Summer Reading Reviews: Part Three

William Faulkner: The Sound and the Fury

I have to admit, I got a little gung-ho about Faulkner. After reading three short novels by him (Spotted Horses, Old Man, and The Bear), I went ahead and blew away a few more dollars at Powell's to get an almost-complete Classic Faulkner collection. For those of you unfamiliar with Portland, Powell's is a giant bookstore that sells used books for very low prices which is why, for less than $8, I managed to get myself The Sound and the Fury, As I Lay Dying, and Light in August. The Sound and the Fury was the first one that I got into, and boy did I get into it.

Let me preface the body of this review with a warning: make sure that, if you loan or buy this book, to get a copy with the Appendix at the front (my old Vintage edition has it). After Faulkner finished The Sound and the Fury, he wrote the Appendix, which is a more straightforward history of the characters, though it doesn't reveal too much about the actual narrative - it's more like how the menu describes the food but doesn't change how it tastes. Anyway, you're likely to be at a loss without it, so pick it up; if nothing else, it's in The Portable Faulkner.
The Sound and the Fury is a family drama, at its core: Faulkner's narrative is attached to the downfall of the Compsons, a well-bred and formerly wealthy family living in Mississippi. The last generation of Compsons are the main characters and narrators: the oldest, Quentin, then his brothers Jason and Benjamin, and finally the one girl in the family, Caddy. The novel is divided into four sections and with the exception of the final one, each is narrated by a different brother: first Benjamin, then Quentin, and finally Jason.

I should tell you right now that just typing that paragraph took me forever to do. The novel's weight is not in the story that it is telling, but of the men Faulkner creates to tell it. Benjamin, called "Benjy", is the youngest and also mentally challenged (what his exact condition is is never explained), and his narrative is the most well-written mentally challenged character I've ever read. Usually, novelists tend to either write such characters as being too dumb or too poetic; in the end they come off as either disrespectful or pretentious. With Benjy, Faulkner creates a silent man who, though not very intelligent, manages to convey the world that he sees in an understandable, real sort of way. For example, when Benjy talks about a door opening and closing, he says that "the room went away" or "the room came back". It is the narrative that would result if one could watch the world through the eyes of a child, but lacks any sort of cuteness or moments where Benjy is made superior to those around him, the whole "he has a gift of seeing the world in a beautiful way" thing. Anyway, Benjy's narrative focuses on the present, which for Benjy is April of 1928. He is in his 30s, walking along the outskirts of the golf course that used to be the field where he played when he was a child. Throughout the day, Benjy's memory flips back and forth through time, as he remembers playing with his sister, Caddy, who seems to be the only one who loves him. His memories are written with an undefinable tragedy, as the Appendix has already told us, Caddy was disgraced and left a bastard child (a young girl, also named Quentin) for her mother and Jason to raise, their father has died from Alchoholism, and Quentin has killed himself. Yet Benjy continues with little outward understanding of change - the servant that he is walking with is the last of many to take care of him - he is the silent witness to the family's demise. For those of you who aren't familiar with Stream of Consciousness technique, be forewarned: this section is a tough one. The best way to read stream of consciousness, though, is just to read it; and if you do, there's no doubt that you'll enjoy it.

The second section skips backwards eighteen years, to the day of Quentin's suicide in Boston. Quentin's narrative is less sensual than Benjy's, but is still stream-of-consciousness for the most part, most primarily in memory. Quentin, like Benjy, is pulled back into the past through memories of Caddy, who is getting married to cover her illegitimate pregnancy. Quentin, who has a chivalric sense of duty to his sister, tries to convince his father that he is the father of Caddy's child, hoping that he will be able to bear some of her disgrace and continue to protect her, but Quentin's father lectures him on the myth of virginity, on the place of men in society, and various other things that avoid the point Quentin is trying to make: that he loves his sister, and he will do anything to protect her and, if he cannot, then he will suffer and die for her.

Defeated and hating his life at Harvard, Quentin resolves to forsake his family and throw himself into the Charles River. The rest of his day is spent trying to do just that; yet he is constantly stopped by teachers and friends, and has a long and almost adorable adventure with a young immigrant girl, which leads to more distractions by friends, which almost completely derails Quentin's plans. Quentin's memory is mostly full of guilt over what has happened to his sister: his oath to protect her, his unsiccessful attempt to kill the father of her child, his hatred of her new husband. Quentin, like Benjy, seems to be suffering from silence: though he is not mute as his brother is, Quentin is silenced against speaking up for Caddy and protecting her, as he feels so obligated to do, and is driven unwillingly away from his family by guilt, since his stay at Harvard was bought with the sacrifice of his brother's field.

The third section, the final one told in first person, is from the perspective of Jason Compson. Jason, being the only person in the family who seems to have any sort of coherent thought, tells his story in strictly straightforward prose. His flashbacks are well-introduced, his memories have a beginning and an end. This section takes place around the same time as Benjy's, and rotates around a day where the circus comes into Jefferson, and Jason's aversion to it. Actually, Jason is averse to everything and everyone around him, he might be the cruellest character that I've read in a long time. This may not just be because of his character, but because his storytelling - so different from the fluid and passionate voice of Quentin or the simple sensualism of Benjy - is itself cold and emotionless, and offers no excuse, no sympathy. My deep dislike of Jason made the section hard to get through, but I would never say that it was poorly written. Like any good villain, you cringe, and you love it.

Finally, Faulkner steps back and offers a third person account of the Compsons, or at least what's left of them. Taking place around the same time as Jason and Benjy's section, this ultimate chapter follows Dilsy, the family's cook, through her day. The section goes quickly - really, all that needs to be said has been said - and serves as a fine bow atop the gift that Faulkner has so delicately and powerfully wrapped for us.

And then? You put the book down, you step away, and you feel uniquely satiated. The truth is, that was the hardest write-up of a book I've ever done. The Sound and the Fury is a powerful and poingant book, and any sort of summary is, if nothing else, ill-equipped to explain the story, and I probably made it sound boring and pointless. But trust me: read it. It's worth all the time you've got.