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The Literary Styles Of Jean-Paul Sartre And William Faulkner: An Analysis, Comparison, And Contrast

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The Literary Styles Of Jean-Paul Sartre And William Faulkner: An Analysis, Comparison, And Contrast

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Content T his d isser ta tio n has b een 64— 3105
m icro film ed ex a ctly as r ec eiv ed
RICHARDS, L ew is A lva, 1 925-
THE LITERARY STYLES OF JE A N -PA U L
SARTRE AND WILLIAM FAULKNER: AN
ANALYSIS, COMPARISON, AND CONTRAST.
U n iversity of Southern C aliforn ia, P h .D ., 1863
Language and L iteratu re, m odern
University Microfilms, Inc., Ann Arbor, Michigan
THE LITERARY STYLES OP JEAN-PAUL SARTRE AND
WILLIAM FAULKNER: AN ANALYSIS,
COMPARISON, AND CONTRAST
by
Lewis Alva Richards
A Dissertation Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
(Comparative Literature)
June 1963
UNIVERSITY O F SOU THERN CALIFORNIA
GRADUATE SCHOO L
U NIVERSITY PARK
LOS A N G ELES 7 , CA LIFO RN IA
This dissertation, written by
........................Lewi§..Alva..B,ichard§...........................
under the directio?i of hlA....Dissertation Com
mittee, and approved by all its members, has
been presented to and accepted by the Graduate
School, in partial fulfillment of requirements
for the degree of
D O C T O R O F P H I L O S O P H Y
Dean
INTRODUCTION
The purpose of this study is to analyze and otherwise
explore, compare, and contrast the lit^^ry styles of two
giant figures in contemporary world literature, the French
man Jean-Paul Sartre and the American Willie Faulkner.
;
Primary emphasis is placed on analysis and exploration, j
since this is the field where most satisfactory rewards !
can be reaped because of the vast riches and abundant
variations in the literary styles of these two well-known
i
i
authors. In addition to analysis, comparisons and con
trasts between the two literary styles will be made when
sind where either a comparison or a contrast is evident and
I
in order. The study will confine Itself, however, to a |
discussion of the literary styles of the two authors only
as novelists and in no other capacity.
Jean-Paul Sartre and William Faulkner have been
selected for this study because of the widespread recognl- j
tlon which each of these authors has received, not only In j
his own country but also throughout the world. Jean-Paul
Sartre 3eems to have made as great an impact on American
Literature as William Faulkner has made on French Liter
ature. Of Sartre's literary as well as philosophic
ii
production, four novels, one major philosophical work,
almost a dozen plays, and other minor accomplishments have
been translated into the English language. Many of his
plays have been presented on the American stage, and
countless criticisms and reviews have been written on that
branch of existential philosophy which he has created. On
the other hand, William Faulkner has been widely trans
lated and read in France. Up to 1952, more than sixteen
works of William Faulkner had been translated into the
French language. Included in these are the most acclaimed
of his novels and short stories. As Stanley D. Woodworth
writes in his well-documented book William Faulkner en
France.
Et, d'apres Jean-Paul Sartre, la lecture des romans de
Faulkner et de Hemingway devint, pendant 1'occupation,
un symbble de resistance pour certains Fran9als. En
effet, nous avons 1'impression qu'on a lu beaucoup
de Faulkner pendant ces annees-l&, et qu'on
reflechlssait aux problemes que posait son art. Cela
expllquerait l'avidite avec laquelle on devora ses
livres au lendemain de la Liberation.
At another point of the same book the author says:
. . . des articles sur Faulkner paraissent en^
abondance k partir de 1946. Par leur quantite, et
par la place qu'ils accordent h. Faulkner parmi les
romanciers contemporains, 11 semble evident que la
reputation de Faulkner a grandi en France pendant
la guerre. (William Faulkner en France, p. 6l.)
Another testimony to Faulkner's prominent reputation in
1
(Paris
Woodworth, William Faulkner en France
$ P * 57 •
Hi
! Prance is Albert Camus's adaptation of Requiem for a Nun
; in his play of that name. Furthermore, many distinguished
| Prench critics consider William Faulkner America's foremost
!
contemporary author. Expressions like the following, "un
| des plus grands ecrivains americains," "le plus grand, le
| . |
I plus puissant, le plus original," "le plus grand des j
; |
i i
romanciers vivants,'1 "le meilleur conteur d'histoires du |
i i
j monde," and Sartre's recounting of the case of Marcel j
Mouloudji who was made to read Faulkner and Steinbeck
exclusively at the age of thirteen "longtemps avant
d'avoir m§me entendu parler de Racine ou de Voltaire,"
| . :
testify to William Faulkner's reputation and Influence j
in Prance. j
Sartre's Existential philosophy, moreover, has
i
caused many excellent critical essays to be written, and
has aroused great controversy. Perhaps a short intro-
i ductory statement on the branch of existentialism of J
! i
which Sartre is the most prominent and prolific exponent
and which has figured prominently in recent American
thought, might be in order.
