I found this last section to be the most appropriate. There is much needed closure with a saga that you think would never end. Faulkner finally takes over, once there is nothing left to see of the Compson's. I also thought it was the most accessible and interesting. Faulkner is no longer speaking for the characters. Rather, he assumes the role of a sort of omniscient narrator, implying that there is nothing left to be said of the Compson family, but subtly hinting at the end that there is order. However, for said order, certain Compson's can no longer be there because they would only sabotage any chances of prosperity. Don't get me wrong. This is not Faulkner's section, it is Dilsey's. Through Dilsey, though, Faulkner communicates with the reader objectively.
I really enjoyed that each section had clear contrast with the other ones. Stylistically, Jason's, Dilsey's, and Quentin's sections are prose. Benjy's, on the other hand, is a mess, but it perfectly executes Benjy's thought processes and existence by writing in this handicapped narration, if you will. Faulkner proves his versatility as a writer, adapting to each of his lead characters with varying narratives. It makes me wonder how effective it would be if Faulkner published each section as a series of short stories that would make up one major saga. Published in episodes, it may resemble a really good soap opera, but I bet readers would be eager to read them.
To start with Benjy, though, is very daunting, as mentioned in my last post on Sound and the Fury. Although Quentin's section is arguably the most complicated in substance, reading Benjy's goes against all your knowledge of the English language, and at first it was downright repulsive and frustrating. Anyone with a trained tongue would find it difficult, while illiterates ( i think )would succeed because of the heavy reliance on phonetics.
Lastly, to close with a third person narration by Faulkner is refreshing, because Sound and the Fury is very unrelenting, even though it is divided in sections. As gripping as it may be, I don't think this is a single setting novel, but I felt that I would never rest until the Compson family finally deteriorated. After moments of thinking they were finally done for, the Compson's still manage to show signs of life amidst all the misgivings. This may be a faulty reading on my part because I still blindly rooted for a dysfunctional family bound for disaster. Once Miss Quentin vanishes (to me, the final blow), and to some extent, Jason's hysterical, comical, but pathetic chase, this clan can no longer function. Everybody is inept and afflicted by Caddy's departure, which is the worst thing to do to those obsessed with her. Benjy can't take care of himself, Jason is stuck after he loses his job, and Quentin can't live knowing of Caddy's way. One way or the other, they are all tied to Caddy and yoknapatawpha, plus, everybody is so emotionally distraught that there is little to no hope.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Absent love for the Compsons
William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury is both complex and simple. The text is hard to read; from the beginning, and without warning, there is constant switching from past to present confusing the reader. In addition this constant switching, at first glance it leads the reader to think that there is no real plot and meaning to the story. However, there is meaning and it comes in the embodiment of Candace Compson.
Faulkner is one of the South’s most influential writers because he redefines southern literature in two ways—first, in keeping with the southern tradition, he employs realism in his work. Second, he questions the southerner’s mind set for motivation by giving his audience, who may be southerners, a rare opportunity to reflect on who they are and how they came to be. Todd’s posting about, “The truly interesting question is how do we as readers look at the idea of audience in this novel” gave way to most of my reaction to the text. The Sound and the Fury answered many questions I had when I first read Absalom, Absalom! The two novels reinforce each other. This maybe an answer to Todd’s question: the intended audience of this book, I believe, was geared initially toward southerner’s. I think Faulkner’s purpose for writing this book was to force southerner’s to take a look into their backyard. Candace Compson is the motivation for all the Compson’s brothers. Benjamin, Quentin, and Jason are obsessed with Caddy because she gives them what their mother neglected to—love. Caddy is a substitute mother figure for the boys, and maybe for herself, which is why she ends the way she does. Candace did not have a positive female role model to teach her the ways of the world, particularly when it came men. Now, one can argue that Dilsey may have been that positive role model for Candace, but let’s not forget that Dilsey is black. Therefore, under southern standards socially deemed inferior. So Candace may have not look at Dilsey pre se as a positive female role model to learn from, and Dilsey may have thought it not to be her place to tell Caddy what she should and should not do.
Nevertheless, Candace mistake love for other things such as sex. It is the same for the Compson brothers; they mistake their love for Caddy as something more than what it should be. Love is one of the forces that hold families together. The Compson family does not have it therefore its falling apart. Faulkner’s uses his characters as representation for what the old south had and what it longs for. Starting with Quentin, he wants to continue on the family’s past greatness, but he has not nurtured from birth to do so.
Faulkner is one of the South’s most influential writers because he redefines southern literature in two ways—first, in keeping with the southern tradition, he employs realism in his work. Second, he questions the southerner’s mind set for motivation by giving his audience, who may be southerners, a rare opportunity to reflect on who they are and how they came to be. Todd’s posting about, “The truly interesting question is how do we as readers look at the idea of audience in this novel” gave way to most of my reaction to the text. The Sound and the Fury answered many questions I had when I first read Absalom, Absalom! The two novels reinforce each other. This maybe an answer to Todd’s question: the intended audience of this book, I believe, was geared initially toward southerner’s. I think Faulkner’s purpose for writing this book was to force southerner’s to take a look into their backyard. Candace Compson is the motivation for all the Compson’s brothers. Benjamin, Quentin, and Jason are obsessed with Caddy because she gives them what their mother neglected to—love. Caddy is a substitute mother figure for the boys, and maybe for herself, which is why she ends the way she does. Candace did not have a positive female role model to teach her the ways of the world, particularly when it came men. Now, one can argue that Dilsey may have been that positive role model for Candace, but let’s not forget that Dilsey is black. Therefore, under southern standards socially deemed inferior. So Candace may have not look at Dilsey pre se as a positive female role model to learn from, and Dilsey may have thought it not to be her place to tell Caddy what she should and should not do.
Nevertheless, Candace mistake love for other things such as sex. It is the same for the Compson brothers; they mistake their love for Caddy as something more than what it should be. Love is one of the forces that hold families together. The Compson family does not have it therefore its falling apart. Faulkner’s uses his characters as representation for what the old south had and what it longs for. Starting with Quentin, he wants to continue on the family’s past greatness, but he has not nurtured from birth to do so.
To the last Bascomb.
While it may be easy to hate Jason, I find him actually the most tragic.
The truly interesting question is how do we as readers look at the idea of audience in this novel. Who is reading this? Are we simply privy to an inner monologue? While that may be a suitable read of the first two section, it doesn't work as well with the last two. Jason's section and the last section are less chaotic, less experimental and more importantly more prose-esque.
So who is Jason talking to? The fact that the section begins and ends with "Once a bitch..." utterance means that it's a story. A simple portrayal of a day in the life of Jason Compson is presented.
The strange thing about Jason is how many times he says that he doesn't care about things. He attempts to write off Caddy, Quentin, Benjy, his Mother, his father, Dilsey, the people putting on a show but the important thing is that these are the elements that make up the story he chooses to tell. Yes, he's hard to relate to because he spends most of time complaining about everything, but his complaints give you better insight into what he really cares about.
He says on numerous occasions that he doesn't care about Quentin's going-ons. But we see him chase her down, for no other reason than he does care. Yes he is sure that she is out with the boy "not standing up" but because Jason is following them around, Quentin has no time to actually be with the boy. He is expending energy to stop her.
He tells Quentin that he doesn't want her fooling around on his "mother's" ground. Jason does not want Quentin caught on the family land because the Mother won't be able to ignore it if it happens there. Mother Compson does not leave the house, so Jason makes sure that she doesn't have to suffer heartbreak (any more than the stuff she causes herself).
Yes all the time Jason is doing awful things to all the people in the book. He teases Luster with the tickets to the show. He keeps Caddy from see her daughter. He's generally a racist. He's the last male of a family that is going to dust around him. How should he act?
So who is Jason talking to? The fact that the section begins and ends with "Once a bitch..." utterance means that it's a story. A simple portrayal of a day in the life of Jason Compson is presented.
The strange thing about Jason is how many times he says that he doesn't care about things. He attempts to write off Caddy, Quentin, Benjy, his Mother, his father, Dilsey, the people putting on a show but the important thing is that these are the elements that make up the story he chooses to tell. Yes, he's hard to relate to because he spends most of time complaining about everything, but his complaints give you better insight into what he really cares about.
He says on numerous occasions that he doesn't care about Quentin's going-ons. But we see him chase her down, for no other reason than he does care. Yes he is sure that she is out with the boy "not standing up" but because Jason is following them around, Quentin has no time to actually be with the boy. He is expending energy to stop her.
He tells Quentin that he doesn't want her fooling around on his "mother's" ground. Jason does not want Quentin caught on the family land because the Mother won't be able to ignore it if it happens there. Mother Compson does not leave the house, so Jason makes sure that she doesn't have to suffer heartbreak (any more than the stuff she causes herself).
Yes all the time Jason is doing awful things to all the people in the book. He teases Luster with the tickets to the show. He keeps Caddy from see her daughter. He's generally a racist. He's the last male of a family that is going to dust around him. How should he act?
