faulkner except that I’ve already bought two more of his books that I’m hoping will conjure up for me some of those spectral visions in smoky mirrors of the long- and forgotten-dead.