William Barrett in his article "What is Existential- {
! i I
ism?" writes: I
f i
i The verb 'ex-ist' means, etymologically to stand
outside or beyond oneself. It is this self-
transcendence that makes man what he is and distin
guishes him from all the other animals whose exist
ence does not reach backward and forward in time
and history, and which remain rooted in space to
their own natural habitat.
i
| The importance of the new philosophy of existenoe
j becomes clear when one realizes that from the time of
Socrates up to the period of Hegel, philosophy had its
i basis in essence; thus, one would actually call it a
; philosophy of essence. The existentialists now disregard
j almost completely this 2000-year mode of philosophizing,
| and oppose to it their own philosophy based on existence.
For, basically, the philosophy of existence is contrasted
to that of essence. It is only after an understanding of
this contrast that one can make a clear distinction
between the two and realize the importance of "existence."
Although, admittedly, Kierkegaard was the first
j philosopher to use the word existence in its present
philosophical meaning, the history of the philosophy of
existence could be traced back to Kierkegaard's friend the
German philosopher, Schelling, or even further back to
Kant, who proved that existence cannot be concluded from
essence. With Kant then, "existence ceased to be per
fection and became position,hence the early beginnings,
and very likely, the origin of later existential phlloso-
^Willlam Barrett, "What Is Existentialism?"
Saturday Evening Post. November 21, 1959$ P* 129•
%ean Wahl, A Short History of Existentialism
(New York, 19^9), P» 8.
v
phy. Through its vague beginnings in Kant, Schelllng, and
Kierkegaard, existential philosophy moved on to become a
| powerful movement mainly through the writings of Heidegger»
I
\
I Sartre, and Jaspers— to mention only the main philosophers
; ' j
j of existence. j
j i
| It is the Hegelian system of pure thought so con- j
i
ducive to escapism against which the existentialists !
i revolted. It is to the ultimate Hegelian type of romantic j
optimism that the existentialists opposed their descent
into the chaotic bustle of street life and the meaning
lessness of existence. Hegel's conservative state-worshipj
provides through the nation or race a refuge for the |
individual in which he can shed his responsibilities and !
! j
I live as an unidentifiable unit. To this philosophical
j escapism, existentialism answers with a sort of Individualj
I
; worship making the individual the important unit of a
I
I nation, clearly identifiable as a separate entity, j
distinctly different from any other entity and fully
; responsible for his own actions.
"Existence" is experienced only by the. Individual and j
j the individual exists and creates himself only in free j
I i
choice. This free choice Is indubitably apparent only in !
|
! "extreme" or "frontier" or "limit" situations, for which j
no rules prescribe. The relative choice Is not the casual ;
j
i decision after which all goes on much as before, nor the
i
choice "on principle" which subjects the self to the j
j external rule or value and reduces It to an Identity with
| other similarly subjected selves. The choice must be a
I critical one which commits the whole self and the whole
!
I
! life (for example, the choice of a wife or a career— or a
i death).^
For the existentialist, there are no absolute values.
Sincerity, fidelity and authenticity could be said to be
the touchstones of the individual's behavior, replacing
! the absolute morality of Christianity. The existential
morality, in this respect, transcends reason in the sense
; that it is not connected with or dependent on it in any
i
i
! way.
It is true that some existentialists, like Stiren
r e --
Kierkegaard, base their position on Christian religion.
| At extreme crises, as the socio-economic fights of the
Danish classes around 1850, or the French resistance move-
i
| ment during World War II, man comes in contact with
j
! transcendence and the infinite. But such a transcendence
i is neither absolute nor can it be explained or proved.
^ God, according to the "Christian" Existentialists, is
existing in complete disregard of man and apart from him.
No theory whatsoever has been found until now which can
satisfactorily bridge this gulf existing between God and
man.
^Encyclopaedia Britannica. 11th Edition, VIII, 777*
vii
Existentialism without a Christian basis, like that
i
i of Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, and Simon de Beauvoir,
I places the individual in an extremely uncomfortable posi-
!
: tion in that he has to experience despair, anguish, and
| forlornness throughout his life. For his despair man can
j find no remedy, for his anguish no reward, and for his j
forlornness no companionship. This is not a fault or flaw |
i of the existentialist philosophy, nor is it an arbitrary |
i i
! imposition on man; on the contrary, things are as they are
! because they have been found to exist aB such and nothing
i !
can be done to change them. It is true that belief in the j
existence of a God would solve this problem for many, but j
i belief in a non-existent and non-proven entity would be j
j ,
equal to a belief in falsity. This, in turn, would cost
man more than his anguish, despair, and forlomness cost
him at present. On the other hand, suffering for belief
| in actuality and truth is much more acceptable and worth- j
while than a similar suffering for the unproven and,
j therefore, the non-existent, as far as man. is concerned.