Devilment
The other half of The Sound and the Fury was much more enjoyable of a read, at least for me. The character of Miss Quentin was given life and she was my favorite of the book. And even though Jason was a horrible, repulsive character, it was his and Miss Quentin's interactions (or lack of interaction) that was the most interesting to me. Even him alone, with just his thoughts and later his actions (when from a general point of view) were the parts of the book that made me react the most. Like, his burning of the tickets was infuriating and when he refuses to give Miss Quentin her money... it was so frustrating that it elicited a response from me. The guy was awful but his character was so well done.
Miss Quentin was the standout character to me. Not because she was an amazing person as Dilsey was, but because of what her life was and how she handled it and herself with this family that couldn't care less for her. The only one that seemed to care about her was Dilsey and Miss Quentin was not all that nice to her. That was really sad, I thought. She was a child who was born under unfortunate circumstances and lived in a place where those circumstances were not allowed to be forgotten or forgiven. She sought love in other places since she was not shown any at home.
The mother was sickening. She was so blind and just gross when it came to Jason. It was hard to read at times. How she saw all of her other children, and how she was such a victim... how she allowed Jason to treat Miss Quentin and Dilsey and Dilsey's children. That she would say that they were eating "his" bread. Wow, it was annoying.
I honestly don't think I really got The Sound and the Fury. Maybe another read would serve me well, but in the end I just felt like I was totally missing something, and I think that something may have been lost in the first and second chapters where I felt like I was lost in the woods.
Miss Quentin was the standout character to me. Not because she was an amazing person as Dilsey was, but because of what her life was and how she handled it and herself with this family that couldn't care less for her. The only one that seemed to care about her was Dilsey and Miss Quentin was not all that nice to her. That was really sad, I thought. She was a child who was born under unfortunate circumstances and lived in a place where those circumstances were not allowed to be forgotten or forgiven. She sought love in other places since she was not shown any at home.
The mother was sickening. She was so blind and just gross when it came to Jason. It was hard to read at times. How she saw all of her other children, and how she was such a victim... how she allowed Jason to treat Miss Quentin and Dilsey and Dilsey's children. That she would say that they were eating "his" bread. Wow, it was annoying.
I honestly don't think I really got The Sound and the Fury. Maybe another read would serve me well, but in the end I just felt like I was totally missing something, and I think that something may have been lost in the first and second chapters where I felt like I was lost in the woods.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Jason: I don't like you
The first half of the book introduced Jason as this creepy guy who was obsessed with the idea of his sister no longer being a virgin. Yes, I understand that he wanted to uphold the southern traditions and customs, but he was far too obsessive with his sister and her sexual escapades. The second half of the book, in my opinion, shows Jason at the peak of misery. By this point, he has stolen at least 50,000$ from his sister and mother. He pockets the money that Caddy sends to support Miss Quentin and uses it on a prostitute in Memphis. Sadly, his mother is a victim of his ill-fate. He,like the scathing scoundrel he is, has won his mother's trust. She is so blinded by her love for Jason that she cannot see the scheme he is running.
Jason has grown into a bitter,sadistic,and petty man who runs his family through the use of cruelty and hatred. He is only focused on future gain and consumes himself in greed and selfish acts. He clearly has no ambition or aspirations.
In general, The Sound and the Fury is a decent read, but Jason's character does not make it enjoyable at all.
Jason has grown into a bitter,sadistic,and petty man who runs his family through the use of cruelty and hatred. He is only focused on future gain and consumes himself in greed and selfish acts. He clearly has no ambition or aspirations.
In general, The Sound and the Fury is a decent read, but Jason's character does not make it enjoyable at all.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Jason Compson IV, Can Go Straight to Hell...
...at least as far as this reader is concerned. He is by far the most frustrating and confusing character I have encountered thus far in the novel. In his appendix to the novel, Faulkner described Jason as "the first sane Compson since before Culloden," but I simply cannot find any explanation for the way he behaves. Quentin (the eldest son), with his impotence, obsession, and suicide, is more comprehensible to me. Raised in a constantly backward-looking Southern aristocratic family, he has been ingrained with a conflicting idea of "family honor" since birth, pulled in one direction by his overbearing and hysterical mother and in the other by his cynical, disillusioned father. His position as the first-born son makes this burden all the heavier on his shoulders. His mental breakdown is a clear consequence of the destruction of his worldview.
Similarly, one can understand Caddy's downfall. Though we never actually enter into her viewpoint, a clear composite of her character emerges from her brothers' perspectives. She is similar to Quentin in her internal conflict between the grip of a dying South and the beckoning of a new modern world. She, however, is able to succeed (at least more than Quentin) in adapting to modernity, even though it costs her her family. While she does not ever seem entirely happy with the path she has taken, she has at least gained autonomy from antiquated mores and forged her own identity. Her sexual promiscuity is a reasonable attempt to liberate herself from the extreme repression of her family, particularly her mother.
Benjy is, of course, the most understandable character, despite his mental handicap. He has been given no choice about the way he is, and thus draws the most empathy from the reader. His relationship with Caddy seems to be the only meaningful and real relationship that occurs within the entire Compson family. The only character that rivals Benjy in understanding and compassion is Dilsey. However, I would argue he surpasses Dilsey in exactly how he perceives and understands those around him: he is directed by no notions of what he thinks or has been told is "right" or "wrong," but rather responds to the hurt and pain of those he loves.
But how does Jason fit into all of this? He clearly hates every one around him, and makes no bones about indicating it. In his own thoughts he expresses some kind of pity and affection for his mother, but he seems to create this feelings in order to justify his malicious and devious behavior. Quentin and Mr. Compson were both disillusioned by a modern world in which their values seem to have no place, but Jason doesn't seem to have ever had any values whatsoever. He is guided solely by his warped sense of pride and ambition. I can't find any correlation between his behavior and the downfall of Caddy, which seems to bring so much pain and destruction to the other Compsons.
The only explanation I can come up with so far is perhaps he fits into a large scheme of Faulkner's to illustrate the deterioration of the old South. Quentin, the oldest, has a mental breakdown and commits suicide. Caddy transgresses moral boundaries, engaging in sexual promiscuity, but these could also be called a breakdown of social relationships: she feels regret in having caused pain for Benjy and her father, but cannot not become an independent woman, contrary to old Southern values. Benjy would obviously be a complete breakdown of mental, social, and physical norms, but I would hate to describe Benjy as a symbol of deterioration, seeing as he is one of the few characters in the novel with any sense of compassion. All of this would leave Jason as the picture of social deterioration, being completely unable to function cooperatively within society. He has no real relationships with anyone and cannot seem to actually see people as they are. But then, can anyone (except Benjy and Dilsey) in the novel really see anyone else?
But I'm totally over 500 words now, and on the verge of rambling, so I'll leave the rest to be sorted out in class.
Similarly, one can understand Caddy's downfall. Though we never actually enter into her viewpoint, a clear composite of her character emerges from her brothers' perspectives. She is similar to Quentin in her internal conflict between the grip of a dying South and the beckoning of a new modern world. She, however, is able to succeed (at least more than Quentin) in adapting to modernity, even though it costs her her family. While she does not ever seem entirely happy with the path she has taken, she has at least gained autonomy from antiquated mores and forged her own identity. Her sexual promiscuity is a reasonable attempt to liberate herself from the extreme repression of her family, particularly her mother.
Benjy is, of course, the most understandable character, despite his mental handicap. He has been given no choice about the way he is, and thus draws the most empathy from the reader. His relationship with Caddy seems to be the only meaningful and real relationship that occurs within the entire Compson family. The only character that rivals Benjy in understanding and compassion is Dilsey. However, I would argue he surpasses Dilsey in exactly how he perceives and understands those around him: he is directed by no notions of what he thinks or has been told is "right" or "wrong," but rather responds to the hurt and pain of those he loves.
But how does Jason fit into all of this? He clearly hates every one around him, and makes no bones about indicating it. In his own thoughts he expresses some kind of pity and affection for his mother, but he seems to create this feelings in order to justify his malicious and devious behavior. Quentin and Mr. Compson were both disillusioned by a modern world in which their values seem to have no place, but Jason doesn't seem to have ever had any values whatsoever. He is guided solely by his warped sense of pride and ambition. I can't find any correlation between his behavior and the downfall of Caddy, which seems to bring so much pain and destruction to the other Compsons.
The only explanation I can come up with so far is perhaps he fits into a large scheme of Faulkner's to illustrate the deterioration of the old South. Quentin, the oldest, has a mental breakdown and commits suicide. Caddy transgresses moral boundaries, engaging in sexual promiscuity, but these could also be called a breakdown of social relationships: she feels regret in having caused pain for Benjy and her father, but cannot not become an independent woman, contrary to old Southern values. Benjy would obviously be a complete breakdown of mental, social, and physical norms, but I would hate to describe Benjy as a symbol of deterioration, seeing as he is one of the few characters in the novel with any sense of compassion. All of this would leave Jason as the picture of social deterioration, being completely unable to function cooperatively within society. He has no real relationships with anyone and cannot seem to actually see people as they are. But then, can anyone (except Benjy and Dilsey) in the novel really see anyone else?
