Ring, ring.
Brooke: Hello?...Hello?
Caller: Hello? Is this Brooke?
Brooke: Yes it is...
Caller: Hey, Brooke, it's Joe Carrithers...
Brooke: Oh, hey Joe, how's it going?
Joe: Good, good, has anyone else called you yet?
Brooke: No, I haven't heard anything...(getting excited...)
Joe: Oh, good, that means I get to be the one to tell you--
Brooke: Oh, my God! Don't even tell me! I can't believe it!
Joe: Well, now, well now, you didn't win...
Brooke:...Oh?...okay.
Joe: But, you did recieve an honorable mention...it was between you and Jodi...they don't usually do an honorable mention...priveledge...honor...next year...tea.
Brooke: Oh, I'm so happy for her, she's brilliant, I hear...
Joe: Well I'm happy for you, and...okay, bye.
I'm considering it an honor to be honored. Plus I want to read some of this Jodi's work. It must be fabulous.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Sex and Violence
We talked about this in class.
(And by the way, who feels or why is it at FC that you need a black person to teach African American Literature? Isn't that just a furthering of the stereotypes that literature strives to bust through? Isn't that against the law? Let me at 'em. Blythe or Tamara could teach it in a heartbeat. Probably you too, Brandon. A black person now has no more claim to universal suffering...oh, I could go on and on. I mean, I hope no one calls on me to teach white literature because I'm so white and blue-eyed and blonde, for that would mean an awful lot of things, most of which upset me a great deal -- and so on and so forth and infinity. I mean, what about Flora Brown? Isn't she black? Don't tell me that she wouldn't teach it. But, whatever. The whole notion that a black person must teach African American literature is preposterous, and it leads me to passionate declarations about the evolution of prejudice which upon hearing most people roll eyes, sigh loudly, and send me away on errands. Philosophy and practicalilty -- the race line is alive and well and unsatisfactorily defined, my friends. Yes, let's put them in a ring blindfolded until they kill eachother, and we'll charge to view it. I should write a paper. Maybe I'll write on Invisible Man for my next one. The symbology is endless, and is no less relevant today. Which reminds me, I need to go see Black Snake Moan -- a young white woman and an old black man and the blues. I could have given birth to it myself. )
Back to the start, of sex and violence, in the beginning.... The first few chapters of the Bible, interpreting the dawn of man, sex, birth, fratracide, incest, and eventually half-human-half-gods who dominate women and men, and go around with so much force that God decides to wipe them out personally, for the sake of whole-humans. This is what Absalom is all about. These types of things. I just finished reading a passage where Bon is describing his feelings for his "octoroon" wife and subsequent child, who is what, one-sixteenth black? Is that white? Sigh. Faulkner's character speaks of women in three classes: ladies, courtesans, and slaves. When Henry calls Bon's mixed-race wife a whore, he gives a long speech about women. He speaks and I don't understand all of it -- can one ever, with Faulkner? but Bon seems to be referring to the belief that when the Puritans understood the Fall to be about lust and sex, then they began to serve lust and sex because whether to embrace it or decry it one serves it. "But though men, white men, created her, God did not stop it." White men created a black woman-slave, and God did not stop it, as he stopped the Nephilem from populating. And I can't tell if this is an expostualtion or what. "Not whores. Not even courteseans...but the only true chaste women...virgins, in America...true and faithful to that man until they die."
I'm trying to wrap my mind around it.
Violence. Henry trying to preserve his sister's virginity. Faulker discussing how the virginity of the Southern Lady is a farce? Something more to do with pride? Trying to get to the primordial, as he calls it, root of the feminine? Are any of the women an embodiment of all three castes, the lady, the courtesean, and the slave? Can any be? Maybe Rosa. I'm curious if the whole institution of slavery has more to do with white women than anything else. It's possible that white women have been the whole problem all along. Addie was the nexus of As I Lay Dying, and Judith seems to be the center of Absalom, as maybe Tamar was of that original power struggle.
It's white women, yo! And Addie, getting off on whipping the kids. The pleasure/pain principle. Stunning, how I can say so much without saying anything at all. And William, making me look up words like suzerainty, laughing at my attempts to comprehend how he superimposes all color while asking me to see the yellow and the green independently. Bastard (with love). A lesson in slavery? A lesson in calling a spade a spade, but from both sides, from both dimensions, because what is white in the world is also black, and the light needs the dark to exist, the light that the Invisible Man needs to make him black, black the absence of light and light the simultaneous imposition of color, and how we are all that which we are not, and you can only be neither with God, who is neither.