; According to this theory, then, the final aim of life is
communication between man and man; and Importance should |
i
be placed on this aspect of the problem. This position j
differs from Kierkegaard’s in that Kierkegaard places all j
importance on the aim of life as an effort on the part of
i
I man to communicate with his God.
i !
Both types of communication, however, i.e., that :
__________jyiii '
between God and man and that between man and man, pre
suppose that man will retain his Individuality and
freedom— mainly freedom from social Institutions- Each
man, thus, will retain his unique Individuality and per
sonal freedom meeting God, or other men, on equal terms.
William Faulkner has, of course, little in common
with existentialism and Sartre's philosophy. It is in the
analysis, comparison, and contrast of the literary styles
of the two men that a common ground is to be found.
Both Sartre and Faulkner have a deep desire to
I
explore man's purpose on this earth— and his destiny.
|
They probe furiously the dark depths of consciousness to |
find an answer to the above-mentioned age-old questions. |
The methods that these now famous authors use in creating
and presenting living characters through their novels, are
amazingly as similar as their philosophies on life may be
different. It will be both interesting and enlightening
i
to see how they both probe into the lives of men and women ;
in order to establish true individualities and assess
I
their relations to the universe, which surrounds and
nurtures them, as well as to other men. It is a fascinat
ing experience to follow these authors' search for human
values, the human condition, and to observe men as they
really are and not as they think they are. It is absorb- j
i
ing to read their novels page after page and see how, i
i
through style, a French bourgeois is as human as a middle- j
class American Southerner, yet so different from him in
his philosophy; or, how the French proletarians might
resemble or differ from the southern American poor whites
! and the Negroes.
Jean-Paul Sartre and William Faulkner are two authors
whose individualities are a contrast as extreme as the
j refined atmosphere of sophisticated Paris and the rela-
I
I tively unsophisticated Southern United States. Two
I
: famous men Could not have had more different backgrounds,
| environments, temperaments, and philosophies than the two
i renowned novelists whose literary styles I intend to
j
i
discuss here. Yet, out of all these apparent varieties
and antitheses, there arises a harmony of purpose, a
| singleness of objective, and a similarity, and at times,
| identity of style, which would seem impossible at first
; glance.
x
CONTENTS
| Page
| INTRODUCTION................................. 11
| Chapter
I. SUBJECT MATTER....................... 1
Sartre’s Real Characters
Faulkner's Authentic Characters
City Lite Versus Country Life
Indelicate Aspects of Life
The Abnormalities of Characters
Humor
Treatment of Sex
II. PLOT................................. 87
Sartre's "Plotless" Novels Analyzed
Faulkner and Plot
III. LANGUAGE .................... 13^
Sartre's Use of Language
Language In Faulkner's Novels
IV. OTHER STYLISTIC DEVICES .............. l6l
Sartre's Use of Contrasts
Faulkner's Use of Contrasts
Sartre's Use of Repetition
Faulkner's Use of Repetition
Italicized Passages
V. PHILOSOPHY........................... 197
Sartre's Optimism in Regard to Freedom
Versus Faulkner's "Psychological"
Determinism
Some Reservations— Determinism, Despair,
and Hopelessness
Faulkner's "Psychological" Determinism
Symbolism in Faulkner's Novels
Sartre's Limited Use of Symbolism
xi
Chapter
Faulkner's Romanticism
Faulkner's Preoccupation with the Past
Account of Characters at End of Novel
VI. CONCLUSION........................... 241
BIBLIOGRAPHY......................... 251
xll
CHAPTER I
SUBJECT MATTER
In this chapter I propose to discuss and analyze the
subject matter on which Sartre's and Faulkner's novels
draw. Questions will be asked such as: What kind of
characters Inhabit the Faulknerian and Sartrian worlds?
Where do these characters live, and where do they come
from? In addition, a detailed analysis of the characters'
qualities, physical and mental, their aspirations, their
hopes, their fears, and their environments will be made.
Their capabilities as well as their peculiarities will
also be discussed in order to assess fully the people who
have been created by the two authors under scrutiny.
There is no question that the characters in a novel
are the most important single element which determines
that novel's value. For it is through thoughts and ideas
expressed, positions taken, and attitudes defended by the
characters that the author expresses himself. Therefore,
character analysis will feature prominently in this chap
ter. Furthermore the characters, like other subsequent
subject matter, will be particularly examined with an
1
i interest not only to analyze them objectively but also to
establish the literary method of each author through the
!
I manner in which he handles his characters. Humor is
j another literary subject which will be dealt with in this
| chapter. The kind of humor both authors use in their
| novels will be analyzed and an attempt will be made at an
; appraisal.
Also, the question of the presentation of scenes con
cerned with sex or the lack of such scenes in both authors j
i
will be discussed in this chapter. There still is much j
| controversy in regard to Sartre's over-abundant and
pornographic use of sex in literature. The examination
■ of this particular question may not end the present con- j
I troversy but will certainly prove helpful in ascertaining
1
Sartre's literary position in this respect.
I
I First, let us examine the background and quality of j
i I
Sartrian as well as Faulknerian characters.