But I'm totally over 500 words now, and on the verge of rambling, so I'll leave the rest to be sorted out in class.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Chapters 1 & 2 - Sound and the Fury
The first chapter of The Sound and the Fury was really, really difficult for me to get through. I felt like throwing the book out the window and giving up on Faulkner forever. But, I felt compelled to seek some guidance from a friend of mine and what he shared comforted me in that I discovered that it was not just me being an idiot and not comprehending what was happening, but it was just, in general, a really difficult read. However, this did not ease the burden of the read by any means, I still had to fight my way through it, and even when I was done with it, my sense of accomplishment in finishing that one chapter was not able to get rid of the thought blaring in my mind: what just happened? So, being a dedicated reader, I closed the book, and started all over again. The second time around helped a bit more but the fashion in which this chapter was written was completely baffling to me, even knowing that the narrator was mentally retarded. When thinking of Mosquitoes and Soldiers' Pay, this novel is so much more heavy and hard to grasp. Mainly in the first paragraph, while reading it through for the second time I kept wondering why Faulkner would want to write in such a way that seems intentionally confusing. I brushed that off, though, by thinking it was just me. The repetition of the phrase : Caddie smelled like trees almost killed me.
The second chapter, I was told by the person mentioned above, was to be much easier to comprehend. I did not find this to be the case. Again, the memories and the ambiguity of what is going on was really a bit much for me at times. I felt like I needed a companion to the decipher every line I was not understanding, which seemed like all of them. I know there is an unhealthy obsession with Caddie amongst her brothers, and the assertion that one committed incest as a way out of a bad situation (meaning Caddie's pregnancy) was pretty striking. The character goes to Harvard and such a thing as that strikes me as something that would be said by someone who just did not know any better. This really brings home the extent of the obsession with Caddie, and the frustration he has with her life and, in particular, her sex life. I do not really understand why there is such a fixation on her sexuality, since they are brothers, and on her in general but it's saddening how it plays out. That is probably complete ignorance of something on my part. The focus on time was very striking when it came to Quentin, even though his suicide did not come until later.
Speaking strictly of the first two chapters, this is one of, if not the, most difficult book I have ever read. The last chapter was the only one that I could say that I actually liked. And I am hesitant to say that because I feel like I am missing something and I don't want to sound foolish.
The second chapter, I was told by the person mentioned above, was to be much easier to comprehend. I did not find this to be the case. Again, the memories and the ambiguity of what is going on was really a bit much for me at times. I felt like I needed a companion to the decipher every line I was not understanding, which seemed like all of them. I know there is an unhealthy obsession with Caddie amongst her brothers, and the assertion that one committed incest as a way out of a bad situation (meaning Caddie's pregnancy) was pretty striking. The character goes to Harvard and such a thing as that strikes me as something that would be said by someone who just did not know any better. This really brings home the extent of the obsession with Caddie, and the frustration he has with her life and, in particular, her sex life. I do not really understand why there is such a fixation on her sexuality, since they are brothers, and on her in general but it's saddening how it plays out. That is probably complete ignorance of something on my part. The focus on time was very striking when it came to Quentin, even though his suicide did not come until later.
Speaking strictly of the first two chapters, this is one of, if not the, most difficult book I have ever read. The last chapter was the only one that I could say that I actually liked. And I am hesitant to say that because I feel like I am missing something and I don't want to sound foolish.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Caddy and the Compson Boys
I think Faulkner really nailed it this time around. The Sound and the Fury is replete with symbols and imagery, but without the cardboard obviousness of his previous novels. Here there is subtlety and ambiguity, room for nuance and myriad interpretations. In fact, things get so subtle at times, I had to check Sparknotes to make sure I had all the character relationships correct and to put events in some sort of timeline. While I was there, I found an interesting comparison of Benjy to Christ: Benjy is 33, the supposed age Christ was when he was crucified; three of the four narratives take place on Easter weekend of 1928; Benjy is an outcast among his own people, just like Christ; etc.
Whether that is valid or not, it made me think more deeply about the character of Caddy, specifically regarding her relationships with her brothers. I found his fixation on her to be inappropriate if he is actually supposed to be a Christ-like figure. I know his obsession with her isn't of a sexual nature, like Quentin's, but the only person Benjy seems to have any regard for at all is her. I would even go so far as to say he could care less if anyone else died or got hurt. Doesn't seem very Christ-like to me (of course, that could have been Faulkner's point).
What seemed like a more valid parallel to draw was one between Mary, the virgin mother of Jesus, and Caddy. Mrs. Compson is a hysterical hypochondriac, totally incapable of caring for her children. She leaves a void of the mother figure in Jason, Quentin, and Benjy's lives, a void that is left to either Dilsey or Caddy to fill. While Dilsey is certainly a hero of the novel, I don't think the children form any sort of motherly associations with her.
Caddy certainly does step in to act as a mother figure, however. She is the only one that understands Benjy and has any idea of how to really care for him. If we wanted to get all Freudian, I think we could say Quentin transferred his Oedipus complex from Mrs. Compson to Caddy, affirming her place as the real mother of the Compson boys and also making his incestual longing a little clearer. Jason certainly seems to hate Caddy, but nonetheless he is fixated on her, intent to get her into trouble. Because she never actually gave birth to any of them, she is, in every sense, the virgin mother of the Compson family.
Her sexual promiscuity, however, makes this symbolism a little more complicated and a lot more interesting. The virgin motherhood of Mary, both before and after the birth of Jesus, is a fundamental tenet of Christianity. If it were ever disproved, it would most likely put into doubt the divinity of Christ himself. Caddy's sexual activity and out-of-wedlock pregnancy cast a stain on her purity as a mother figure. Perhaps this is a comment on the irrelevance of Christianity in modern times: if Christ were to be incarnated in the exact same way today as he was the last go round, it would be a total failure. Caddy cannot hold on to her purity, pressured by the fast pace of life in the modern world.
Furthermore, this contributes to Faulkner's illustration of the downfall of the Southern aristocracy. With such Christian mores as honor, chastity, and integrity as the anchor of their lives, how could they possibly survive if Caddy, the "Virgin Mary" of the South, cannot even stay pure? This realization devastates the Compson family in several ways, as seen in the novel.
Whether that is valid or not, it made me think more deeply about the character of Caddy, specifically regarding her relationships with her brothers. I found his fixation on her to be inappropriate if he is actually supposed to be a Christ-like figure. I know his obsession with her isn't of a sexual nature, like Quentin's, but the only person Benjy seems to have any regard for at all is her. I would even go so far as to say he could care less if anyone else died or got hurt. Doesn't seem very Christ-like to me (of course, that could have been Faulkner's point).
What seemed like a more valid parallel to draw was one between Mary, the virgin mother of Jesus, and Caddy. Mrs. Compson is a hysterical hypochondriac, totally incapable of caring for her children. She leaves a void of the mother figure in Jason, Quentin, and Benjy's lives, a void that is left to either Dilsey or Caddy to fill. While Dilsey is certainly a hero of the novel, I don't think the children form any sort of motherly associations with her.
Caddy certainly does step in to act as a mother figure, however. She is the only one that understands Benjy and has any idea of how to really care for him. If we wanted to get all Freudian, I think we could say Quentin transferred his Oedipus complex from Mrs. Compson to Caddy, affirming her place as the real mother of the Compson boys and also making his incestual longing a little clearer. Jason certainly seems to hate Caddy, but nonetheless he is fixated on her, intent to get her into trouble. Because she never actually gave birth to any of them, she is, in every sense, the virgin mother of the Compson family.
Her sexual promiscuity, however, makes this symbolism a little more complicated and a lot more interesting. The virgin motherhood of Mary, both before and after the birth of Jesus, is a fundamental tenet of Christianity. If it were ever disproved, it would most likely put into doubt the divinity of Christ himself. Caddy's sexual activity and out-of-wedlock pregnancy cast a stain on her purity as a mother figure. Perhaps this is a comment on the irrelevance of Christianity in modern times: if Christ were to be incarnated in the exact same way today as he was the last go round, it would be a total failure. Caddy cannot hold on to her purity, pressured by the fast pace of life in the modern world.
Furthermore, this contributes to Faulkner's illustration of the downfall of the Southern aristocracy. With such Christian mores as honor, chastity, and integrity as the anchor of their lives, how could they possibly survive if Caddy, the "Virgin Mary" of the South, cannot even stay pure? This realization devastates the Compson family in several ways, as seen in the novel.
Who is the fool?
One of the most important elements of this novel is certainly the style in which each section is written. The narrators Benjy and Quentin are represented through their thoughts—which are choppy, full of flashbacks, and often italicized at significant moments. Although they share these common elements, the distinction between the two is blatantly evident. But why?
Quentin uses elaborate words to convey his choppy thoughts, and hints at large, complicated world situations. He views situations at a complex and compulsive level. When he reflects, he is reflecting inward, placing all of the importance of a situation upon himself. He blames himself for his sister's impurity, and that he couldn't help free her from the situation (no matter what drastic measures—ie. incest!) Benjy, however, thinks very simply, and reacts outwardly. His thoughts are placed on his surroundings. He touches, smells, and feels. He notices what people do and say, and records it in his mind. Unlike Quentin, when Benjy is upset with Caddie, he openly cries (as he does about many things, granted) to express his feelings. It's immediate and child-like the way that he responds to emotional turmoil, but he does not self-reflect or self-blame.