So Henry does not react well to this light, or this darkness, whichever you prefer. And even still, even still, what does the marriage to Judith mean to Bon? Is it the worldliness, the desire, the fashion, the wealth? There is something in the text about it being a reflection for him, Henry and Judith, a reflection of his worth or his purpose. I'm trying to be a good girl and not go back. How does Faulkner adopt so many different voices in the text? The tangents seem calculated, but they could have been stream of conciousness, because it seems like the story has to keep coming back to the voice of the character supposedly speaking. It's like when things start getting too Faulknery and he has to go, oh wait, there is a definite character speaking here. It's like the charaters go into a trance and then this omnicient persona takes over -- maybe that's okay, maybe that's what Faulkner was trying to acheive all along, the characters existing as just names and movements connected with and channeling this bigger picture, and the more they can lose themselves in the story, the better. That's what he was doing, anyway. He was trying to get this story out through characters, and somehow all the voices start to meld. It's actually pretty scary when I try to visualize it. It's like, ghostly, almost. He must have been a haunted man. Haunted by the South. When I think of "the South," I think of spanish moss and heat and humidity, and lemonade. It's such a farce. What I love is that Faulkner knew the South for the micro cosmos it truly was. I don't think that most people I know, especially on the West Coast, really think about the Civil War. It wasn't that long ago. I mean, people my age know all about life on Tatooine, but ask about the South, and they're like, huh? And I start to think that, you know, we talk about how the U.S. has never been attacked, but we attacked ourselves. We were mostly the same religion, many of us related, and we blew ourselves to bits. What a brave man to try to look inside that hideous growth on the spine of America.
(And by the way, who feels or why is it at FC that you need a black person to teach African American Literature? Isn't that just a furthering of the stereotypes that literature strives to bust through? Isn't that against the law? Let me at 'em. Blythe or Tamara could teach it in a heartbeat. Probably you too, Brandon. A black person now has no more claim to universal suffering...oh, I could go on and on. I mean, I hope no one calls on me to teach white literature because I'm so white and blue-eyed and blonde, for that would mean an awful lot of things, most of which upset me a great deal -- and so on and so forth and infinity. I mean, what about Flora Brown? Isn't she black? Don't tell me that she wouldn't teach it. But, whatever. The whole notion that a black person must teach African American literature is preposterous, and it leads me to passionate declarations about the evolution of prejudice which upon hearing most people roll eyes, sigh loudly, and send me away on errands. Philosophy and practicalilty -- the race line is alive and well and unsatisfactorily defined, my friends. Yes, let's put them in a ring blindfolded until they kill eachother, and we'll charge to view it. I should write a paper. Maybe I'll write on Invisible Man for my next one. The symbology is endless, and is no less relevant today. Which reminds me, I need to go see Black Snake Moan -- a young white woman and an old black man and the blues. I could have given birth to it myself. )
Back to the start, of sex and violence, in the beginning.... The first few chapters of the Bible, interpreting the dawn of man, sex, birth, fratracide, incest, and eventually half-human-half-gods who dominate women and men, and go around with so much force that God decides to wipe them out personally, for the sake of whole-humans. This is what Absalom is all about. These types of things. I just finished reading a passage where Bon is describing his feelings for his "octoroon" wife and subsequent child, who is what, one-sixteenth black? Is that white? Sigh. Faulkner's character speaks of women in three classes: ladies, courtesans, and slaves. When Henry calls Bon's mixed-race wife a whore, he gives a long speech about women. He speaks and I don't understand all of it -- can one ever, with Faulkner? but Bon seems to be referring to the belief that when the Puritans understood the Fall to be about lust and sex, then they began to serve lust and sex because whether to embrace it or decry it one serves it. "But though men, white men, created her, God did not stop it." White men created a black woman-slave, and God did not stop it, as he stopped the Nephilem from populating. And I can't tell if this is an expostualtion or what. "Not whores. Not even courteseans...but the only true chaste women...virgins, in America...true and faithful to that man until they die."
I'm trying to wrap my mind around it.