Sartre's Real Characters ;
Sartre's novels are inhabited by real, true to life
|
characters. Such characters are neither mere types nor
| vague intellectual abstractions. Roquentin and Mathieu,
| j
the two most intellectual, thoughtful, and philosophical j
of Sartre's characters are quite far from being nonentl- j
I
i ties. They are real men who move in a real, complex, and !
|
peculiar world: they have their weaknesses, their
strengths, and their hopes and aspirations, as well as
their dlsllluslonments and their disappointments. Sartre's
characters are 1 1 characters" because they are presented as
fully developed people, whose existence Is filled and
equally shared by evil and goodness, parsimony and gener
osity, love and hatred, and sympathy and disinterest. They
are neither all black nor all white, but they are both at
the same time, blacker at one time and whiter at other
times. Each one has his own peculiarities, his own person
ality and thus is distinctly different from the others. Be
cause of personal characteristics and peculiarities the
characters are "themselves," and, for this reason, they do
not "represent" a set type of persons.
The most important of Sartre's characters have a ten
dency to be more concerned with intellectual, problems than
the average person, and are specifically cognizant not only
of their reality but also of the reality which surrounds
them. They fight, they think, they love; they hope, they
hate, they eat and drink, they exist. As I have stated
previously, Sartre's characters are not simple but complex,
not black or white, but black and white, not singular but
composite, not only peculiarities but human enigmas. Lola
can nourish a most passionate love for Boris, then a deep
hatred; she can be most generous with him, and then
extremely frugal. She knows what she wants from life and
she is determined to get it. Mathieu can philosophize but,
at the same time, he can fight against the Germans heroi
cally; he can enjoy a lowbrow, mundane evening in a cabaret;
he can make love to his mistress--love and hate her both
at the same time; and he can sleep with a prostitute or
rape an innocent girl. The self-taught man may philo-
:sophlze but he also nurtures a love for youngsters.
Roquentin may be a writer but he also likes to sleep with-
his landlady. And so on down the line with the others;
Ivich who is not intelligent or learned enough to pass her
examinations; Brunet who lives only for the furtherance of
the Communist cause; Philippe who refuses to accept himself
for what he is.
Faulkner’s Authentic Characters
Faulkner’s characters are no less authentic than
Sartre’s. They, generally speaking, may lack the extreme
intellectual fire, refinement, and curiosity, which
Roquentin or Mathieu or even Boris possesses, but are,
nonetheless, true to life and representative of a wide
cross section of southern American society.
Faulkner may have an advantage over Sartre in respect
I to true life characters because he writes about a specific I
| !
i geographical location and the particular people who
I [
inhabit it. In many cases, Faulkner brings back to life,
'through the pages of his novels, men who were once alive
|and important in shaping the destinies and progress of the ■
5 i
country. Many of these people he knew and to others he
was related. In a number of Instances he clothes his
characters with attributes and peculiarities of real
people— friends and acquaintances. Colonel Sartoris of
The Unvanquished. for example, is fashioned after the true
|Colonel William C. Faulkner, the novelist's great grand
father. The portrait of ''Granny” is based upon the
Colonel's mother. Bayard Sartoris, the young, uneasy, and
adventurous youth In Sartoris. and a few other novels,
reminds one, to an extent, of the author himself, William
;Faulkner.1
A host of other characters which live and move througij
the pages of Faulkner's novels are men and women, whites
and Negroes, whom Faulkner knew in real life. Characters
i
like Horace Benbow, Cicily Sanders, Lucas Beauchamp, Gowan j
Stevens, Narcissa Benbow and "Miss Jenny" are composites i
of relatives, friends and others whom Faulkner knew well.
City Life Versus Country Life
Sartre's characters move in a variant background.
;Yet it is mostly city and city-like environment which is
'predominant. Sartre is most interested in the depiction
, ' ' !
1For detailed and sound information on the reality of
I characters and specific geographic locations in Faulkner's
Inovels, see the superb article of G. T. Buckley, "Is Oxford
|the Original of Jefferson in William Faulkner's Novels?"
IPMLA. 77:447-454, 1961; also, CalYln Brown's article,
!"Faulkner's Geography and Topography," PMLA, 77:652-659,
!1962.
of city life and people associated and comfortable in the
city's busy, noisy and fast living. It would* indeed, be
no exaggeration to say that all of his characters are city
;dwellers. They have been bom and raised in the city, make
i
their living in it, have their fun in it, and die in it.
The large city, presumably Paris, is the background of
The Age of Reason: a busy, good-sized port called Bouville
!provides the background for Nausea; both The Reprieve as
well as Troubled Sleep have a variety of backgrounds, from
i
!the busy streets and crowded apartments of New York and
|Paris to the deserted, anonymous French village where the
i
i
battles against the Nazis take place. In addition, the
I cabaret, the night club, the apartment, the library, the
jrestaurant, and the roominghouse are particular provinces
and gathering places in which Sartre's characters move and j
j
I act. The atmosphere is thus burdened by, and heavy with, j
! |
isuch city-life, crowded, and nest-like establishments.
