Mosquitoes

by William Faulkner

A delightful surprise, Faulkner wrote his second novel "for the sake of writing because it was fun." Mosquitoes centers around a colorful assortment of passengers, out on a boating excursion from New Orleans. The rich and the aspiring, social butterflies and dissolute dilettantes are all easy game for Faulkner's barbed wit in this engaging high-spirited novel which offers a fascinating glimpse of Faulkner as a young artist."It approaches in the first half and reaches in the second half a brilliance that you can rightfully expect only in the writings of a few men. It is full of the fine kind of swift and lusty writing that comes from a healthy, fresh pen."--Lillian Hellman, New York Herald Tribune

Genres: Fiction, Classics, Novels, Literature, American, The United States Of America, Southern

304 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1927

About the author

William Cuthbert Faulkner was an American writer. He is best known for his novels and short stories set in the fictional Yoknapatawpha County, Mississippi, a stand-in for Lafayette County where he spent most of his life. A Nobel laureate, Faulkner is one of the most celebrated writers of American literature and often is considered the greatest writer of Southern literature.
Faulkner was born in New Albany, Mississippi, and raised in Oxford, Mississippi. During World War I, he joined the Royal Canadian Air Force, but did not serve in combat. Returning to Oxford, he attended the University of Mississippi for three semesters before dropping out. He moved to New Orleans, where he wrote his first novel Soldiers' Pay (1925). He went back to Oxford and wrote Sartoris (1927), his first work set in the fictional Yoknapatawpha County. In 1929, he published The Sound and the Fury. The following year, he wrote As I Lay Dying. Later that decade, he wrote Light in August, Absalom, Absalom! and The Wild Palms. He also worked as a screenwriter, contributing to Howard Hawks's To Have and Have Not and The Big Sleep, adapted from Raymond Chandler's novel. The former film, adapted from Ernest Hemingway's novel, is the only film with contributions by two Nobel laureates.
Faulkner's reputation grew following publication of Malcolm Cowley's The Portable Faulkner, and he was awarded the 1949 Nobel Prize in Literature for "his powerful and unique contribution to the modern American novel." He is the only Mississippi-born Nobel laureate. Two of his works, A Fable (1954) and The Reivers (1962), won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Faulkner died from a heart attack on July 6, 1962, following a fall from his horse the month before. Ralph Ellison called him "the greatest artist the South has produced".

Reviews

[Tyler Crumrine · Rating 5 out of 5]

Unpopular opinion: Mosquitoes is actually my favorite Faulkner novel. It may not have the same "gravity of human experience" as his other works, but in it we find Faulkner as comedian attempting to explore and express his views on "serious art." And he does a fantastic job. Hugely entertaining and genuinely insightful, it's repeatedly the Faulkner novel I most look forward to reading again and again.

[Brodolomi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Čuo sam da se „Mosquitoes” smatraju za najslabiji Foknerov roman, te sam bio ubeđen da knjiga nije prevođena. Pre neku godinu, brljajući po buvljaku, naišao sam na „Snobove” i začudio se jer knjiga sa takvim imenom u Foknerovoj bibliografiji ne postoji. Otvorio treću stranu i ispostavilo se da su to „Komarci”, prevedeni pod imenom „Snobovi”. Ako se uzme da su prevodi reinkarnacija u drugom jeziku, onda mora su Foknerova dela imala čudnu karmu na engleskom, shodno tome kako su i na koje sve načine prevođena u Jugoslaviji.

Pošto mi je ovo deveti Fokner u ovom čitalačkom životu, mogu da se složim da je najslabiji. A to ne mora da bude loše, posebno jer je reč o netipičnom Fokneru i njegovom pokušaju da napiše društvenu satiru. Satirčni zaplet je zasnovan na sižeu „broda budala”. Patriša Morje, bogata udovica i samoproglašena mecena umetnosti, poziva grupu uglavnom netalentovanih umetnika na svoju jahtu, te svi zajedno krstare jezerom naredna četiri dana vodeći pretenciozne dijaloge i potiskujući seksualne frustracije. Na tom satirčnom nivou roman je duhovit. Recimo, pošto je većini umetnika glavni motiv dolaska na jahtu ušteda na hrani, čeka ih neprijatno iznenađenje kada shvate da im je domaćica za obroke namenila grejpfrute – grejpfrut je u modi a i umetnici ne mogu da jedu „normalnu” hranu – što rađa uz kiseo osmeh jedan sasvim besmislen dijalog o ovom voću. Pozeraj i lupetanja besmislica su moja vrsta humora, te sam se lepo cerkao ovih večeri u krevetu.