But this dichotomy is represented, as previously mentioned, through similar styles of narration. With this, Faulkner is trying to point out that neither one of these approaches to life is really any different than the other. Although Benjy is mentally ill, he experiences things unselfishly and really takes in the wonders of the world without the constraint of time and obsession. Quentin is shown to be somewhat cursed with intelligence. Rather than enjoying simple smells, images, and moments in his life, he's forced to analyze and blame himself and others for events that he desires control over. Life is lost in moments of a ticking watch—which he slams against his drawer and breaks, symbolizing his resentment toward his unrelenting mind.
Faulkner could be trying to point out that the supposed "fool" (Benjy) is not a fool at all because he actually enjoys moments of life, and the real fool is the person who is affected too much by his own mind. He could also be aiming to show that the modern person is forced to live within one of these realms—think and drive yourself to commit suicide (or something like suicide) or don't think and be judged as a fool. It also could be neither one of these, just a narration of two people dealing with the same situation in different ways. With this amount of juxtaposition, though, it's difficult to believe the latter option.
Understanding the Misunderstood
The Sound and the Fury is one of William Faulkner’s most well-known novels. It’s also, as it happens, one of his more difficult novels. Told from four distinct perspectives spanning decades—including flashbacks and memories—it is basically the story of the trials of the Compson family. The novel centers on the three Compson boys’—Quentin, Jason, and Benjy—obsession and dependence on their sister Caddy, and it also shows the progressive decline of the Compson family. The first section of the novel is told from the point of view of Benjy, the youngest Compson son. Benjy is mentally handicapped. He cannot speak or take care of himself, and he labeled and idiot by his family and society. I think this label is inaccurate. I believe, based on what little I know about the subject, that Benjy is autistic, not an idiot.
Autism is a neurological disorder that manifests itself in social and communicational deficiencies. Autism is characterized by impairments in social interaction, impairments in communication, restricted interests, and repetitive behavior. Benjy Compson appears to meet all of these criteria. He does not speak; he only moans and cries. His family believes that he is dumb and def, but this isn’t the case, because Benjy can hear and remember things very well. He simply cannot vocalize or communicate his thoughts. He clearly, as is evidenced by his narration, understands more about what is going on than his family believes he does. Benjy points at things, such as the gate, his pillow, and the fire, to express himself. This gesturing and pointing is also characteristic of low functioning autistics. The fact that Mr. and Mrs. Compson did not notice Bejny’s handicap until he was five also makes me believe that he is autistic because it is hard to diagnose.
Another characteristic of autism is impaired social skills. Autistic people do not develop too far socially, as we can see is the case with Benjy. He does not understand how to interact with other people. He wants T.P.’s lighting bugs and cries until he gets them, and he steals baby girl Quentin’s toy when they are playing together. He also scares the school girls running by the gate because he does not understand that they are not Caddy. Socially and mentally, Benjy is a child, even through adulthood. He also shows signs of restricted interests and repetitive behavior, signs of autism. Benjy is preoccupied with certain things—Caddy, his slipper, his jimson weed, his cushion, fire—and he only seems to be interested in those things. Benjy does not pay attention to those who are talking to him if he is preoccupied with one of these things. Benjy is also repetitive, especially in his thoughts. He keeps repeating that Caddy smells like trees, and at the end of the novel, when T.P. drives the carriage in an unfamiliar route, Benjy moans and cries until he recognizes his surroundings again. I think that the character of Benjy displays very clear signs of autism, but I am not an expert in this, so I would like to research it fully.
Something I am curious about is Faulkner’s intentions when writing this character. I do not believe that autism was a diagnosable disorder then, and so I wonder if Faulkner knew what he was doing in constructing this character. Was Benjy based off of someone Faulkner knew? Did Faulkner do research in order to make Benjy more believable? Was Benjy a believable character when the book was first published? This character raises so many unanswered questions for me that I can’t help but want to know more.
Autism is a neurological disorder that manifests itself in social and communicational deficiencies. Autism is characterized by impairments in social interaction, impairments in communication, restricted interests, and repetitive behavior. Benjy Compson appears to meet all of these criteria. He does not speak; he only moans and cries. His family believes that he is dumb and def, but this isn’t the case, because Benjy can hear and remember things very well. He simply cannot vocalize or communicate his thoughts. He clearly, as is evidenced by his narration, understands more about what is going on than his family believes he does. Benjy points at things, such as the gate, his pillow, and the fire, to express himself. This gesturing and pointing is also characteristic of low functioning autistics. The fact that Mr. and Mrs. Compson did not notice Bejny’s handicap until he was five also makes me believe that he is autistic because it is hard to diagnose.
Another characteristic of autism is impaired social skills. Autistic people do not develop too far socially, as we can see is the case with Benjy. He does not understand how to interact with other people. He wants T.P.’s lighting bugs and cries until he gets them, and he steals baby girl Quentin’s toy when they are playing together. He also scares the school girls running by the gate because he does not understand that they are not Caddy. Socially and mentally, Benjy is a child, even through adulthood. He also shows signs of restricted interests and repetitive behavior, signs of autism. Benjy is preoccupied with certain things—Caddy, his slipper, his jimson weed, his cushion, fire—and he only seems to be interested in those things. Benjy does not pay attention to those who are talking to him if he is preoccupied with one of these things. Benjy is also repetitive, especially in his thoughts. He keeps repeating that Caddy smells like trees, and at the end of the novel, when T.P. drives the carriage in an unfamiliar route, Benjy moans and cries until he recognizes his surroundings again. I think that the character of Benjy displays very clear signs of autism, but I am not an expert in this, so I would like to research it fully.
Something I am curious about is Faulkner’s intentions when writing this character. I do not believe that autism was a diagnosable disorder then, and so I wonder if Faulkner knew what he was doing in constructing this character. Was Benjy based off of someone Faulkner knew? Did Faulkner do research in order to make Benjy more believable? Was Benjy a believable character when the book was first published? This character raises so many unanswered questions for me that I can’t help but want to know more.
Sound and the Fury revisited
It's been said that great novels must be revisited throughout life. Just because you are done with a book, it does not mean it is done with you. Certain novels are universal, available for entertainment, counsel, and introspection, at any time of your life. Although it is hypocritical to propose this argument at such a tender age, several masterpieces can be read at different points of one's life. Undoubtedly, it will not be a dull, lackluster, page-skipping read. Rather, coming across a beloved novel again is extremely gratifying, regardless of the motives. It is not a masochistic experience. Quite the contrary, you read a exalted form of the old novel, that is actually just adapting to your current state and age. It feels like discovering a whole new layer of treasure after years without opening a deceiving treasure chest. But a better example would be comparing a novel to a "Matryoshka" doll.
Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury falls under this category, along with Marquez 100 years of Solitude and Kafka's Metamorphosis to name a few. Even though each of these titles explores a different theme, what makes them great is the ability to attract readers of all ages. At age 16, The Sound and the Fury is a novel that is rather difficult to consume, mostly due to the reader's immaturity and futility in tackling such a structurally unique and complex novel. I failed to see how it was classified as good writing, as I struggled to get through the first, daunting, and confusing pages. It was not until I found out about Benjy's disorder that I understood the technique. If I could go back in time, I would slap my 16 year old self in the face because I thought very little of Southerners after the first section. I was dealing with inbred folk, and savages that did not meet my pretentious sophistication at 16. Stubborn, I refused to go the extra mile in understanding what did not meet my privileged reality. Fury exposes the delicate, raw, and soul-shattering themes of incest, retardation, violence, and racism, and it is not for the faint of heart, much less a 16 year old. Still, I considered it to be accessible but I didn't know what I was talking about, nor could I grasp most of these themes.
It took three more years of reading countless novels, suffering, screwing up, and learning the hard way to grasp The Sound and the Fury. Needless to say, I was in for a treat on my second visit at 19, a completely new read, highlighted by flashbacks of my first attempt to read the novel, and many moments that felt new because I finally understood some of its symbolism. However, I still have a long way to go. After all, I am a Faulkner amateur, and Fury will bring new moments of EUREKA! at 40, 60, or maybe as I lay dying, preferably not in a terrifying hospital room, and instead, reading some Faulkner, and other authors.
The Sound and the Fury has to be one of the most genuine, powerful, and brilliant novels I have ever read. Along with As I Lay Dying, Fury propelled Faulkner to the top. What I find particularly astounding, is the completely different writer we come across with in Fury. Just three years ago, Faulkner published his first novel, Soldier's Pay, a valiant first effort, but poor nonetheless. The Sound and the Fury consistently displays the brilliance that is lacking, but brewing in Soldier's Pay. It is a fine example of the maturity and evolution of the writer. Faulkner was doubted by many in the beginning, and defied all expectations. Fury is a refreshing and interesting introduction to Yoknapatawpha County, which would become a famous trademark. Who knew? Although comical, Faulkner actually made something of his life, and biographically, he led a life of blessed perseverance. Skeptical observers must have treated Faulkner like neglected grapes that transformed into a fine wine with time. This makes sense of my earlier claim of reading Fury, three years apart. As I write this, I realize I would have probably written a cookie-cutter, basic, summary of the Sound and the Fury at age 16. It would resemble Soldier's Pay, except it would be much, much worse. Now, even though I am not delving into character analysis and symbolism too much, I am reminiscing on my profound experience with the novel, as I am sure you will all do in the near or distant future, if Fury meant anything to you anyway.
Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury falls under this category, along with Marquez 100 years of Solitude and Kafka's Metamorphosis to name a few. Even though each of these titles explores a different theme, what makes them great is the ability to attract readers of all ages. At age 16, The Sound and the Fury is a novel that is rather difficult to consume, mostly due to the reader's immaturity and futility in tackling such a structurally unique and complex novel. I failed to see how it was classified as good writing, as I struggled to get through the first, daunting, and confusing pages. It was not until I found out about Benjy's disorder that I understood the technique. If I could go back in time, I would slap my 16 year old self in the face because I thought very little of Southerners after the first section. I was dealing with inbred folk, and savages that did not meet my pretentious sophistication at 16. Stubborn, I refused to go the extra mile in understanding what did not meet my privileged reality. Fury exposes the delicate, raw, and soul-shattering themes of incest, retardation, violence, and racism, and it is not for the faint of heart, much less a 16 year old. Still, I considered it to be accessible but I didn't know what I was talking about, nor could I grasp most of these themes.
It took three more years of reading countless novels, suffering, screwing up, and learning the hard way to grasp The Sound and the Fury. Needless to say, I was in for a treat on my second visit at 19, a completely new read, highlighted by flashbacks of my first attempt to read the novel, and many moments that felt new because I finally understood some of its symbolism. However, I still have a long way to go. After all, I am a Faulkner amateur, and Fury will bring new moments of EUREKA! at 40, 60, or maybe as I lay dying, preferably not in a terrifying hospital room, and instead, reading some Faulkner, and other authors.
The Sound and the Fury has to be one of the most genuine, powerful, and brilliant novels I have ever read. Along with As I Lay Dying, Fury propelled Faulkner to the top. What I find particularly astounding, is the completely different writer we come across with in Fury. Just three years ago, Faulkner published his first novel, Soldier's Pay, a valiant first effort, but poor nonetheless. The Sound and the Fury consistently displays the brilliance that is lacking, but brewing in Soldier's Pay. It is a fine example of the maturity and evolution of the writer. Faulkner was doubted by many in the beginning, and defied all expectations. Fury is a refreshing and interesting introduction to Yoknapatawpha County, which would become a famous trademark. Who knew? Although comical, Faulkner actually made something of his life, and biographically, he led a life of blessed perseverance. Skeptical observers must have treated Faulkner like neglected grapes that transformed into a fine wine with time. This makes sense of my earlier claim of reading Fury, three years apart. As I write this, I realize I would have probably written a cookie-cutter, basic, summary of the Sound and the Fury at age 16. It would resemble Soldier's Pay, except it would be much, much worse. Now, even though I am not delving into character analysis and symbolism too much, I am reminiscing on my profound experience with the novel, as I am sure you will all do in the near or distant future, if Fury meant anything to you anyway.
The Shadows.
In The Sound and The Fury, Faulkner makes a great use of symbolism. His use of the theme of incest makes much more clear his intention with the use of shadows in Quentin's section, especially.
Quentin is always aware of his shadow. He stands on the bridge and watches his shadow in the water. The shadow is drowning. Quentin plans on committing suicide but jumping into the river.
His shadow is the sin that follows him around. His sins, however, are imagined. Quentin has committed no sins. His sins are merely a shadow of his thoughts. He wants to have committed the sins because he believes it is the only way he could have saved Caddy. He wishes that he was impure because he loses Caddy because she has acted differently than what she is supposed to have done.
Quentin's shadow is also the South. His ideas of chivalry are especially prevalent. His actions towards the Italian girl are especially interesting. He constantly refers to her as "sister" and he attempts to make sure she gets back to her home safely. He attempts to just abandon her, but once he sees her again, he accepts that she is with him.
There are also the shadows of the writings that are being referenced by Faulkner. These references build a foundation for recognition. There are numerous biblical references in this section. Particularly, to Genesis and Revelation which represents both the beginner and the end. We are getting the beginning in this section because it is years before the other sections and one of the haunting parts of the Compson family. It is the end because it is last day of Quentin's life.
Quentin is always aware of his shadow. He stands on the bridge and watches his shadow in the water. The shadow is drowning. Quentin plans on committing suicide but jumping into the river.
His shadow is the sin that follows him around. His sins, however, are imagined. Quentin has committed no sins. His sins are merely a shadow of his thoughts. He wants to have committed the sins because he believes it is the only way he could have saved Caddy. He wishes that he was impure because he loses Caddy because she has acted differently than what she is supposed to have done.
Quentin's shadow is also the South. His ideas of chivalry are especially prevalent. His actions towards the Italian girl are especially interesting. He constantly refers to her as "sister" and he attempts to make sure she gets back to her home safely. He attempts to just abandon her, but once he sees her again, he accepts that she is with him.
There are also the shadows of the writings that are being referenced by Faulkner. These references build a foundation for recognition. There are numerous biblical references in this section. Particularly, to Genesis and Revelation which represents both the beginner and the end. We are getting the beginning in this section because it is years before the other sections and one of the haunting parts of the Compson family. It is the end because it is last day of Quentin's life.
The Sound and the Fury..or crazy??
First and foremost, it is important to point out that Benjy as the narrator for the first section is quite difficult for the reader to follow what is going on in the story. His narration is hard to follow due to it randomness and choppy style. His stream of consciousness is made up of images,sounds,and memories that he cannot interpret or express due to his disability. He has absolutely no concept of time,living in present tense. Ironically, he is able to illustrate the demise of the Compson family as a whole.
Quentin, Benjy's brother, is a far more complex character with an abstract narration. It seems as if he is holding on to the old traditional Southern code of honor and cannot cope with the changing times.He cannot cope with Caddy's promiscuity. The begging question: WHO CARES?! Why is Quentin so obsessed with the fact that his sister is a sexual person? Could it be that he is jealous that she's no longer a virgin, while he's still apart of the club?
Unlike Benjy, Quentin is aware that his flashbacks are just memories which can be interpreted. He is obsessed and trapped in time. Also, in his thoughts, he regrettably feels as if he should have done something or said something to change a certain situation. For example, he recalls a young girl during his childhood, and calls her dirty. Now, because he called that little girl dirty, he sees his own sister as "dirty." It can be said that Quentin himself has mental issues,maybe the entire Compson family. There is no stability in the family,at all. If anyone is normal, it is Caddy.
The Sound and the Fury takes a true active mind to understand what's really going on. You cannot possibly sit and read page after page without having to reread what you just read. It's difficult to follow,which is a turn off. Sorry,Faulkner!
Quentin, Benjy's brother, is a far more complex character with an abstract narration. It seems as if he is holding on to the old traditional Southern code of honor and cannot cope with the changing times.He cannot cope with Caddy's promiscuity. The begging question: WHO CARES?! Why is Quentin so obsessed with the fact that his sister is a sexual person? Could it be that he is jealous that she's no longer a virgin, while he's still apart of the club?
Unlike Benjy, Quentin is aware that his flashbacks are just memories which can be interpreted. He is obsessed and trapped in time. Also, in his thoughts, he regrettably feels as if he should have done something or said something to change a certain situation. For example, he recalls a young girl during his childhood, and calls her dirty. Now, because he called that little girl dirty, he sees his own sister as "dirty." It can be said that Quentin himself has mental issues,maybe the entire Compson family. There is no stability in the family,at all. If anyone is normal, it is Caddy.
The Sound and the Fury takes a true active mind to understand what's really going on. You cannot possibly sit and read page after page without having to reread what you just read. It's difficult to follow,which is a turn off. Sorry,Faulkner!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
An (extremely long - sorry!) Ode to Benjy
Benjy is a faun if Faulkner ever wrote of one, and certainly among the wisest of his fools. Like the faun, Benjy is extremely in tune with nature, he lacks all self-consciousness. He also possesses intuition and, therefore, an important kind of wisdom.
Benjy’s intuition can be seen in a conversation between Dilsey and Roskus: “‘He know a lot more than folks thinks.’ Roskus said. ‘He knowed they time was coming, like that pointer done. He could tell you when hism coming, if he could talk. Or yours. Or mine.’”
In part two, Quentin reflects on Dilsey saying of Benjy: “He smelt hit.” Smell, as a means of acquiring knowledge, is certainly more animalistic than human.
Benjy lacks self-consciousness, another trait of the faun. Often the reader learns of his actions through reactions from other characters. We often learn he is moaning, for instance, when he is told to “hush.” He is also very in tune with nature, finding comfort in such things as flowers, lightning bugs, and other natural objects. Caddy, whom he loves, smells like grass. Not only that, but the reader gets the impression that the house is a dark place for Benjy, and the outside somehow light (“…we went out the door, out of the dark”).
Benjy’s close relationship to the black family working for the Compsons is also an indication of his faunlike nature. After all, according to Cleanth Brooks, when writing about “Negroes,” Faulkner tended to take the direction of “black mystique” (Brooks, 97). Black people in Faulkner novels certainly can be comically portrayed, but they also possess a “spiritual maturity,” often absent in white characters. There is also a strong relationship between black characters and the land. Benjy seems to have a much closer relationship to Dilsey and T.P., for instance, than to his own mother and father. This further supports the idea of him as a faun. Caddy and Quentin also have strong relationships with black characters and, incidentally, also have faunlike qualities.