Most of Faulkner's characters, on the other hand, are
;simple southerners who live in small, provincial towns and j
rural areas. A few of them have never left their native j
habitat, never seen a large city, and would certainly be
most uncomfortable, perhaps even embarrassed if not terri
fied, if they suddenly found themselves, for example, in
either New York or Paris. The State of Mississippi is the
home and habitat of not less than two hundred characters
I
i
brought to life in some fifteen of Faulkner's novels. j
! ^
Intruder in the Dust. Sanctuary. The Old Man. The Unvan-
aulshed. Requiem for a Nun. The Hamlet .Sartoris. Soldiers..*
Pay, to name but a few of such novels, have small town and
! rural backgrounds. The characters, for the most part, live
or move in rural homes, provincial stores, country roads,
[
| fields, gardens, and generally the open countryside. They
j I
| hunt, fish, cultivate their fields, grow crops, buy and
| sell horses and cattle, do household chores, and run small
i
stores. They are surrounded by nature, love it and would
! be uncomfortable without it. The only pair, Charlotte |
| Rlttenmeyer and Henry Wilboume in The Wild Palms, who livej
I I
: for a short time in big cities, Chicago and New Orleans, !
s
I
; are considered the outcasts of southern society; finally j
they pay with their lives for their escape from their
! natural surroundings. The small town and the countryside
I are not only Faulkner's favorite realistic background but
i his moral background also.
i i
i .
I Sartre's “Bourgeois' 1 and
! Middle Classes
| |
Sartre's characters come from almost all walks of life
and represent a cross section of society. The middle class
bourgeoisie is superbly represented by Boris, Lola, Daniel,
The Self-Taught man, Jacques and Philippe, to name only the
most important. Mathieu is also a bourgeois. He comes |
j
from middle class parents, he has a middle class lawyer
brother, and he is a bourgeois school teacher himself.
” ~ ' 8
Although he would like to avoid this label himself he,
finally, has to accept it although with extreme reluctance.
When his brother tells him that he is such a bourgeois
himself his silence is his admission.
| You display an abstract sympathy with Communists,
! but you take care not to commit yourself, you have
| never voted. You despise the bourgeois class, and
! yet you are a bourgeois, son and brother of a
| bourgeois, and you live like a bourgeois.2
!
i
| There are even other Instances in which Mathieu does ac-
I cept his realization of being a bourgeois. Jacques,
I I
I
! Mathieu1s brother, is a middle class lawyer. He, unlike
i Mathieu, is conscious of the fact of his social class, and
i
is proud of being a member of it. He has no reluctance
i whatsoever in airing the fact of what he is when he tells
| his brother, who has applied to him for a loan: "But I
| can't help feeling that with your ideas I should be rather
! chary of asking favors from a damned bourgeois. For I am
j a damned bourgeois," he added laughing heartily (The Age j
of Reason* p. 112).
] r
; Lola is also a bourgeois; although she is a success-
i
: ful cabaret singer, she has achieved neither the fame of a
Hollywood star nor is her remuneration anything spectacu
lar. She works hard daily and leads a mediocre life in a
rented flat, cohabiting with her lover. Xvich marries the
2Jean-Paul Sartre, The Age of Reason (New York,
1948), p. 118. |
i
!
_ _
I
son of a well-to-do family, indeed, but even she, being
the daughter of a Russian exile, remains a middle class
character. Similarly middle class people are Roquentin,
j the Self-Taught man, Boris and Marcelle. So is Daniel, a
| quite successful stock broker who marries a pregnant woman
j
j but still remains a homosexual.
!
j The lower classes are also well represented in Satre's
j
novels. The illiterate laborer, Gros-Louis, the unlearned
i
I !
{ soldiers, Pinette, Guiccioli, Longln, Grimaud and Latex, j
i the prostitutes, Irene and Flossie, as well as other minor ;
i
I characters, all are products and remain the representatives
j of the lower, underprivileged classes. Gros-Louis had
i never been to school and even at the age of twenty-one he
| could not read. Thus he makes a very pathetic and pitiful
picture because of it:
| "Can you read that?" asked Gros-Louis. |
! The porter puBhed him away. j
"That's the third time you’ve asked me. You’ve i
got to go to Montpellier." ....
"Hil shouted Gros-Louis.
! The clerk gave a start. j
"I'm going to Montpellier," said Gros-Louis.
"To Montpellier?" ....