U romanu se providno vidi lektira koja je Foknera inspirisala (ovo je bio njegov tek drugi roman u karijeri); struktura je preuzeta iz ranih Hakslijevih romana, pretposlednje poglavlje je ćorava imitacija „Kirkinog” poglavlja iz „Uliksa”, proleće je ne samo „najsurovije doba”, nego u likovima imamo više proznih varijacija Džej Alfreda Prufroka, pejzaži su pastiši dekadencije i to u svom punom sjaju neukusa neumerenosti i svim nijansama ljubičaste proze. Stoga je očigledno da su „Snobovi” delo pisca u povoju, u čijem se stvaralačkom želucu uzori nisu u potpunosti razgradili u nešto novo. Taj stvaralački želudac autora u povoju jeste zanimljiv i ako se roman čita kao roman o umetniku, to jest, kao Foknerov portret umetnika u mladosti. Samo što ovde ne postoji jedan portret, već je autor sebe razbio u više likova u romanu. Vajar Gordon je njegovo istinsko stvaralačko ja, ono što je Fokner želeo da bude, stoga je Gordon jedini koji se sa putovanja vraća promenjen i nešto stvara. Taljafero je frivolnost i površnost, ta uvek savršeno skrojena odela i glumatanje aristokrate, nešto što je Fokner kod sebe prezirao (Taljafero u romanu nije stvaralac), ali bez čega nije mogao do kraja života. Poslužitelj Dejvid je ono što je autor uistinski bio na početku karijere – radnik niskokvalifikovanih poslova kome je rat omogućio da vidi Evropu. Pesnik Mark Frost je autorov ironični otklon prema sopstvenom pesničkom neuspehu, itd. Taj višestruki portret sa težnjom da se nešto „ozbiljno” kaže o umetnosti (i seksu kao drugoj centralnoj temi) direktno se meša sa satirom, tako da uglavnom nije jasno kada svakojake pretencioznosti treba razumeti ozbiljno, a kada su sprdnje. A kada se čitalac opusti, nije ni bitno jer može da se cereka i uz jedno i uz drugo.

I da budem jasan, ovo je trećerazredni modernistički roman, grozomoran u mnogim svojim vidovima, ali za mene bi i petorazredna Foknerova knjiga bila super.

[Stuart · Rating 2 out of 5]

Even with a whiskey chaser this is not exactly a page turner. The characters seem like rejects from a Tennessee Williams play who've forgotten how to talk. Faulkner is so in love with the sound of his own voice that he can't seem to write character dialogue. He also repeats himself repeats himself in a fashion that I'm sure he meant to be Homeric, but which is simply annoying. And speaking of all things Homeric, has this guy got a crush on James Joyce or what? I understand that Ulysses was all the rage when Faulkner was coming up, but did he have to be such a slavish devotee of the stream-o-babble internal monologue and endless purple descriptions of set and setting? Bad Joyce is like bad Hemingway - funny like a month-old tuna casserole growing a beard in the back of the fridge.

OK, to be fair, there are a few things I like about Mosquitoes. For instance, the way he never once uses the word "mosquito," even though they're constantly buzzing around the narrative and relentlessly biting his characters. It's like writing a novel called "E" without using the letter "E." Only not quite as hard. Or as pointless. I also like the way he introduces himself as a character early in the book, then wisely drops the idea and pretends it never happened.

