William Faulkner

Barn Burning (BB)
In what is sure to be my most disappointing post ever, I illustrate the danger of lukewarmness. I neither hated this story nor loved it. At least with James I could go on about hating him. The only thing I can offer Faulkner is that he is obviously too good for me.

Being a reader of such low estate, I realize only a vague sense of genius lurking in the background. Overall, Faulkner's effect on me is aseptic, though the the story is tragic, and tussles sensibility. There is a pang there, the same one that I feel when I've chanced to watch accidental moments of infants squirming in laps of foul-mouthed mothers as they argue paternity on talk shows.

But BB possesses the very same pathology that drives me away, hedges a wall of protection around my passion, dulls it, dries it. BB passes into history being interesting but not fun.

I tip my hat to Faulkner's emptiness and nothing and move on.

Visit Faulkner's grave.