"Is that Montpellier written here?" He produced
! his army book........ I
| "Judas priest," said he. "What's it all about? I j
don’t get it at all, and all because I can’t read." j
All these sleeping folk knew more than he did; they j
had read the paper, they knew all about this war. i
. . , Then he became conscious of the newspaper in j
his handj everything was written down in it— all i
about the war, tomorrow's weather, the prices of
goods, and the times of trains. He unfolded the
paper and inspected it. What he saw were thousands i
of black specks, like pianola rolls with the perfora-
I 10
! tlons that produce the sounds when the crank Is
! turnedj he felt quite dizzy If he looked at them
for long. There was also a photograph of a spruce
and smiling man with plastered hair. He dropped
the paper and burst into tears.3
The soldiers who find themselves next to Mathieu in the
j battlefield, Pinnette, Quiccioli, Longin, Grimaud and
I
| Latex, are all lower class people, common laborers as one
I can easily surmise from their language as well as their
| stories about their civilian life prior to the war. They
! all speak a slang and ungrammatical language. One tells
| how he used to "make" his wife, the other describes the
\
: ugliness of his wife's secret parts, and still another one
| shows, through his behavior, that he is a drunkard devoid
i of any finer and higher aspirations. Distinctively lower
class elements also are the two featured street walkers,
one named Irene and another named Flossie, a Negress who
acquired the doubtful distinction of having taken the
i
j virginity of youthful Philippe.
j
. Faulkner1s Southern Aristocrats.
j Middle Classes, and Negroes
! Faulkner's characters run the entire gamut of social j
i
| scale: they come from the most exclusive families of
| southern aristocracy, pass through the middle classes and
i 1
run all the way down to Negro slaves, poverty-stricken
peasants and laborers, and even illiterate bastards. This
I
|
|
%ean-Paul Sartre, The Reprieve (New York, 19^7)»
pp. 291-293.
cross section of society is to be found in almost every
novel of Faulkner and is not an exclusive feature of any
of them. Most of Faulkner's characters, however, come
from the middle and lower classes,* a few are Negro slaves
or ignoramuses and illiterates. Sartoris, for example,
deals with the fortunes and decay of a southern aristo
cratic family. Its prominent characters are aristocrats
and higher class people, but also middle class youths, and
Negro slaves. The only other novel which has a touch of
aristocracy in it is The Unvanquished, but it also contains
a number of prominent characters of middle and lower class
such as Drusilla, "Uncle Buck," Ringo, A1 Snopes, and the
illiterate slave Loosh.
The main hero of Intruder in the Dust is a stubborn,
and untaught Negro, Lucas Beauchamp,, who is accused of
a murder which he has not committed. Also, the most im
portant character in what is probably Faulkner's best
novel, Light in August. is an illegitimate suspected of
being a mulatto, a good for nothing, who enters into all
sorts of shady business, works as a cowhand for a short
time, makes moonshine, rapes a woman and commits murder.
The whole novel, As I Lay Dying, deals with the misfor
tunes of a rather large white family, very low in the
social scale. Father and sons lack even a grammar school
education, are extremely poor, common laborers, with no
special skills. The hero of The Old Man is an Ignorant
12
criminal who had been sentenced to a long jail term.,
while the couple with which The Wild Palms concerns itself
are only slightly better— a poor adulteress of a housewife
i
associating with a destitute and unintelligent medical
student. Although Sanctuary has three middle class ohar-
j i
j acters, it also contains at least double that number of i
; j
| lower class Negroes. It is true that Temple Drake1s i
j father is a well-known .Judge but she turns out to be a j
I prostitute. Gowan Stevens comes from a middle class
; conventional family but he is a drunkard. The only decent
i middle class characters in the whole novel are Horace
! I
i Benbow, the lawyer, and his sister, Jenny. As to the re-
; maining important characters, Lee Goodwin is a murderer,
i i
and a sex pervert; Red is a no-good blackmailer; and Nancyj
does not hesitate to resort to prostitution in order to
| j
j save her husband from prison and child murder to keep a j
| married woman honest— otherwise she has an upright and
moral attitude.
|
Similarly, the remaining novels, Mosquitoes,
The Sound and the Fury. The Mansion. Absalom, Absalomi,
Soldiers * Pay, and The Town contain a few middle class j
!
characters and a much larger number of lower-class 11- j
literates and laborers, and a host of illiterate Negroes.
Indelicate Aspects of Life
I
An examination of the unsavory and indelicate aspects
13
. .
of life present in the novels of the two authors under
discussion, will be helpful in determining these authors'
stylistic uses. For example, to what extent do our
3
; authors make use of the unsavory or Indelicate aspects of
I life, such as sickness, and the unpleasant facts attendant
j
| on it, human viscosity, drunkenness, et cetera? Also,
j what are the purposes or functions of such uses of the
t
| indelicate?
i
! Sartre and the Indelicate
: I
t
In keeping with his professed antipathy for romantic |
| or poetic language, Sartre goes on to show that words
i should not be used solely for their aesthetic values but
j
because of their true representation of life which, more
often than not, is sordid, filthy, base, Ignoble and de-
i
| pressingly wretched. Thus, he not only welcomes but is
I
; always in search of unsavory and Indelicate scenes of life
; which he then seems to describe with particular relish.
j The real significance of the extensive use of drunkenness,
I vomiting, urination, et cetera, is, however, the symbolism!