Violence. Henry trying to preserve his sister's virginity. Faulker discussing how the virginity of the Southern Lady is a farce? Something more to do with pride? Trying to get to the primordial, as he calls it, root of the feminine? Are any of the women an embodiment of all three castes, the lady, the courtesean, and the slave? Can any be? Maybe Rosa. I'm curious if the whole institution of slavery has more to do with white women than anything else. It's possible that white women have been the whole problem all along. Addie was the nexus of As I Lay Dying, and Judith seems to be the center of Absalom, as maybe Tamar was of that original power struggle.
It's white women, yo! And Addie, getting off on whipping the kids. The pleasure/pain principle. Stunning, how I can say so much without saying anything at all. And William, making me look up words like suzerainty, laughing at my attempts to comprehend how he superimposes all color while asking me to see the yellow and the green independently. Bastard (with love). A lesson in slavery? A lesson in calling a spade a spade, but from both sides, from both dimensions, because what is white in the world is also black, and the light needs the dark to exist, the light that the Invisible Man needs to make him black, black the absence of light and light the simultaneous imposition of color, and how we are all that which we are not, and you can only be neither with God, who is neither.
So Henry does not react well to this light, or this darkness, whichever you prefer. And even still, even still, what does the marriage to Judith mean to Bon? Is it the worldliness, the desire, the fashion, the wealth? There is something in the text about it being a reflection for him, Henry and Judith, a reflection of his worth or his purpose. I'm trying to be a good girl and not go back. How does Faulkner adopt so many different voices in the text? The tangents seem calculated, but they could have been stream of conciousness, because it seems like the story has to keep coming back to the voice of the character supposedly speaking. It's like when things start getting too Faulknery and he has to go, oh wait, there is a definite character speaking here. It's like the charaters go into a trance and then this omnicient persona takes over -- maybe that's okay, maybe that's what Faulkner was trying to acheive all along, the characters existing as just names and movements connected with and channeling this bigger picture, and the more they can lose themselves in the story, the better. That's what he was doing, anyway. He was trying to get this story out through characters, and somehow all the voices start to meld. It's actually pretty scary when I try to visualize it. It's like, ghostly, almost. He must have been a haunted man. Haunted by the South. When I think of "the South," I think of spanish moss and heat and humidity, and lemonade. It's such a farce. What I love is that Faulkner knew the South for the micro cosmos it truly was. I don't think that most people I know, especially on the West Coast, really think about the Civil War. It wasn't that long ago. I mean, people my age know all about life on Tatooine, but ask about the South, and they're like, huh? And I start to think that, you know, we talk about how the U.S. has never been attacked, but we attacked ourselves. We were mostly the same religion, many of us related, and we blew ourselves to bits. What a brave man to try to look inside that hideous growth on the spine of America.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Reading Ralph
This artist, Jeff Wall, is great. Check out more of his stuff. This one's for American Lit 222, suckas:
Genius.
Genius.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Sunday, March 25, 2007
The First Few Chapters
What's so terrible is that I should be reading Hard Times, by Dickens, but it's just so..Dickens. I used to think I was all about English Literature. Maybe it comes and goes in waves. We WILL be reading Mrs. Dalloway, one of my favorite novels, and things could get much more interesting then -- if 75% of the class weren't ding dongs, and that one girl didn't have that strange made up accent all Madonna-ish and talking down her nose. But I need them. They make me look good.
Absalom, Absalom!
Responses
From the get go, I'm like okay, Absalom. Wasn't he the usurper of David's throne and the incestuous beast that raped Tamara? Not particularly well liked, and I believe executed at some point. I need to go check it out in Kings to get my facts straight. Previously, on blog, I mentioned that the first chapter was so brilliant with its setting. I love the things that Faulkner wants us to notice, like the sparrows which "came now and then in random gusts" to the wistaria vine by the window. I like how Faulkner doesn't use proper, or usual, grammar for dialogue. I like this because the reader is not sure whether what is being said is in the storyteller's mind or coming out of their mouth. I believe that I have figured out that the text in italics is Quentin's voice, mostly.
Chapter 1
I know that the story is complicated enough -- Faulkner's signature tone and language, but to complicate it even further, he names these people confusing and similar names. No wonder he got them so confused when asked in conferences about his novels. Compson, Coldfield. I love the phrase "frock coat." (Is it a phrase? I'm not sure.) I want an entire wardrobe of frock coats.