Didn't they have editors back in the 20s? If somebody with a sharp blue pencil had been on the job, this would have made a pretty decent little short story. The ship-of-fools story line has lots of inherent potential, with a bunch of characters penned up together on a boat. (see, for instance, chapter 43 of Gravity's Rainbow, the creepy yacht-party on Miklos Thanatz's Anubis). And to his credit, Faulkner does occasionally stumble into The Zone and write some great sentences, especially when characters pontificate about language and other topics close to the writer's heart. Consider this:

“I don’t claim that words have life in themselves. But words brought into a happy conjunction produce something that lives, just as soil and climate and an acorn in proper conjunction will produce a tree. Words are like acorns, you know. Every one of ‘em won’t make a tree, but if you just have enough of ‘em, you’re bound to get a tree sooner or later.”

OK, that's pretty cool. But you'll find more of that sort of talk in 5 minutes of Barton Fink (where the Faulkner character, Mayhew, has some great lines) than in the too-many hundreds of pages of Mosquitoes.

[Bill on GR Sabbatical · Rating 3 out of 5]

Although not of the quality or intensity of his later Yoknapatawpha County works, this was an interesting enough read until it petered out in an epilogue that didn't seem to connect very well with the main narrative. A ship of fools sets out from New Orleans for an excursion on Lake Ponchartrain and soon runs aground, only slightly inconveniencing the wealthy widow hostess and guests, an assemblage of mostly artsy types, who continue to swat at some unnamed things and to pontificate on art, aesthetics, sex, etc., etc., when not flirting, dancing, playing cards, or drinking.

Talk, talk, talk: the utter and heartbreaking stupidity of words. It seemed endless, as though it might go on forever. Ideas, thoughts, became mere sounds to be bandied about until they were dead.

[Richard Derus]

Rating: 3* of five

I was underwhelmed by Faulkner's second novel. Not that it's a *bad* book, it's just...well, I can't say it better than this:

"Joyce's masterwork ULYSSES (which I don't much like) "inspired" Uncle Bill to put in a lot of sex-talk, including *gasp* explicitly lesbian desires!! Maud Martha, bring the sal volatile and loosen my stays, the wimminfolk are runnin' amok!"

See the whole sorry mess at Expendable Mudge Muses Aloud.

[Elizabeth (Alaska) · Rating 2 out of 5]

This was Faulkner's second novel and he had not yet found his fictional Mississippi county where most of his novels are set. Instead, this was set near and in New Orleans. Faulkner had spent some of his younger years traveling but by his late twenties was living in New Orleans. He became friends with Sherwood Anderson and the two of them would walk and talk and make up characterizations.

I think this book came from those talks. The book is very uneven and I might have liked it less had I not known this. A lot of it is an attempt at creating characters. I used the word "attempt" intentionally because I think Faulkner didn't get them right. I don't mean that I wish the characters were different, but that they weren't real.

Faulkner had simply not yet found his voice. There were patches - not more than a few scattered paragraphs - when I could hear who Faulkner was to become. I relaxed when I got to these, thinking finally here is the Faulkner I've come to love. There were simply not enough of those parts and too much of an author struggling. I'm glad to have read others of his novels first else I might have missed out on a great author. It's unlikely I would have continued reading him had this been my first exposure. I'm sorry, but this is just 2-stars.

[Mallory · Rating 5 out of 5]

I'm giving this book a five star rating because at first and superficial glance it will make me look smart because I liked a book by Falkner finally. I'm supposed to because I live in New Orleans, right?

I don't know if it was a bad book because it took me five months to read as all the characters were so hateful and unbearable to be around for long periods of time or if it was a good book because Faulkner got me engaged enough to want to torture and kill all of the sniveling pieces on that boat.

I'm glad it's over. I'm sorry that I'm supposed to like these books, I bring nothing with me from it save this:

- philosophers, artists, writers, sculptures and the elite educated need to get day jobs. They are annoying and spoiled otherwise.

- it felt like the milk toast answer to the Harlem Renaissance.

- I want some milk and toast.