4 i
which underlies such scenes. Viscosity, according to i
!
i
r
^According to The Oxford English Dictionary, the word
"viscous" means "having a glutinous or gluey character,"
and "viscosity" means "the quality or fact of being vis
cous; viscidity", The Oxford English Dictionary. XII, 246.
The word viscosity is used in this study in connection j
with Sartre's reaction, through Roquentin, to the fact
that man's body is predominantly made up of liquids and j
fluids. Such fluidity and glutinousness connote a weak- j
Sartre, degrades man and makes him other than he would like
to be. Base, low and repugnant scenes, then, do show man's
1
demoralization, degradation, loss of human dignity— the
! passing from freedom and consciousness to the mere object
i or the thing. It is this idea that Professor Alfred Stern
i i
I ' I
expresses when he states:
| of course, vomits and excrements are repugnant. But in
Sartre1s work the viscosity they symbolize is even more
repugnant: the loss of human dignity, man's debasement
I to thinghood.^
I i
The objection and criticism on the part of the be-
i i
raters of this aspect of Sartre's writings are, of course, J
! that Sartre has chosen these very elaborate descriptions
| j
! of the unsavory, indelicate, and quite repugnant aspects j
! of human life in order to express a particular set of |
; f
| human values and conditions. j
Excessive drinking scenes.— Among the indelicate i
| aspects of life which Sartre brings before the eyes of his |
1 readers in minute description and analysis are, above all,
ness in the physical make-up as well as the aesthetic
appearance of man. Roquentln, for example, seems to de
plore the fact that man is composed of rather gluey sub
stances and not hard and enduring materials, such as,
perhaps, stainless steel. What makes matters worse is, of
course, the obvious fact that many of man's "liquids" are
of a base and detestable character. Also, the disagreeable
qualities of these sticky substances deprive, as it were,
the individual of his independence.
^Alfred Stern, Sartre: His Philosophy and Psycho
analysis (New York, 1953/7 P* 17^-
scenes of drunkenness and attendant moral dissoluteness.
The war, and specifically the demoralized French soldiers,
present Sartre with a superb scene of drunkenness and utter
demoralization. As the Maginot Line was by-passed by the
i
Invading Germans, the retreating French Army put up only
j
| sporadic and token local resistance. These were battles of
| desperation to be sure, the result of which was known be- j
| i
! forehand, but the Indomitable courage and patriotism of i
j s
! I
I the French soldier ignored reason. It is such a scene j
that Sartre describes in Troubled Sleep. The German Army
i is only a few miles away, while the French soldiers fill j
' themselves with filthy wine and shower each other with s
’ abusive drunken language. Here is the scene as Sartre j
‘ i
j describes it:
i
"Tu veux boire un coup?" demanda Gulccioli.
Au milieu de la pikce, il y avait une bassine de
cuivre remplie de gros vin rouge de 11 Intendance.
Des choses flottaient dedans.
"C'est une bassine a confitures," dit Mathieu.
"Ou l'avez-vous prise?"
"T'occupe pas, "dit Guiccioll. "Tu bois, oui ou
merde?" II s'exprlmalt avec difficulte et il avait peine
! & tenir les yeux ouverts, mais II gardait I1 air agressif.
« • «
"He! Delarue, vlens voir." !
Mathieu se retouma. j
"Voir quoi?"
Latex sortlt son sexe de sa braquette:
"Regarde!" dit-il, "et tire ton chapeau: j'en ai fait
six avec."
"Six quoi?"
"Six lards. Et des beaux, t'sais, qui pesaient k
chaque coup dans les vlngt livres; Je [sic] sals pas qui
va les nourrlr k present. Mais vous nous en ferez
d'autres," dit-il, tendrement penche sur son gland.
Vous nous en^ferez d'autres par douzaine, polisson!
Mathieu detourna les yeux: j
16
"Tire ton chapeau, l'apprenti!" cria Latex en
colfere....
Longin se baissa pour ramasser son quart et tomba
sur les genoux.
"Merde."
II rampa jusqu'a la bassine, plongea le bras dans le
vln Jusqu'au coude, retlra le quart rulsselant et se
pencha pour bolre. Par les deux coins de sa bouch g
tremblante, le llqulde degoulinait dans la bassine.
^Jean-Paul Sartre, La Mort dans L'ame (Paris:
Librairie Gallimard, 1949) pp. I07-IO9. The translation j
of the original of this quotation is as follows':
"You want a drink?" Guiccioli asked.
In the middle of the room there was a large copper
can filled with rough ration wine. Various objects were
floating in it.
"That’s a Jam can," said Mathieu, "where*d you find i
it?" j
"No business o' yours," said Guiccioli. "Have a
drink or get to hell outta here!"
He expressed himself with difficulty, and he was hav
ing trouble keeping his eyes open, but his mood was
aggressive. ...
"Hey Delarue, come have a look!"
Marthieu turned around. "Have a look at what?"
Latex pulled his penis out of his fly. "Take'n eye
ful of that, and tip yer hat. I've made six of them
with that!"