Chapter 2
The story has this chaotic (!) time line. This is the second novel that I've read by Faulkner, and I keep having to go back and re-read. This is so his genius. And have I told you that I have this thing for red-heads? Not a thing like a thing with a sly look and a wink and a shimmy, but this thing that is not socially acceptable, Almost like a prejudice. I am, of course, willing to give any and everyone with red hair a chance, or even chances. But something about natural red heads makes me a little woozy. So, Sutpen (what kind of name is this? It's like an Egyptian Pharoah, or an anagram for sputen, which sounds like some kind of awful mucus.) is a red-head, and a red-beard, and pale-eyed, and blotchy. Already I'm like, eehhh. Mr. Compson is the narrator in the second chapter. I need to re-read to find the real slant of his storytelling -- so far it has only been that he paints Rosa as less imposing than she herself does with her strong and judgemental voice; when she speaks, she makes the story ten feet tall, but when Compson tells it, there is a macho slant on Sutpen that makes him almost herioc and Rosa, (and most of the women he discusses) small. I really like the imagery concerning Sutpen building Sutpen's Hundred. I love how Compson talks about it like it is a macho Eden with naked men building and camping and hunting and boxing. It's like the Bower of Blisse, by golly. Plus I love the French Architect. He reminds me of a Decemberists song and I love manacles. I say.
Chapter 3
I got into chapter 3, but fell asleep without finishing it, so I'll have to re-read it (suprise!).
This is going backward, chaps, and it's like learning, no, not a new language, but a new way of walking, or watching Memento, or thinking, really. I do tend to "think back" a great deal. So, it's more like trying to learn how someone else thinks back AND keep up. Faulker demands that you get immersed.
Absalom, Absalom!
Responses
From the get go, I'm like okay, Absalom. Wasn't he the usurper of David's throne and the incestuous beast that raped Tamara? Not particularly well liked, and I believe executed at some point. I need to go check it out in Kings to get my facts straight. Previously, on blog, I mentioned that the first chapter was so brilliant with its setting. I love the things that Faulkner wants us to notice, like the sparrows which "came now and then in random gusts" to the wistaria vine by the window. I like how Faulkner doesn't use proper, or usual, grammar for dialogue. I like this because the reader is not sure whether what is being said is in the storyteller's mind or coming out of their mouth. I believe that I have figured out that the text in italics is Quentin's voice, mostly.
Chapter 1
I know that the story is complicated enough -- Faulkner's signature tone and language, but to complicate it even further, he names these people confusing and similar names. No wonder he got them so confused when asked in conferences about his novels. Compson, Coldfield. I love the phrase "frock coat." (Is it a phrase? I'm not sure.) I want an entire wardrobe of frock coats.
Chapter 2
The story has this chaotic (!) time line. This is the second novel that I've read by Faulkner, and I keep having to go back and re-read. This is so his genius. And have I told you that I have this thing for red-heads? Not a thing like a thing with a sly look and a wink and a shimmy, but this thing that is not socially acceptable, Almost like a prejudice. I am, of course, willing to give any and everyone with red hair a chance, or even chances. But something about natural red heads makes me a little woozy. So, Sutpen (what kind of name is this? It's like an Egyptian Pharoah, or an anagram for sputen, which sounds like some kind of awful mucus.) is a red-head, and a red-beard, and pale-eyed, and blotchy. Already I'm like, eehhh. Mr. Compson is the narrator in the second chapter. I need to re-read to find the real slant of his storytelling -- so far it has only been that he paints Rosa as less imposing than she herself does with her strong and judgemental voice; when she speaks, she makes the story ten feet tall, but when Compson tells it, there is a macho slant on Sutpen that makes him almost herioc and Rosa, (and most of the women he discusses) small. I really like the imagery concerning Sutpen building Sutpen's Hundred. I love how Compson talks about it like it is a macho Eden with naked men building and camping and hunting and boxing. It's like the Bower of Blisse, by golly. Plus I love the French Architect. He reminds me of a Decemberists song and I love manacles. I say.
Chapter 3
I got into chapter 3, but fell asleep without finishing it, so I'll have to re-read it (suprise!).
This is going backward, chaps, and it's like learning, no, not a new language, but a new way of walking, or watching Memento, or thinking, really. I do tend to "think back" a great deal. So, it's more like trying to learn how someone else thinks back AND keep up. Faulker demands that you get immersed.
Oh Bill, you had to settle for outrageously good actor with middle-aged sex appeal.
And to think he was a bit part actor for so long.
This just in -- more to come on Abs, er...soon!
This just in -- more to come on Abs, er...soon!
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Having to log in...
It came to my attention that if you wanted to comment on the blog you would have to create an account, but hopefully I fixed that with the settings; so if you are so inclined you are now free to do so without worshiping at the feet of the google god.