Benjy and Quentin, for whatever reason, are both drawn to fire. Benjy describes fire as “bright, smooth shapes.” Quentin sees the “clean flame” as something he and Caddy can seek refuge behind. He dreams of taking Caddy and Benjy to hell and the “clean flame.” I am very curious as to why these characters find fire so appealing.
One stark difference between Benjy and Quentin are their respective perceptions of time. For Benjy, Faulkner’s quote about the past never being past holds very true. He is unaware of time: its passage, its order, its existence. Quentin, on the other hand, is obsessed with time – he says, when he cannot see his watch, “And so as soon as I knew I couldn’t see it, I began to wonder what time it was.” The first paragraph of Quentin’s part is an extremely important quote about the nature of time in this novel:
“…I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire…I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.”
This quote ties in very strongly to the Macbeth quote, from which Faulkner took the novel’s title. With Quentin there is certainly a strong awareness of Time and the futility of a life “signifying nothing.”The theme is continued throughout part two, up until his suicide.
Although Benjy is the idiot character, it is the intelligent Quentin, with his existential turmoil (fed to him by his father) and old-fashioned ideals (protection of the female), who ultimately kills himself. Is Benjy simply in a happy ignorance? Or is he really, like Roskus says, able to know when his “time” will come? The latter idea is interesting, considering Benjy is seemingly unaware of time. He does hear “the clock between [his] voice,” but there is no indication that he has any understanding of the purpose of the clock. Maybe it is his timelessness which makes him so wise. One almost gets the impression that Benjy will never die.
Another thing I want to point out is the shift in the novel. As in Soldiers’ Pay, there seems to be a time of idealism and a time of corruption. In Benjy’s youth, there is a big field in which he can romp, Caddy is present, T.P. is a friendlier helper, and his father is benevolent, if deeply troubled. In his older age, the field is gone, Caddy is gone and replaced by the bratty female Quentin, Luster is a cranky, (understandably) unwilling caretaker, and spiteful Jason is head of the house. Also, like the character of Mahon, Benjy is a character who cannot function in normal society. True, he is taken in by the black characters, who belong to a sort of wise, earthy subculture. Personally, I think he is too good for this world. Maybe Faulkner does find an unchronological, unselfconscious, follow-your-nose lifestyle ideal. But he certainly does not find it practical.
Benjy’s intuition can be seen in a conversation between Dilsey and Roskus: “‘He know a lot more than folks thinks.’ Roskus said. ‘He knowed they time was coming, like that pointer done. He could tell you when hism coming, if he could talk. Or yours. Or mine.’”
In part two, Quentin reflects on Dilsey saying of Benjy: “He smelt hit.” Smell, as a means of acquiring knowledge, is certainly more animalistic than human.
Benjy lacks self-consciousness, another trait of the faun. Often the reader learns of his actions through reactions from other characters. We often learn he is moaning, for instance, when he is told to “hush.” He is also very in tune with nature, finding comfort in such things as flowers, lightning bugs, and other natural objects. Caddy, whom he loves, smells like grass. Not only that, but the reader gets the impression that the house is a dark place for Benjy, and the outside somehow light (“…we went out the door, out of the dark”).
Benjy’s close relationship to the black family working for the Compsons is also an indication of his faunlike nature. After all, according to Cleanth Brooks, when writing about “Negroes,” Faulkner tended to take the direction of “black mystique” (Brooks, 97). Black people in Faulkner novels certainly can be comically portrayed, but they also possess a “spiritual maturity,” often absent in white characters. There is also a strong relationship between black characters and the land. Benjy seems to have a much closer relationship to Dilsey and T.P., for instance, than to his own mother and father. This further supports the idea of him as a faun. Caddy and Quentin also have strong relationships with black characters and, incidentally, also have faunlike qualities.
Benjy and Quentin, for whatever reason, are both drawn to fire. Benjy describes fire as “bright, smooth shapes.” Quentin sees the “clean flame” as something he and Caddy can seek refuge behind. He dreams of taking Caddy and Benjy to hell and the “clean flame.” I am very curious as to why these characters find fire so appealing.
One stark difference between Benjy and Quentin are their respective perceptions of time. For Benjy, Faulkner’s quote about the past never being past holds very true. He is unaware of time: its passage, its order, its existence. Quentin, on the other hand, is obsessed with time – he says, when he cannot see his watch, “And so as soon as I knew I couldn’t see it, I began to wonder what time it was.” The first paragraph of Quentin’s part is an extremely important quote about the nature of time in this novel:
“…I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire…I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.”
This quote ties in very strongly to the Macbeth quote, from which Faulkner took the novel’s title. With Quentin there is certainly a strong awareness of Time and the futility of a life “signifying nothing.”The theme is continued throughout part two, up until his suicide.
Although Benjy is the idiot character, it is the intelligent Quentin, with his existential turmoil (fed to him by his father) and old-fashioned ideals (protection of the female), who ultimately kills himself. Is Benjy simply in a happy ignorance? Or is he really, like Roskus says, able to know when his “time” will come? The latter idea is interesting, considering Benjy is seemingly unaware of time. He does hear “the clock between [his] voice,” but there is no indication that he has any understanding of the purpose of the clock. Maybe it is his timelessness which makes him so wise. One almost gets the impression that Benjy will never die.
Another thing I want to point out is the shift in the novel. As in Soldiers’ Pay, there seems to be a time of idealism and a time of corruption. In Benjy’s youth, there is a big field in which he can romp, Caddy is present, T.P. is a friendlier helper, and his father is benevolent, if deeply troubled. In his older age, the field is gone, Caddy is gone and replaced by the bratty female Quentin, Luster is a cranky, (understandably) unwilling caretaker, and spiteful Jason is head of the house. Also, like the character of Mahon, Benjy is a character who cannot function in normal society. True, he is taken in by the black characters, who belong to a sort of wise, earthy subculture. Personally, I think he is too good for this world. Maybe Faulkner does find an unchronological, unselfconscious, follow-your-nose lifestyle ideal. But he certainly does not find it practical.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Mosquitoes- Insane Reality
William Faulkner's second novel Mosquitoes is a pretty well written novel that completely captured the insane demeanor of the socially elite. The characters went about the streets of the New Orleans French Quarter with a sense of pomp and arrogance, but were hiding a treacherous insecurity that others were unaware of. Mr Talliaferro and Mrs. Maurier best exemplify the high stature of elite figures who possessed great insecurity . Both were infatuated with the sense of youth even though they were well into their adulthood. The characters were ridiculous in nature and bound by the duties of their status. Even though they were all financially stable, they seemed to be unable to live their lives freely. It would be assumed that with wealth comes peace of mind, but this is not so with the characters in Mosquitoes. I believe the most freely living characters were Gordon, though he was bound by his own arrogance, and Mrs. Maurier's niece Patricia who rejected her aunt's Southern belle frivolity.
Mr. Gordon is a very interesting character in that he completely rejects the absurdness of the other characters. Even though he's completely overwhelmed in the work of his hands, he doesn't take time out to bother in the business of nonsense. This bothered Mrs. Maurier when he rejected her invitation to the yacht trip. Patricia seemed to be the only character in the novel to grab Gordon's attention away from his art and into who she was. Upon meeting her, he was pulled from his one sided view of life, which only included himself and his art, to Patricia's point of view. These two characters seemed to be in a world of their own apart from the other characters.
Mr. Talliaferro represents the adult William Faulkner especially in his keen eye for taste and somewhat ambiguous sexual preference. He describes himself as being comfortable with women's clothing and possessions. This is a trait most heterosexual men do not possess. Despite Mr. Talliaferro's autobiographical persona, he represents the awkwardness of many artistic figures. He completely embodies that awkwardness Faulkner was trying to display through his characters.
All of the characters make up the insane reality that the story is based upon. Mrs. Maurier lived her life in the lap of luxury supporting the talents of the artists around her while the artists enjoyed the deep thought their mental faculties allowed them. They were often engaging in deep intellectual conversations while forming their upcoming projects. This is quite different from the normal day-to-day living many other New Orleanians were engaged in during their time. It most likely is not normal for a group of adults to randomly decide to take a yachting trip together. This very behavior was what Faulkner most likely wanted his readers to recognize.
-Kristen Francis
Mr. Gordon is a very interesting character in that he completely rejects the absurdness of the other characters. Even though he's completely overwhelmed in the work of his hands, he doesn't take time out to bother in the business of nonsense. This bothered Mrs. Maurier when he rejected her invitation to the yacht trip. Patricia seemed to be the only character in the novel to grab Gordon's attention away from his art and into who she was. Upon meeting her, he was pulled from his one sided view of life, which only included himself and his art, to Patricia's point of view. These two characters seemed to be in a world of their own apart from the other characters.
Mr. Talliaferro represents the adult William Faulkner especially in his keen eye for taste and somewhat ambiguous sexual preference. He describes himself as being comfortable with women's clothing and possessions. This is a trait most heterosexual men do not possess. Despite Mr. Talliaferro's autobiographical persona, he represents the awkwardness of many artistic figures. He completely embodies that awkwardness Faulkner was trying to display through his characters.
