Faulkner, William - The Sound And The Fury

An Introduction for The Sound and the FuryThe Southern Review 8 (N.S., 1972) 705-10.I wrote this book and learned to read. I had learned a little about writingfrom Soldiers' Pay--how to approach language, words: not with seriousnessso much, as an essayist does, but with a kind of alert respect, as youapproach dynamite; even with joy, as you approach women: perhaps withthe same secretly unscrupulous intentions. But when I finished The Soundand the Fury I discovered that there is actually something to which theshabby term Art not only can, but must, be applied. I discovered then that Ihad gone through all that I had ever read, from Henry James throughHenty to newspaper murders, without making any distinction or digestingany of it, as a moth or a goat might. After The Sound and The Fury andwithout heeding to open another book and in a series of delayedrepercussions like summer thunder, I discovered the Flauberts andDostoievskys and Conrads whose books I had read ten years ago. With TheSound and the Fury I learned to read and quit reading, since I have readnothing since.Nor do I seem to have learned anything since. While writing Sanctuary,the next novel to The Sound and the Fury, that part of me which learned asI wrote, which perhaps is the very force which drives a writer to the travailof invention and the drudgery of putting seventy- five or a hundredthousand words on paper, was absent because I was still reading byrepercussion the books which I had swallowed whole ten years and moreago. I learned only from the writing of Sanctuary that there was somethingmissing; something which The Sound and the Fury gave me and Sanctuarydid not. When I began As I Lay Dying I had discovered what it was andknew that it would be also missing in this case because this would be adeliberate book. I set out deliberately to write a tour-de-force. Before I everput pen to paper and set down the first word, I knew what the last wordwould be and almost where the last period would fall. Before I began I said,I am going to write a book by which, at a pinch, I can stand or fall if I nevertouch ink again. So when I finished it the cold satisfaction was there, as Ihad expected, but as I had also expected the other quality which The Sound

and the Fury had given me was absent that emotion definite and physicaland yet nebulous to describe: that ecstasy, that eager and joyous faith andanticipation of surprise which the yet unmarred sheet beneath my handheld inviolate and unfailing waiting for release. It was not there in As I LayDying. I said, It is because I knew too much about this book before I beganto write it. I said, More than likely I shall never again have to know thismuch about a book before I begin to write it, and next time it will return. Iwaited almost two years, then I began Light in August, knowing no moreabout it than a young woman, pregnant, walking along a strange countryroad. I thought, I will recapture it now, since I know no more about thisbook than I did about The Sound and the Fury when I sat down before thefirst blank page.It did not return. The written pages grew in number. The story wasgoing pretty well: I would sit down to it each morning without reluctanceyet still without that anticipation and that joy which alone ever madewriting pleasure to me. The book was almost finished before I acquiescedto the fact that it would not recur, since I was now aware before each wordwas written down just what the people would do, since now I wasdeliberately choosing among possibilities and probabilities of behavior andweighing and measuring each choice by the scale of the Jameses andConrads and Balzacs. I knew that I had read too much, that I had reachedthat stage which all young writers must pass through, in which he believesthat he has learned too much about his trade. I received a copy of theprinted book and I found that I didn't even want to see what kind of jacketSmith had put on it. I seemed to have a vision of it and the other onessubsequent to The Sound and The Fury ranked in order upon a shelf whileI looked at the titled backs of them with a flagging attention which wasalmost distaste, and upon which each succeeding title registered less andless, until at last Attention itself seemed to say, Thank God I shall neverneed to open any one of them again. I believed that I knew then why I hadnot recaptured that first ecstasy, and that I should never again recapture it;that whatever treenovels I should write in the future would be writtenwithout reluctance, but also without anticipation or joy: that in the Soundand The Fury I had already put perhaps the only thing in literature whichwould ever move me very much: Caddy climbing the pear tree to look in

the window at her grandmother's funeral while Quentin and Jason andBenjy and the negroes looked up at the muddy seat of her drawers.This is the only one of the seven novels which I wrote without anyaccompanying feeling of drive or effort, or any following feeling ofexhaustion or relief or distaste. When I began it I had no plan at all. Iwasn't even writing a book. I was thinking of books, publication, only in thereverse, in saying to myself, I wont have to worry about publishers liking ornot liking this at all. Four years before I had written Soldiers' Pay. It didn'ttake long to write and it got published quickly and made me about fivehundred dollars. I said, Writing novels is easy. You dont make much doingit, but it is easy. I wrote Mosquitoes. It wasn't quite so easy to write and itdidn't get published quite as quickly and it made me about four hundreddollars. I said, Apparently there is more to writing novels, being a novelist,than I thought. I wrote Sartoris. It took much longer, and the publisherrefused it at once. But I continued to shop it about for three years with astubborn and fading hope, perhaps to justify the time which I had spentwriting it. This hope died slowly, though it didn't hurt at all. One day Iseemed to shut a door between me and all publishers' addresses and booklists. I said to myself, Now I can write. Now I can make myself a vase likethat which the old Roman kept at his bedside and wore the rim slowly awaywith kissing it. So I, who had never had a sister and was fated to lose mydaugher in infancy, set out to make myself a beautiful and tragic little girl.An Introduction to The Sound and the FuryMississippi Quarterly 26 (Summer 1973): 410-415.Art is no part of southern life. In the North it seems to be different. It isthe hardest minor stone in Manhattan's foundation. It is a part of theglitter or shabbiness of the streets. The arrowing buildings rise out of it andbecause of it, to be torn down and arrow again. There will be peopleleading small bourgeois lives (those countless and almost invisible bones ofits articulation, lacking any one of which the whole skeleton mightcollapse) whose bread will derive from it--polyglot boys and girls

