The Sound and the Fury

First of all, who reads Faulkner for fun? I figured if I managed to miss The Sound and the Fury during middle school, high school, and 4 years of a pseudo-English minor in college, then I was totally in the clear. The book certainly had a way of lurking out there, taunting me from its place on my theoretical Books I Should Probably Read shelf, nestled between Ulysses and Moby Dick. And I was pretty much happy to let it sit there forever, beckoning, but not too loudly.

Then my book club read The Road (no, not Oprah's book club, just a coincidence), which I found to be utterly devastating and brilliant in a way too emotional to pick apart/analyze at book club (and in fact, our meeting was oddly combative). The Road left me feeling stunned, in a "you know, that was probably one of the greatest artistic achievements I'll ever encounter" sort of way, which of course lead directly into "so where do I go from here?"

Enter Faulkner, who happened to get quite a bit of play during our meeting, some of the more intellectual members of the group depicting McCarthy's style as a perfect combination of high and low art, the former of which they felt was most evocative of Faulkner. I sat there sipping my wine, nodding learnedly, searching my brain for any leftover insights from As I Lay Dying. Nada.

I got back to DC looking for my next read and was coincidentally directed to the copy of Sound and Fury on my girlfriend's bookshelf. Alright, why not? Cut to two days later and I'm slogging through the first section like your average Washingtonian attempting to find a decent restaurant. This was easily one of the most challenging things I've attempted to read in a really, really, really long time. I could barely figure out who was who, what they were talking about, or why I was supposed to care. But I hung in there, reminding myself "it's the Great American novel, it's the Great American novel, it's the Great American novel." I tried reading at my desk, in bed, on the couch, on the bus, at Baja Fresh, on the train...nothing helped. And still, old Bill wouldn't throw me a bone. Who's white? Who's black? What year is this? What the hell is going on? Why are there 2 Quentins? Why is there Caddy the sister and Caddies who work on the golf course? Is this all just a case of showing off or...well, what?

I confess, dear reader, that during one particular dark moment, I sunk so low as to Google "sound and fury characters." It was not my proudest hour.

(What was my proudest hour, you ask? I'd say attending the NPR holiday party, being asked what I was currently reading, and fishing The Sound and the Fury out of my coat pocket. Now who's the intellectual, sucka?)

But I stuck with it, finally completing the opening Benjy section in a wide-eyed stupor of determination. At which point I put the book down, half expecting someone to wrap me in tin foil and hand me a Gatorade. Instead there was only my girlfriend, asking me why I was making so much noise. Somewhere along the line it dawned on me that, though very tough to read, this section is an outlandishly brilliant depiction of how the mind of a mentally-challenged person might function. The way that inanimate objects are perceived to move to and fro, just like people, and the way one's self is perceived in a sort of third-person way, as if lacking a sense of self...I mean, this is stuff is a real insight, on another level really, I think.

Then it was on to section 2, Quentin, whose non-retarded narration hit me like a foot massage after 4 hours of holiday shopping. There wasn't an italic for pages, and it finally, slowly, all started to come together. By the end of this section, I was riveted. (Off topic aside: this is the second difficult book that came together in my brain due in large part to sections being set in Boston, whose geography I know well from college. The first was Infinite Jest. If I were smarter, I could write something interesting on this phenomenon. No doubt.). Within a matter of pages, I went from not being able to even remotely tell the characters apart, to being actually interested in what was happening to them. That's no small feat. Give it a try some time. (Off topic aside #2: this also happens to represent the trump card of my In Defense of Sly Stallone argument. Go home and try writing Rocky in three days. Seriously, give it a go. You want Stallone and Faulkner? Only at Thirty is the New Sixty.).

It occurs to me suddenly that this post would have been much more satisfying had I waited until finishing the book. As it stands, I've just begun the 4th and final section, but I can tell you it's riveting and worth the initial effort. After the Road, I doubt I'd have been impressed by much. It's sort of like living in NYC, then moving to DC. Everything just feels unspectacular. But Faulkner's hanging in there. I'm really, really looking forward to picking up the book a little later, and think I might even forgo disc 3 of The Wire (season 4) in favor of reading, if you can believe such a thing. I'm really excited to get back to it...and, to paraphrase and old classic saying, "Those who can't write, read."

(Oh, might as well end with a little Woody Allen. Why not? "Those who can't do, teach. And those who can't teach, teach gym." Man, that's rich.)