All of the characters make up the insane reality that the story is based upon. Mrs. Maurier lived her life in the lap of luxury supporting the talents of the artists around her while the artists enjoyed the deep thought their mental faculties allowed them. They were often engaging in deep intellectual conversations while forming their upcoming projects. This is quite different from the normal day-to-day living many other New Orleanians were engaged in during their time. It most likely is not normal for a group of adults to randomly decide to take a yachting trip together. This very behavior was what Faulkner most likely wanted his readers to recognize.
-Kristen Francis
Mr. Talliaferro
"Desire with Mr. Talliaferro had long since become an unfulfilled habit requiring no longer any particular object at all."
Faulkner's talent for creating awkward, grotesque characters who are just simply embarassing to observe (i.e., Januarius Jones) seems to only be strengthening in Mosquitoes. Mr. Talliaferro seems a strong candidate for the grotesques in the novel thus far: so utterly concerned with sexuality, outward appearances, and "art," yet at an utter loss as to how to function as a person, Mr. Talliaferro seems to go through many arduous processes (making friends with artists, creating a huge fuss out of carrying a milk bottle, etc.) without any idea of why he does so. I think his presumed name itself is an interesting sign of his futile attempts at being some kind of cultured gentleman. He seems so eager to escape his obscure agrarian roots in Alabama, yet in Italian, "talli" means something along the lines of "tiller," and "ferro" typically indicates chains, rods, or horseshoes made of iron. Thus he ends up changing his common name of "Tarver" to something that is even more closely associated with farming and labor. Faulkner's interest in languages (remember he took French and Spanish for that one semester in college) seems to indicate he had a good idea of the joke he was playing on this luckless character. That and the fact that, as we saw in class last week, when it comes to Faulkner, there is always a reason for everything.
As a candidate for the grotesque, however, it's important that Talliaferro not only be repugnant, but also manage to invoke some pity or sympathy from the reader. Some may not agree, but I found myself feeling quite sorry for him. He's like an overgrown child, running around trying to fit in with all sorts of people, but forgetting to actually have a personality himself. This shows up quite early in our introduction to him, as he hangs around the sculptor Gordon and wishes to himself that he had acquired the "habit of masturbation" when he was younger so as to be more pleasing to his "artistic acquaintances." He is easily bullied by the silly, simpering Mrs. Maurier, completely ignored by her niece Patricia, and made the butt of Fairchild's jokes. Nobody takes poor Mr. Talliaferro seriously. Even Mrs. Maurier, the collector of men, doesn't seem to count him among her most interesting acquaintances.
It doesn't seem to be much of stretch to equate Talliaferro with the eager, hapless Faulkner. The introduction of the novel suggests that the character of Fairchild was a satirical portrait of the writer Sherwood Andersen, and the way Talliaferro trips over himself at dinner for a chance to speak with Fairchild is strongly reminiscent of the young Faulkner planting himself outside Pontalba Apartments in Jackson Square to wait for Andersen to come out. While, as in Soldiers' Pay, the characters of Mosquitoes seem to be a composite representation of Faulkner, these characters differ in that Faulkner seems to be having a good time with them. It's almost as if he had learned to lighten up since his last novel, with all its cumbersome symbolism and "dying gods," and live it up a little. I enjoyed reading this prologue because sometimes it's nice to read an author who seems willing to laugh at himself.
Faulkner's talent for creating awkward, grotesque characters who are just simply embarassing to observe (i.e., Januarius Jones) seems to only be strengthening in Mosquitoes. Mr. Talliaferro seems a strong candidate for the grotesques in the novel thus far: so utterly concerned with sexuality, outward appearances, and "art," yet at an utter loss as to how to function as a person, Mr. Talliaferro seems to go through many arduous processes (making friends with artists, creating a huge fuss out of carrying a milk bottle, etc.) without any idea of why he does so. I think his presumed name itself is an interesting sign of his futile attempts at being some kind of cultured gentleman. He seems so eager to escape his obscure agrarian roots in Alabama, yet in Italian, "talli" means something along the lines of "tiller," and "ferro" typically indicates chains, rods, or horseshoes made of iron. Thus he ends up changing his common name of "Tarver" to something that is even more closely associated with farming and labor. Faulkner's interest in languages (remember he took French and Spanish for that one semester in college) seems to indicate he had a good idea of the joke he was playing on this luckless character. That and the fact that, as we saw in class last week, when it comes to Faulkner, there is always a reason for everything.
As a candidate for the grotesque, however, it's important that Talliaferro not only be repugnant, but also manage to invoke some pity or sympathy from the reader. Some may not agree, but I found myself feeling quite sorry for him. He's like an overgrown child, running around trying to fit in with all sorts of people, but forgetting to actually have a personality himself. This shows up quite early in our introduction to him, as he hangs around the sculptor Gordon and wishes to himself that he had acquired the "habit of masturbation" when he was younger so as to be more pleasing to his "artistic acquaintances." He is easily bullied by the silly, simpering Mrs. Maurier, completely ignored by her niece Patricia, and made the butt of Fairchild's jokes. Nobody takes poor Mr. Talliaferro seriously. Even Mrs. Maurier, the collector of men, doesn't seem to count him among her most interesting acquaintances.
It doesn't seem to be much of stretch to equate Talliaferro with the eager, hapless Faulkner. The introduction of the novel suggests that the character of Fairchild was a satirical portrait of the writer Sherwood Andersen, and the way Talliaferro trips over himself at dinner for a chance to speak with Fairchild is strongly reminiscent of the young Faulkner planting himself outside Pontalba Apartments in Jackson Square to wait for Andersen to come out. While, as in Soldiers' Pay, the characters of Mosquitoes seem to be a composite representation of Faulkner, these characters differ in that Faulkner seems to be having a good time with them. It's almost as if he had learned to lighten up since his last novel, with all its cumbersome symbolism and "dying gods," and live it up a little. I enjoyed reading this prologue because sometimes it's nice to read an author who seems willing to laugh at himself.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Mosquitoes - Youth v Old
There were so many artist-types wandering the city streets, engaging in critical discussions on the major institutions – I honestly had to remind myself a couple of times that I was not reading “Another Country” or “Giovanni’s Room.” And of course Gordon’s appreciation of a male physique on a female plane just made it all the more James Baldwin-esque.
But I am pretty sure the similarity between a James Baldwin novel written in the 60s and this prologue, written in the 20s, is totally irrelevant. It is only my own lack of exposure to the bohemian lifestyle that makes me see the link at all. In fact, come to think of it, Margaret Atwood’s “Cat’s Eye” involves characters immersed in the artist’s lifestyle, and obviously Maugham wrote of such things. Come to think of it, a lot of authors covered this kind of lifestyle in their writing.
I guess my point (for I’m just going to go ahead and pretend I have one) is that this is not something I would have expected William Faulkner to write. I am pretty sure I feel this way because it is so “urban.” New Orleans is no backwater town. But, of course, Mrs. Maurier’s niece is still compared to a poplar. Gordon is a hawk.
Which brings me to the real point of my response: youth versus old age. Or, at least, the coming of old age.
I feel that what Faulkner wishes to convey about youth in this prologue is so complex that it would be too difficult to attempt to explain (if, indeed, I even fully understood it – I don’t) at midnight. And I’ve already wasted so many words on irrelevant nonsense. But I will do my best.
The prologue is introduced with a very poetic explanation of what I interpreted to be a description of mosquitoes. In the spring, when they first appear, the mosquitoes are young, fragile enough to easily kill. But, by August, when they are fat with blood, they become “cunning” and “lustful” as they make their way “toward the moon of decay and death.” A life cycle is therefore being presented.
This can be tied in very easily to our characters.
“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. But Mr. Talliaferro’s youth, or lack of it, troubled him no longer. Thank God.”
When discussing “Soldiers’ Pay,” the idea of beauty as a reminder of decay was presented. In the above quote from “Mosquitoes,” Spring seems to be cruel because of its very wantonness – that is, its frolicsome and youthful nature. In the case of Mr. Talliaferro, wantonness would be depressing because he himself is no longer young. But, now that Spring is over, his “youth, or lack of it, troubled him no longer.” In fact, we find him in August, feeling in good spirits. This quote immediately ties the reader into the description previous to the prologue. Because Mr. Talliaferro thrives on August, it would appear that he is somehow related to the near-death, vengeful version of the mosquito.
Mrs. Maurier is another aged character, and her recognition of the disparity between her own age and the youth of her daughter and Gordon is made very clear by Faulkner: “Mrs. Maurier sighed, feeling her age, the imminence of dark and death. She seemed not only unable to get new men any more, but to hold to the old ones, even…Mr. Talliaferro, too…age, age…”
Interestingly enough, when Mr. Talliaferro and Mrs. Maurier are around Gordon, they feel the sting of the mosquitoes.
As for youth, Gordon’s statue of a young, flat-chested virgin is revered by Mrs. Maurier’s niece, as well as by Mr. Talliaferro, who says: “Do you see what he has caught? Do you see? The spirit of youth, of something fine and hard and clean in the world; something we all desire until our mouths are stopped with dust.” And Gordon and the niece themselves possess some of the qualities of Faulkner’s faun: unselfconsciousness, comparisons to things of the natural world – hawks and poplars, for example. Clearly, youth is presented as the ideal, what is hungered for. In a way, it would seem the mosquitoes should be munching on the younguns. But obviously Faulkner has his reasons.