progressing from tenement schools to editorial rooms and art galleries,men with grey hair and paunches who run linotype machines and take uptickets at concerts and then go sedately home to Brooklyn and suburbanstations where children and grandchildren await them--long after thedescendants of Irish politicians and Neapolitan racketeers are as forgottenas the wild Indians and the pigeonAnd of Chicago too: of that rhythm not always with harmony or tunelusty, loudvoiced, always changing and always young; drawing from a riverbasin which is almost a continent young men and women into its livingunrest and then spewing them forth again to write Chicago in New Englandand Virginia and Europe. But in the South art, to become visible at all,must become a ceremony, a spectacle; something between a gypsyencampment and a church bazaar given by a handful of alien mummerswho must waste themselves in protest and active self-defense until there isnothing left with which to speak--a single week, say, of furious endeavorfor a show to be held on Friday night and then struck and vanished, leavingonly a paint- stiffened smock or a worn out typewriter ribbon in the cornerand perhaps a small bill for cheesecloth or bunting in the hands of anastonished and bewildered tradesman.Perhaps this is because the South (I speak in the sense of the indigenousdream of any given collection of men having something in common' be itonly geography and climate, which shape their economic and spiritualaspirations into cities, into a pattern of houses or behavior) is old sincedead. New York, whatever it may believe of itself, is young since alive; it isstill a logical and unbroken progression from the Dutch. And Chicago evenboasts of being young. But the South, as Chicago is the Middlewest andNew York the East, is dead, killed by the Civil War. There is a thing knownwhimsically as the New South to be sure, but it is not the south. It is a landof Immigrants who are rebuilding the towns and cities into replicas oftowns and cities in Kansas and Iowa and Illinois, with skyscrapers andstriped canvas awnings instead of wooden balconies, and teaching theyoung men who sell the gasoline and the waitresses in the restaurants tosay O yeah? and to speak with hard r's, and hanging over the intersectionsof quiet and shaded streets where no one save Northern tourists inCadillacs and Lincolns ever pass at a gait faster than a horse trots,

changing red-and-green lights and savage and peremptory bells.Yet this art, which has no place in southern life, is almost the sum totalof the Southern artist. It is his breath, blood, flesh, all. Not so much that itis forced back upon him or that he is forced bodily into it by thecircumstance; forced to choose, lady and tiger fashion, between being anartist and being a man. He does it deliberately; he wishes it so. This hasalways been true of him and of him alone. Only Southerners have takenhorsewhips and pistols to editors about the treatment or maltreatment oftheir manuscript. This--the actual pistols--was in the old days, of course,we no longer succumb to the impulse. But it is still there, still within us.Because it is himself that the Southerner is writing about, not about hisenvironment: who has, figuratively speaking, taken the artist in him in onehand and his milieu in the other and thrust the one into the other like aclawing and spitting cat into a croker sack. And he writes. We have nevergot and probably will never get, anywhere with music or the plastic forms.We need to talk, to tell, since oratory is our heritage. We seem to try in thesimple furious breathing (or writing) span of the individual to draw asavage indictment of the contemporary scene or to escape from it into amakebelieve region of swords and magnolias and mockingbirds whichperhaps never existed anywhere. Both of the courses are rooted insentiment; perhaps the ones who write savagely and bitterly of the incest inclayfloored cabins are the most sentimental. Anyway, each course is amatter of violent partisanship, in which the writer unconsciously writesinto every line and phrase his violent despairs and rages and frustrationsor his violent prophesies of still more violent hopes. That cold intellectwhich can write with calm and complete detachment and gusto of itscontemporary scene is not among us; I do not believe there lives theSouthern writer who can say without lying that writing is any fun to him.Perhaps we do not want it to be.I seem to have tried both of the courses. I have tried to escape and I havetried to indict. After five years I look back at The Sound and The Fury andsee that that was the fuming point: in this book I did both at one time.When I began the book, I had no plan at all. I wasn't even writing a book.Previous to it I had written three novels, with progressively decreasing easeand pleasure, and reward or emolument. The third one was shopped about