[Anima · Rating 3 out of 5]

This novel received severe criticism and it is considered ‘the weakest Faulkner has written’... oh, I am so disappointed to learn about this-Faulkner wrote this satire with such a memorable grace that is noting but a joy to read it.
“As you entered the room the thing drew your eyes: you turned sharply as to a sound, expecting movement. But it was marble, it could not move. And when you tore your eyes away and turned your back on it at last, you got again untarnished and high and clean that sense of swiftness, of space encompassed; but on looking again it was as before: motionless and passionately eternal—the virginal breastless torso of a girl, headless, armless, legless, in marble temporarily caught and hushed yet passionate still for escape, passionate and simple and eternal in the equivocal derisive darkness of the world. Nothing to trouble your youth or lack of it: rather something to trouble the very fibrous integrity of your being.”
“They had found the road at last—two faint scars and a powder of unbearable dust upon a raised levee traversing the swamp. But between them and the road was a foul sluggish width of water and vegetation and biology. Huge cypress roots thrust up like weathered bones out of a green scum and a quaking neither earth nor water, and always those bearded eternal trees like gods regarding without alarm this puny desecration of a silence of air and earth and water ancient when hoary old Time himself was a pink and dreadful miracle in his mother’s arms.
It was she who found the fallen tree, who first essayed its oozy treacherous bark and first stood in the empty road stretching monotonously in either direction between battalioned patriarchs of trees. She was panting a little, whipping a broken green branch about her body, watching him as he inched his way across the fallen trunk.
“Come on, David,” she called impatiently. “Here’s the road: we’re all right now,” He was across the ditch and he now struggled up the rank reluctant levee bank. She leaned down and reached her hand to him.“

[Edita · Rating 4 out of 5]

Above the city summer was hushed warmly into the bowled weary passion of the sky. Spring and the cruelest months were gone, the cruel months, the wantons that break the fat hybernatant dullness and comfort of Time; August was on the wing, and September—a month of languorous days regretful as woodsmoke.
*
And outside, above rooftops becoming slowly violet, summer lay supine, unchaste with decay.
*
Twilight ran in like a quiet violet dog [...]
*
Mrs. Maurier waved her glittering hand vaguely toward the sky in which stars had begun to flower like pale and tarnished gardenias.
*
Two ferry boats passed and repassed like a pair of golden swans in a barren cycle of courtship. The shore and the river curved away in a dark embracing slumber to where a bank of tiny lights flickered and trembled, bodiless and far away.
*
Little waves slapped the bottom of the boat lightly as it rose and fell, and behind them the yacht was pure and passionless as a dream against the dark trees.
*
*
“I just love tonight,” [...] “It’s like we owned everything.”
*
This morning waked in a quiet fathomless mist. It was upon the world of water unstirred; soon the first faint wind of morning would thin it away, but now it was about the Nausikaa timelessly: the yacht was a thick jewel swaddled in soft gray wool, while in the wool somewhere dawn was like a suspended breath.
*
But in real life—In life, anything might happen; in actual life people will do anything. It’s only in books that people must function according to arbitrary rules of conduct and probability; it’s only in books that events must never flout credulity.
*
Evening came sad as horns among the trees.
*
The soul sheds every year, like snakes do, I believe. You can’t recall the emotions you felt last year: you remember only that an emotion was associated with some physical fact of experience. But all you have of it now is a kind of ghost of happiness and a vague and meaningless regret. Experience: why should we be expected to learn wisdom from experience? Muscles only remember, and it takes repetition and repetition to teach a muscle anything. . . .
*
I suppose nobody ever knows a man’s reasons for what he does: you can only generalize from results.
*
And he went on down the passage with a singing lightness in his heart, a bright silver joy like wings.
*
The worn moon had risen and she spread her boneless hand upon the ceaseless water, and the cold remote stars swung overhead, cold and remote and incurious: what cared they for the haggard despair in his face, for the hushed despair in his heart? They had seen too much of human moiling and indecision and astonishments to be concerned [...]