Brooke
Brooke
Absalomi Sandwich, please.
Well, I know I was joking about the "patch" for myspace, but maybe this blog really is my patch. I woke up this morning, after especially confounded dreams, and thought -- I need to write. I need to write more about books. Then, I needed coffee, which they will never make a patch for and that I will never wear a patch due to, because coffee is an addiction that is tolerated by the loved ones and the law. But now I need to write, and I wrote a songaboutitwannahearithereitgoes.
I'm moving on from As I Lay Dying to Absalom, Absalom!
Reading the introduction, by a Harvey Breit (some buggar who got to talk and correspond with Hemingway, Faulkner, Porter, Stevens, and Williams...), I'm not sure what to expect. Breit goes on about Faulkner's style and language (I'm not sure there is more to literature than this?); he also tells that the narration changes, and instead of being chronological, the time frame is moving forward into the past. Blythe told me about that, how Faulkner was obsessed with the past. I don't fault him -- when I study history I get nutso, I feel like I'm reliving it, and it's horrifying at times. Then I start talking like Darl -- even though I know there is only now, I am living now is if it is then, and then I am not, and now I am, but when I am then I am not now and I am not. Maybe I'm getting closer to the heart of this writer after all.
The funny things when I started reading the first chapter --
"the long still hot weary dead September afternoon"
"dim hot airless room"
"talking in that grim haggard amazed voice"
"out of the biding and dreamy and victorious dust"
And that is just the first paragraph. It's like Faulkner is describing the setting -- a thing most writers do in the beginning, yet he is tuning you in to his frequency, and you have to read and re-read to get there. You have to be hot, and dusty, but you also have to be stiffled, and dry, and almost dying of exhaustion just seeing someone wearing "eternal black" for forty-two years -- like she had never taken those clothes off, not once. One. Paragraph.
I'm moving on from As I Lay Dying to Absalom, Absalom!
Reading the introduction, by a Harvey Breit (some buggar who got to talk and correspond with Hemingway, Faulkner, Porter, Stevens, and Williams...), I'm not sure what to expect. Breit goes on about Faulkner's style and language (I'm not sure there is more to literature than this?); he also tells that the narration changes, and instead of being chronological, the time frame is moving forward into the past. Blythe told me about that, how Faulkner was obsessed with the past. I don't fault him -- when I study history I get nutso, I feel like I'm reliving it, and it's horrifying at times. Then I start talking like Darl -- even though I know there is only now, I am living now is if it is then, and then I am not, and now I am, but when I am then I am not now and I am not. Maybe I'm getting closer to the heart of this writer after all.
The funny things when I started reading the first chapter --
"the long still hot weary dead September afternoon"
"dim hot airless room"
"talking in that grim haggard amazed voice"
"out of the biding and dreamy and victorious dust"
And that is just the first paragraph. It's like Faulkner is describing the setting -- a thing most writers do in the beginning, yet he is tuning you in to his frequency, and you have to read and re-read to get there. You have to be hot, and dusty, but you also have to be stiffled, and dry, and almost dying of exhaustion just seeing someone wearing "eternal black" for forty-two years -- like she had never taken those clothes off, not once. One. Paragraph.
Faulkner and Heminway -- The Great Modernest Coin
This is the first blog of my new blog.
You, you few who read my blogs on myspace, can now read these blogs at, appropriately, Brooke's Blog. I know this name sucks, and I will try to come up with the clever one, but right now the old fashioned margarita (made with lime juice, not "mix") and the light beer are making it extremely difficult to come up with anything original, or even tolerably clever. Just give it time.
There were blogs on my old blog that were really brilliant, and I should have saved them, but I'm rather impulsive when I stop something cold turkey, and I didn't save any of them. I'd like to use this blog to continue some of those rants, mostly about literature and language. Yay.