And as for the bohemian lifestyle group versus the upper-class “scorn-for-milk-bottles” group? I am assuming this is showing a similar contrast as that between youth and old age. But, at the end of the prologue, the author, Fairchild, does get attacked by mosquitoes. So what does that mean?
I am very excited to discuss this prologue in class. I can’t wait to find out all of the hidden, clever layers I did not understand.
But I am pretty sure the similarity between a James Baldwin novel written in the 60s and this prologue, written in the 20s, is totally irrelevant. It is only my own lack of exposure to the bohemian lifestyle that makes me see the link at all. In fact, come to think of it, Margaret Atwood’s “Cat’s Eye” involves characters immersed in the artist’s lifestyle, and obviously Maugham wrote of such things. Come to think of it, a lot of authors covered this kind of lifestyle in their writing.
I guess my point (for I’m just going to go ahead and pretend I have one) is that this is not something I would have expected William Faulkner to write. I am pretty sure I feel this way because it is so “urban.” New Orleans is no backwater town. But, of course, Mrs. Maurier’s niece is still compared to a poplar. Gordon is a hawk.
Which brings me to the real point of my response: youth versus old age. Or, at least, the coming of old age.
I feel that what Faulkner wishes to convey about youth in this prologue is so complex that it would be too difficult to attempt to explain (if, indeed, I even fully understood it – I don’t) at midnight. And I’ve already wasted so many words on irrelevant nonsense. But I will do my best.
The prologue is introduced with a very poetic explanation of what I interpreted to be a description of mosquitoes. In the spring, when they first appear, the mosquitoes are young, fragile enough to easily kill. But, by August, when they are fat with blood, they become “cunning” and “lustful” as they make their way “toward the moon of decay and death.” A life cycle is therefore being presented.
This can be tied in very easily to our characters.
“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. But Mr. Talliaferro’s youth, or lack of it, troubled him no longer. Thank God.”
When discussing “Soldiers’ Pay,” the idea of beauty as a reminder of decay was presented. In the above quote from “Mosquitoes,” Spring seems to be cruel because of its very wantonness – that is, its frolicsome and youthful nature. In the case of Mr. Talliaferro, wantonness would be depressing because he himself is no longer young. But, now that Spring is over, his “youth, or lack of it, troubled him no longer.” In fact, we find him in August, feeling in good spirits. This quote immediately ties the reader into the description previous to the prologue. Because Mr. Talliaferro thrives on August, it would appear that he is somehow related to the near-death, vengeful version of the mosquito.
Mrs. Maurier is another aged character, and her recognition of the disparity between her own age and the youth of her daughter and Gordon is made very clear by Faulkner: “Mrs. Maurier sighed, feeling her age, the imminence of dark and death. She seemed not only unable to get new men any more, but to hold to the old ones, even…Mr. Talliaferro, too…age, age…”
Interestingly enough, when Mr. Talliaferro and Mrs. Maurier are around Gordon, they feel the sting of the mosquitoes.
As for youth, Gordon’s statue of a young, flat-chested virgin is revered by Mrs. Maurier’s niece, as well as by Mr. Talliaferro, who says: “Do you see what he has caught? Do you see? The spirit of youth, of something fine and hard and clean in the world; something we all desire until our mouths are stopped with dust.” And Gordon and the niece themselves possess some of the qualities of Faulkner’s faun: unselfconsciousness, comparisons to things of the natural world – hawks and poplars, for example. Clearly, youth is presented as the ideal, what is hungered for. In a way, it would seem the mosquitoes should be munching on the younguns. But obviously Faulkner has his reasons.
And as for the bohemian lifestyle group versus the upper-class “scorn-for-milk-bottles” group? I am assuming this is showing a similar contrast as that between youth and old age. But, at the end of the prologue, the author, Fairchild, does get attacked by mosquitoes. So what does that mean?
I am very excited to discuss this prologue in class. I can’t wait to find out all of the hidden, clever layers I did not understand.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Mosquitoes Didn't Suck
I would first like to call attention to my nuanced, incredibly clever post title. Layers and layers of meaning.
Now, to the prologue. I've heard it said that an author is a composite of his characters. Or maybe I just made that up moments ago; at any rate, doesn't it sound about right? Certainly, in the case of Mosquitoes, it holds up based on what I've read thus far. As I have discerned from our biographical recapitulation, Faulkner seems to be equal parts Gordon, Talliaferro, and Fairchild; Fairchild, of course, because he is an author. As the Semitic gentleman (Julius) states, there is - or was - a certain conception that writers are not tantamount to artists. Faulkner is also Gordon, then, because he seems to persist in his career at transcending the glass ceiling separating writers from artists. We have observed this less artfully (pun probably intended) in Faulkner's early published poetry, and we observe it more subtly in this prologue; Fairchild, due in part to his grasp and command of language, is quite personable but still knows his way around self-important busybodies like Hooper. In contrast, Gordon is perceptibly exasperated and aloof even among his flatterers; observe the drop in temperature from the street exchange between Talliaferro and Mrs. Maurier to their ensuing brief visit with Gordon in his studio.
Then, of course, there is Talliaferro. In the brief exposition provided, the main gist seems to be that he prefers to obscure his Alabama roots, unremarkable life, and even his backwoods surname, in the interest of perpetuating the popular perception of his personality. In this light, the fact that Patricia calls him Tarver as they part - a name she should have no way of knowing - is quite interesting; hopefully it is explained later. Talliaferro (nee Tarver) seems rather effeminate; his preoccupation with his clothing, his obsequiousness and deference, even his assumption of a new last name (traditionally the lot of a newly married woman). Sort of Faulkneresque, I think, both in his dandyhood and his desire to define himself without actually having done much.
I'll leave it to someone else to comment about Gordon v. Patricia. Can't wait to get them on a boat together. Mmm, mmm, mmm.
Lastly, let's talk about everyone itching, slapping, and scratching. Hey, must be the titular mosquitoes. They are pervasive, and they chiefly strike at Talliaferro, near the beginning of the prologue, and at Patricia, near its end. Whether their choice of victim is anything other than coincidence remains to be seen, but I will comment that the character most reminiscent of a mosquito thus far is Mrs. Maurier. She is, after all, a mindless thing that flits about vapidly and draws vitality from the lives of others; this is true of her furtive need to understand art (or appear to) and also of her need to surround herself with men. As her frank assessment of Talliaferro reveals, any man will do. Will this turn out to be a critique of the relationship between artist, patron, and appreciator, likening one of these groups to a parasitic insect? Stay tuned.
Now, to the prologue. I've heard it said that an author is a composite of his characters. Or maybe I just made that up moments ago; at any rate, doesn't it sound about right? Certainly, in the case of Mosquitoes, it holds up based on what I've read thus far. As I have discerned from our biographical recapitulation, Faulkner seems to be equal parts Gordon, Talliaferro, and Fairchild; Fairchild, of course, because he is an author. As the Semitic gentleman (Julius) states, there is - or was - a certain conception that writers are not tantamount to artists. Faulkner is also Gordon, then, because he seems to persist in his career at transcending the glass ceiling separating writers from artists. We have observed this less artfully (pun probably intended) in Faulkner's early published poetry, and we observe it more subtly in this prologue; Fairchild, due in part to his grasp and command of language, is quite personable but still knows his way around self-important busybodies like Hooper. In contrast, Gordon is perceptibly exasperated and aloof even among his flatterers; observe the drop in temperature from the street exchange between Talliaferro and Mrs. Maurier to their ensuing brief visit with Gordon in his studio.
Then, of course, there is Talliaferro. In the brief exposition provided, the main gist seems to be that he prefers to obscure his Alabama roots, unremarkable life, and even his backwoods surname, in the interest of perpetuating the popular perception of his personality. In this light, the fact that Patricia calls him Tarver as they part - a name she should have no way of knowing - is quite interesting; hopefully it is explained later. Talliaferro (nee Tarver) seems rather effeminate; his preoccupation with his clothing, his obsequiousness and deference, even his assumption of a new last name (traditionally the lot of a newly married woman). Sort of Faulkneresque, I think, both in his dandyhood and his desire to define himself without actually having done much.
I'll leave it to someone else to comment about Gordon v. Patricia. Can't wait to get them on a boat together. Mmm, mmm, mmm.
Lastly, let's talk about everyone itching, slapping, and scratching. Hey, must be the titular mosquitoes. They are pervasive, and they chiefly strike at Talliaferro, near the beginning of the prologue, and at Patricia, near its end. Whether their choice of victim is anything other than coincidence remains to be seen, but I will comment that the character most reminiscent of a mosquito thus far is Mrs. Maurier. She is, after all, a mindless thing that flits about vapidly and draws vitality from the lives of others; this is true of her furtive need to understand art (or appear to) and also of her need to surround herself with men. As her frank assessment of Talliaferro reveals, any man will do. Will this turn out to be a critique of the relationship between artist, patron, and appreciator, likening one of these groups to a parasitic insect? Stay tuned.
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