[Adrian Alvarez · Rating 3 out of 5]

As a disconnected and individual book, this one wasn't very good. However, in the context of Faulkner's artistic development (particularly juxtaposed with Soldiers' Pay), Mosquitoes is a very interesting read. Here, the young writer maintained his social interest in the characters inhabiting his world but compounded them with a much more elaborate and ambitious intellectual project. At times, sure, this came off as overly engineered and trying to hard, but the fact that he was even interested in aping European modernists gave him a structural framework to hang his characters on that exceeds most novelists' sophomore effort. It shows his artistic interests, though his language is still a little vague and full of self-created idioms, which are endlessly repeated. Okay, we get it, Talliaferro is "diffident," Mark Frost has "a prehensile mouth," no need to tell us over and over. There is frequently "a rumor of moonlight" and "a shock of hair."

These are easy violations to forgive in hindsight. We know this young author will become the Faulkner of Absalom, Absalom! and As I Lay Dying so watching him ease into more disciplined prose is actually a delight. A bit like watching Mozart play around with scales, if ever a thing were possible. Not only that but there are worthwhile themes and stylistic experiments in this novel that have the ability to shock and move the reader. It may pale in comparison to his later works but it is still a pretty good read.

Reading an author's work from beginning to end provides insight into the way he develops his ideas and style. In my humble opinion there is no better way to approach an artist. For that I completely recommend Mosquitoes to anyone interested in approaching Faulkner's oeuvre.

[Araz Goran · Rating 3 out of 5]

القراءة الأولى واللقاء الأول مع السيد فوكنر .. الرواية محيرة جداً غير تقليدية ، الإنتقال في النص يدور بشكل غير مفهوم ومحير كأنها قطع وشظايا أدبية منتناثرة في الرواية ، الحوارات قصيرة وحاسمة وقاطعة أحياناً رغم بساطتها تبدو متقنة وحلوة لو قرأناها بعفوية ..بالنسبة لي غريب هذا الرجل وغير مألوف مايكتبه ، شعرت بألفة غامضة نحو الرواية كما حدث نفس الأمر معي في رواية " الفئران والرجال " ، تلك الرواية العظيمة للعبقري " شتاينبك " .. مثل هذه الروايات تعلق في ذاكرتي وتعيش طويلاً .. طبعاً هناك أشياء غير مفهومة في الرواية وكما قلت فهي محيرة تماماً ولكن برأيي تستحق القراءة وقد لا يتفق معظم القراء معي على ذلك.. ولذلك لا أنصح أحداً بقرائتها :)

[Mat · Rating 4 out of 5]

A largely overlooked semi-masterpiece

This was one of the easiest and most pleasant books by William Faulkner that I have ever read. It contains the typically unforgettable, i.e. singular Faulknerian characters, is influenced heavily by Joyce's emphasis on sexual themes, and features some of the most devastatingly sardonic humour in it I have ever come across. In parts, it is also rather blatantly misogynistic.

The storyline of Mosquitoes centres around a yacht expedition of various artists, cads and fast women that goes wrong but which allows these characters to engage in various forms of debauchery or excess. One big difference between Joyce and Faulkner though is that Faulkner is very subtle in his sexual allusions here and elsewhere. He hints at people possibly getting it on (or off) and I think there was a lesbian scene here too which is very cool for a book written back then.

Mosquitoes also contains a large number of quotable observations on life which reminded me at times of Proust's wry commentary on Parisian salon life. This does not rank among his true masterpieces such as Absalom! Absalom! or Light in August or my personal favourite Flags in the Dust just to name a few but it is highly recommended especially for those who have been turned off by Faulkner's more difficult and impenetrable work. I was amazed that the Kindle version cost only $1. A true bargain!

[Michael Finocchiaro · Rating 3 out of 5]

This was Faulkner's second novel and while entertaining, may be one of his weakest ones. That being said, the premise of a sort of southern swampy Gilligan's Island was interesting and there were highly comical (and sensual) moments as well - impressive for a writer that is only 25 years old. It was complex in terms of the many parallel narratives, but the structure of building the story with Prologues, Days 1 to 3, and Epilogue was good as was the idea to break the days up into hourly anecdotes. The detractor here is the occasionally muddled storyline and perhaps trying to do so much within this simple structure. Nonetheless, we do see some of the tendencies that would characterize Faulkner's more mature work and it is remarkable that an excellent book Flags in the Dust immediately followed on the heels of this one.

