Please, convince me to buy this book. I have heard that Faulkner is a great writer and prose stylist, but from what I read myself in quick glimpses of the book his prose is quite poor (there is also the fact that Nabokov, a prose-poet himself, didn’t like Faulkner).
Can you people post some examples of the most beautiful and poetic moments of this book?
>reading for purple prose
>reading only for prose
Also, Faulkner is quite the good prosist. I've only read As I Lay Dying and some of his short stories, but I can assure you that his prose flows well and has highly poetic passages. If what you are looking for is prose similar to that of Nabokov's, then read Nabokov, not Faulkner. If you read Faulkner, you're getting some good ol' Faulknerian prose.
well, the issue is that the passages should really be read as a whole. quentin's chapter is some of faulkner's best writing, undoubtedly. but desu senpai absalom, absalom! is even stronger as far as prose is concerned i think.
The first chapter was pretty experimental at the time, as it is highly nonlinear and told through the eyes of a mentally retarded person.
The second chapter is almost as experimental, but definitely better, as it follows the stream of conscious of a man (back when stream of conscious was pretty new) whose mind is crumbling as the chapter goes on.
Really great stuff. Honestly this book doesn't get talked about enough here.
“...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 of 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.”
Nabokov didn't like anybody.
If you want that kind of all cylinders firing maximalist prose, then read Absalom, Absalom! If you want a novel that pushes the form to its limits then read The Sound and the Fury.
Either way you're going to get some insanely good literature. He is without a doubt my favorite writer of all time.
from asbalom, absalom!
But the legend of Sutpen’s wild negroes was not to begin at once, because the wagon went on as though even the wood and iron which composed it, as well as the mules which drew it, had become imbued by sheer association with him with that quality of gaunt and tireless driving, that conviction for haste and of fleeing time; later Sutpen told Quentin’s grandfather that on that afternoon when the wagon passed through Jefferson they had been without food since the previous night and that he was trying to reach Sutpen’s Hundred and the river bottom to try to kill a deer before dark, so he and the architect and the negroes would not have to spend another night without food. So the legend of the wild men came gradually back to town, brought by the men who would ride out to watch what was going on, who began to tell how Sutpen would take stand beside a game trail with the pistols and send the negroes in to drive the swamp like a pack of hounds; it was they who told how during that first summer and fall the negroes did not even have (or did not use) blankets to sleep in, even before the coon-hunter Akers claimed to have walked one of them out of the absolute mud like a sleeping alligator and screamed just in time. The negroes could speak no English yet and doubtless there were more than Akers who did not know that the language in which they and Sutpen communicated was a sort of French and not some dark and fatal tongue of their own.
OP here. I bought the book. I think I'll like it.
I read that Faulkner was a very brave artist, for he began his career as a mediocre poet and came to his 30's with nothing to show, yet he continued moving forward and eventually became one of the most renowned novelists of the twentieth century.
I admire people who know how to tolerate failure.
You know that's not true, friend: he liked Joyce, Proust, Gogol, Dickens, Borges, Tenysson, Robert Browning, Chekhov, Keats, Rimbaud and many others.
And he believed (and in this I agree with him entirely) that Shakespeare and Tolstoy were the two greatest writers of all time.
Nabokov was often arrogant and aggressive and had no respect for other authors (and respect is always important, even if you do not appreciate the work of others - to exposed yourself to the world with your art is never easy, everyone who does that diserves respect), but I believe that his critical opinions on aesthetics were very well-founded.
I appreciate, above all, his courage to continue employing metaphors and similes in his work even in an era that valued above all the dry, arid and journalistic prose in fiction: he had no fear of being considered out-of-fashion or pretentious.
Never before had I read a like this. What Faulkner did with the narration of Benjy was crazy to me. I honesty didn't know what I was reading. All in all, the book is quite a challenge and you will definitely will have to re-read it again sometime. I'm waiting a bit before my next read to really let it settle.
I do not know exactly what the quote was, but he speaks in "Speak, Memory" that one of his favorite poetic quotes about butterflies is in a poem by Tenysson, and elsewhere he speaks of his "lordly music".
I can not quote the excerpts with precision because I cant find my copy of "Speak, Memory": I think I forgot the book in my parents' house.
my favourite thing ever, from As I Lay Dying:
>When Jewel can almost touch him, the horse stands on his hind legs and slashes down at Jewel. Then Jewel is enclosed by a glittering maze of hooves as by an illusion of wings; among them, beneath the up-reared chest, he moves with the flashing limberness of a snake. For an instant before the jerk comes onto his arms he sees his whole body earth-free, horizontal, whipping snake-umber, until he finds the horse's nostrils and touches earth again. Then they are rigid, motionless, terrific, the horse back-thrust on stiffened, quivering legs, with lowered head; Jewel with dug heels, shutting off the horse's wind with one hand, with the other patting the horse's neck in short strokes myriad and caressing, cursing the horse with obscene ferocity.
>They stand in rigid terrific hiatus, the horse trembling and groaning.
>Then Jewel is on the horse's back. He flows upward in a stooping swirl like the lash of a whip, his body in midair shaped to the horse. For another moment the horse stands spraddled, with lowered head, before it bursts into motion. They descend the hill in a series of spine-jolting jumps, Jewel high, leech-like on the withers, to the fence where the horse bunches to a scuttering halt again.
i mean for a description of a guy getting on a horse, it's fucking something
>He flows upward in a stooping swirl like the lash of a whip
holy shit, that imagination, it's so graphic and perfect and unique and beautiful and true and literally no one else could write anything like this
Why are you being an autist?
>"ehm nabokov (the author who basicly trashtalked all other great authors with a few exceptions) said this and that and I quite like the taste of his ass
a) one of the great american writers
b) extremely popular and used a lot in literature classes
c) he received a fucking nobel prize in lit and although some debate it doesn't mean much now it sure as shit did back then, and no one gets a nobel prize in literature for writing in shitty prose you stupid fucktard
Get your head out of your ass