Why do I feel like I just dunked my head into a pool of pitch black water and tried to see a silly little circus act? What is with this book?
So, I'm sort of aware that I think that this family was pretty well off, then the civil war, than maybe the first world war, then their daughter was a slut, then her brother got very upset about it, then she was going to get married to a person that could redeem them financially and maybe in the town, then she gets pregnant and her husband turns her out, then the father drinks himself to death, they won't take the daughter back, the brother goes off to Harvard on land money, kills himself, and the eldest tries to maintain sanity by being pissed at everyone and making money, the "servants" on the place are torn, feeling part of the family, but hating the family nonetheless, the bastard grandaughter can't stand anyone, and runs off with a musician, and all the while, the mentally challenged son is "bellering."
But that is not really the story, is it? There's some ambiguity: Did Quentin Sr. impregnate his own sister? Did he think he did? DId Jason acutally kill Quentin Jr.? Who is Damuddy? I'm so lost.
What is the original tragedy that makes the family at such a loss? Is it the Uncle? Did he swindle them? I know I have to, but I don't want to read it again. This book mocks its readers. I mean, seriously, I feel like I am being mocked by Faulkner in his grave and he is laughing, laughing, laughing.
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