Here's a sample that has a nice meta-fiction aspect to it:
"Oh, we can stand a little hardship, I guess," Fairchild reassured her jovially. "The race hasn't degenerated that far. In a book, now, it would be kind of terrible; if you forced characters in a book to eat as much grapefruit as we do, both the art boys and the humanitarians would stand on their hind legs and howl. But in real life - In life, anything might happen; in actual life, people will do anything. Its only in books that people must function according to arbitrary rules of conduct and probability; its only in books that events must never flout credulity.
"That's true," Mrs Wiseman agreed. "People's characters, when writers delineate them by revealing their likings and dislikings, always appear so perfect, so inevitably consistent, but in li---"
"That's why literature is art and biology isn't," her brother interrupted. "A character in a book must be consistent in all things, while man is consistent in one thing only: he is consistently vain. Its his vanity alone which keeps his particles damp and adhering one to another, instead of like any other handful of dust which any wind that passes can disseminate." (p. 150)

[J.M. Hushour · Rating 4 out of 5]

Analyzing Faulkner is a bloated, rubbery thing, and when it gets to the point where the study of an artist becomes an industry (only slightly worse than an author becoming an industry) it's time to step back and just read their goddamn books. I know little about Faulkner and don't really need to to enjoy his works. I've been reading them spottily and out-of-time but decided to hunker down after reading the biggies and read all of them in order. Pleasantly surprised at both "Soldier's Pay" and "Mosquitoes", I don't get the disparaging. "Mosquitoes" is a fine book. It's hilarious and so refreshingly lacking all of these staid old tropes that Faulkner later got bogged down in (whether that's his fault or the academics...never mind, it's the academics), that you feel like it was written after some of his more well-known works. A bunch of kind of shitty and morally ambiguous jerkfaces get together on a boat and eat grapefruit, swat at mosquitoes, try to escape, get drunk, dance, and try to fuck each other. It's kind of like Hitchcock's "Lifeboat" except they're all on MDA and someone spilled a bottle of blood in the bottom of the boat.

[Tanya · Rating 5 out of 5]

“So I believe that if art served any purpose at all, it would at least keep the artists themselves occupied.”So funny… crazy good. Kind of a predecessor to A Confederacy of Dunces? New Orleans spawns some venomous literature

[DaveB]

There are a few really beautiful parts to this book. But mostly I was bored. Because perhaps the only thing more boring than people talking about art is reading about people talking about art. And maybe thats the point. Because the only real artist in the book doesn't talk about it. He just does.

[Sean Thomas Sullivan · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is my first five star review and I have read some really amazing books! Faulkner sets himself apart via his mastery of language, story telling, dialog, and character development.He never misses a step. About a chapter and a half into the read i thought, "This is why my mother thinks I can't write!" And I am OK with needing to work to aspire to Faulkner.

[Tittirossa · Rating 3 out of 5]

Faulkner è stato uno degli autori della mia adolescenza (i mei americani).
Mi chiedo oggi, che lo sto rileggendo, quanto ne avessi capito e quanto ho letto per il puro piacere della lettura (quindi si può leggere Faulkner senza farsi troppe domande sul metatesto!).

[Illiterate · Rating 2 out of 5]

Artists are sterile windbags and blood-sucking parasites. Ah, but true art is...

[v · Rating 2 out of 5]

The structure and form of his second novel are more ambitious than in his first, and there might be some things more interesting than the biographical to say about comparing it to his great-grandfather's novel The White Rose of Memphis; A Novel. Bloated, contrived, dull, unrefined and narrow, however, Mosquitoes has got to be William Faulkner's worst.

[Betty · Rating 4 out of 5]

I liked it

[Nathan Kruse · Rating 3 out of 5]

love faulkner’s style

they dont say “mosquitoes” once….but there are lots of them

[Islam Fayad · Rating 2 out of 5]

رواية مفككة او غير تقليدية لم استوعب فكرتها تماما
الاشكالية فى ماذا ؟ كثيرة هي المرات التى نعيب فيها الترجمة فلااظن ان فولكنر كما سمعت عنه كأحد طواسين الادب الامريكي الا ان ما قرأته لا علاقة له بما سمعت لذا فانني ساوجه الاتهام مزدوجا للكاتب و وبالتأكيد الترجمة !!!