Talked to Blythe today about going to a dreamworld called, "Graduate School." I don't know where this is, or how you get there, or how much it costs, but she made it sound nice, and even nicer, she made it sound like they needed me there. I adore being needed! We then adjourned to class, where I wrote a paper in which I say that Hemingway and Faulker are like two sides of the same coin, though I don't state that illustration, and how one shut you off from thoughts and one bombarded you with them. I have the hardest time with WHY. Why does Hems do this? Why does he shut us out from Brett's thoughts? Is it because he doesn't think that anyone, even the writer, can write what the mind contains? Trying to get to that core, to that ultimate essence -- I think Hems thought it was impossible. I think he thought that thoughts were corruptive, yet, alas, in Snows we are in the mind of the character and what ho! what ho! there's no real feeling or conviction. Maybe Faulkner was dead wrong about Addie. Anyone should be so lucky to live such a life as Addie's and then just work it all out like a mathmatical equation -- I'll just give him these other children and I will have cleaned my house and then I can die. What? Is that all? Is that all that your life demands? Is that all that your heart requires to be whole and ready to die? I am suddenly, after writing a paper about how this works well, not convinced. Ugh! This is why, Blythe, this is why I don't think abut Graduate School -- I don't trust my own opinion most of the time. I like being able to be in the mind of the Bundren family. It's perversely voyeristic and I love it. I love to see how they think, how they feel. I get something new out of each re-read of Addie's passage. The loveliest thing is that it's stream of conciousness and it's condensed. It's not like Joyce who just goes on and on and on, and you just get mad. It's lovely with Faulkner, it's an intoxicating dream in which we are inside the Bundren family's mind, observing and trying to make sense of their perceptions. I get torn: I love Hemingway, because he tells it just like it is -- no sap, no romance, no obligations. But I'm intoxicated by Faulkner. He pulls me into these back woods, these country homesteads and makes me ride bareback, barefoot, and wild-eyed. His intoxication is all psyche, too, not just sensory overload, but hypnotic. As a writer, he had to put you in the mind of this family and the people that this family affected, and to do this he must have been very, very, out of his mind crazy. Heminway's writing and all pared down writing takes mass discipline, but to interperet the language of a dying mother's mind is insane.
You, you few who read my blogs on myspace, can now read these blogs at, appropriately, Brooke's Blog. I know this name sucks, and I will try to come up with the clever one, but right now the old fashioned margarita (made with lime juice, not "mix") and the light beer are making it extremely difficult to come up with anything original, or even tolerably clever. Just give it time.
There were blogs on my old blog that were really brilliant, and I should have saved them, but I'm rather impulsive when I stop something cold turkey, and I didn't save any of them. I'd like to use this blog to continue some of those rants, mostly about literature and language. Yay.
Talked to Blythe today about going to a dreamworld called, "Graduate School." I don't know where this is, or how you get there, or how much it costs, but she made it sound nice, and even nicer, she made it sound like they needed me there. I adore being needed! We then adjourned to class, where I wrote a paper in which I say that Hemingway and Faulker are like two sides of the same coin, though I don't state that illustration, and how one shut you off from thoughts and one bombarded you with them. I have the hardest time with WHY. Why does Hems do this? Why does he shut us out from Brett's thoughts? Is it because he doesn't think that anyone, even the writer, can write what the mind contains? Trying to get to that core, to that ultimate essence -- I think Hems thought it was impossible. I think he thought that thoughts were corruptive, yet, alas, in Snows we are in the mind of the character and what ho! what ho! there's no real feeling or conviction. Maybe Faulkner was dead wrong about Addie. Anyone should be so lucky to live such a life as Addie's and then just work it all out like a mathmatical equation -- I'll just give him these other children and I will have cleaned my house and then I can die. What? Is that all? Is that all that your life demands? Is that all that your heart requires to be whole and ready to die? I am suddenly, after writing a paper about how this works well, not convinced. Ugh! This is why, Blythe, this is why I don't think abut Graduate School -- I don't trust my own opinion most of the time. I like being able to be in the mind of the Bundren family. It's perversely voyeristic and I love it. I love to see how they think, how they feel. I get something new out of each re-read of Addie's passage. The loveliest thing is that it's stream of conciousness and it's condensed. It's not like Joyce who just goes on and on and on, and you just get mad. It's lovely with Faulkner, it's an intoxicating dream in which we are inside the Bundren family's mind, observing and trying to make sense of their perceptions. I get torn: I love Hemingway, because he tells it just like it is -- no sap, no romance, no obligations. But I'm intoxicated by Faulkner. He pulls me into these back woods, these country homesteads and makes me ride bareback, barefoot, and wild-eyed. His intoxication is all psyche, too, not just sensory overload, but hypnotic. As a writer, he had to put you in the mind of this family and the people that this family affected, and to do this he must have been very, very, out of his mind crazy. Heminway's writing and all pared down writing takes mass discipline, but to interperet the language of a dying mother's mind is insane.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)