[Katharine Yvonne · Rating 4 out of 5]

To be honest, it has been awhile since I've read this book. But I felt the need to put up on my list with the other amazing works of fiction I've read lately. I am a pretty big Faulkner fan, but I grew tired with the similarities between most of his better known books.

Mosquitoes is a breath of fresh air after reading Faulkner's other works--not because he isn't an incredible writer, but because it is more Fitzgerald-like than it is Faulkner-like. I vividly recall the characters eating grapefruits for breakfast together, and it is one of the best scenes I've come across in literature.

Definitely read this book to expand your understanding of Faulkner.

[Marina · Rating 1 out of 5]

La mia prima "1 stella" di quest'anno, e spero anche l'ultima. Non so nemmeno perché ho perseverato a leggere un libro che chiaramente non mi piaceva fin dall'inizio. Forse perché volevo dare una chance a Faulkner, ma questo sarà il suo primo e ultimo libro che leggo.
Non mi importava niente di questi ricchi e annoiati artisti e mecenati riuniti in una crociera sul lago. Un libro noiosissimo e confusionario.

[Tariq Alferis · Rating 2 out of 5]

.سمعت الكثير عن "عبقرية" فوكنر وأدب فوكنر، وإن لم تقرأ لفوكنر أنت لست بقارئ وإلخ، تحدث ماركيز عنه ووصفه بالمعجزة الأمريكية، كانت التجربة الأولى مع الصخب والعنف مُستمرة من أكثر من ستة شهور وأنا غارق في الحرب الآهلية في الجنوب الأمريكي بين محور الجنوبي والشمالي ، قررت نقرأ عمل اخر ليه واخترت الثاني "البعوض"، رواية كرسها فوكنر لسخرية من الطبقة التى تسمي نفسها مثقفة "نيواورليانز"، كانت الرواية الثانية للكاتب لاقت عدم انتشار واهتمام كبير، لم تعجبني ..

[Jamie]

This felt very odd. Faulkner doing Jazz Age stuff? The tone seemed off and the first chapters were a bore. I’m sending this back to the library for now.

[NICK · Rating 2 out of 5]

high brow Gilligan's Island?

[Michael Troutman · Rating 3 out of 5]

A very strange, quirky, occasionally laugh out loud funny book. Faulkner doesn’t yet know who Faulkner is, understandable on a second book. But this didn’t read at all like later more popular titles. It reads like a Wodehouse novel if a southerner wrote it and it was set in the New Orleans bayou instead of London. There is a serious undertone, wherein Faulkner explores his thoughts on the natures of art, artistry, ability, and artistic desire. He also seems to strangely be caught up in the beginnings of the modern conversations about sexuality that began in the 1920’s. That didn’t add much to the novel in my opinion, but it may have been an attempt to contextualize some of the moments of comedy. There are moments where a Faulknerian paragraph will emerge and a handful of the darker themes of later books will peak out tentatively. The cast of characters is very diverse and memorable, taken from a certain crust of upper/middle southern society and mercilessly satired. There are lots of mosquitoes in this book so the title doesn’t disappoint. All in all a surprising mostly enjoyable read. Not at all what I expected, but then, I don’t know what I expected.

[Adam Bregman · Rating 4 out of 5]

In 1927, William Faulkner was already a skilled writer, though yet to find his experimental style, however, well on the way. There are hints in the few paragraphs, where the reader has no idea who is reflecting on what and the italicized narration about nuns and such in the last part, which is a whiff of the baffling Faulkner of Absalom Absalom! The majority of Mosquitoes, which takes place on a yacht trip in a lake near New Orleans, is a straightforward narrative a la A Rose for Emily. While it's difficult to discern the glut of characters on the boat and some of the banter between the male artists is tedious, Faulkner has some worthy stories to tell such as that of the duo who make a hasty escape from the boat only to be trapped in the swamp and the very amusing tale of a Louisiana sheep farmer. Faulkner's second novel, Mosquitoes is more fun than you might expect.