"Six what?"
"Six kids. And fine kids too! Twenty pounds or more
they weighed. I don't know who is feeding them now.
But you'll make more," he went on, bending affection
ately over his privates. You'll make dozens of 'em,
y'ole devil, you!"
Mathieu looked away. !
"Tip your hat, beginner!" cried Latex in a sudden
fury....
Longin, bending down to pick up his mug, fell on his
knees.
"Oh, shit!" he exclaimed. He crawled up to the wine
can, plunged his arm in the wine up to the elbow, drew
out his dripping mug, and bent forward to drink. The
liquor trickled into the tin from the two corners of
his trembling mouth (Troubled Sleep, pp. 138-141).
Troubled Sleep has been published by Alfred A. Knopf
of New York, first in 1951; It went through a second
printing in March of the same year, and a third one in j
October 1958. The translation, done by Gerard Hopkins,
seems to be a fairly acceptable one. Being the only
17
j
Vomiting scenes.— Sartre, apparently, takes partlc-
! ular relish in describing in detail scenes of vomit which
are due either to sickness or excessive drunkenness.
j Pierre, who had been sick for a number of days throws up
j • j
i when he eats a wing of chicken, much to the disgust of
: I
I l
i I
i Maud: I
i i
j I
Maud poussa la ^orte et une odeur de vomi la prit a la
gorge. Pierre etait etendu de tout son long sur la
couchette. II etait blime et ses yeux lui mangeaient
la figure, mais il semblalt palsible. Elle eut un
mouvemeiit de recul, mais elle se forca h. penetrer dans
la cabine. Sur une chaise, au chevet de Pierre, il y j
avait une cuvette remplle d'une eau trouble et
mousseuse.
1 1 Je ne vomis plus que des glaires," dit Pierre j
d'une voix egale. "II y a longtemps que J'ai rendu tout |
ce que j1avals dans l'estomac. Ote la cuvette et j
assieds-tol." I
Maud 6ta la cuvette en retenant son souffle et la
deposa prfes du lavabo.' (Le Sursis, p. 253)
translation of the original French La Mort dans Lime ,
published, there is no room for comparison, except with |
the original. All subsequent quotations from Troubled j
Sleep are from this source.
^Following is the translation of the French original:;
Maud opened the door, and a smell of vomit took her
by the throat. Pierre lay stretched full length on the j
bunk. He was pale, his eyes were unnaturally large, but!
he seemed composed. She had a moment of repulsion, but j
forced herself to walk into the cabin. On a chair, !
beside Pierre's head, stood a pan filled with turpid, j
frothy liquid.
"I'm only vomiting phlegm now," said Pierre in a
level voice. "I have long since brought up everything
in my stomach. Take the basin away and sit down."
Maud took away the pan, holding her breath as she
did so, and put it down by the washbasin (The Reprieve,
pp. 217-218). I
The Reprieve was also published by Alfred Knopf in j
New York first In 19^7; it had a second printing in 1951» j
Ivich vomits in front of Mathieu as a matter of
course. She vomits as she would have talked to him, or
danced with him, or done any similar, normal act.
Ivich gemlt un peu. Tout a coup, elle verdit et se
pencha par la portiere. Mathieu voyait son petit dos
maigre tout secoue par les vomissements (L'Sge de
Raison. p. 260).°
But the ultimate in description of vomiting is given
in Troubled Sleep, an account of sickness which is a result
of excessive, unbridled and unreasonable drinking. It in
volves Longin, one of the drunken soldiers, who apparently
cannot hold his liquor as well as the others can. Here is
a part of the scene:
"Don't feel too good," he [Longin] said.
"Go and throw up," Guiccioli advised.
"How?" asked Longin. His face was white and he was
breathing stertorously.
Guiccioli stuck two fingers down his own throat,
leaned sideways, retched, and brought out a small amount
of viscous fluid. "Like that," he said wiping his mouth
with the back of his hand.
Longin, still on his knees, passed his mug across to
and a final one in 1959— which is used here. This trans
lation, made by Eric Sutton, is the only one made of the
original Le Sursis in the English language and seems to be
acceptable. All subsequent quotations from this novel in
this study will come from this source.
D
Following is the translation of the French original:
"Ivich groaned a little. Suddenly her face turned green,
and she leaned out of the window. Mathieu saw her small
thin back shaken by gusts of vomiting" (The Age of Reason
p. 283).
The translation used throughout this study is by
Eric Sutton whose translation of Le Sursis is also used.
19
his left hand, and thrust his fingers on his right down
his throat.
"Hey1 cried Latex, "you'll vomit in the booze!"
"Give him a push, Delarue," Guiccioli cried. "Quick!
Push him!" fTroubled Sleep, p. l4l)
Urination scenes.— Urination, and the presence or
mention of human urine are another indelicate aspect of
!
I life which Sartre chooses, if not to exploit fully, at
i
| least to present factually. In The Reprieve it is the
j
! sick people in the hospital who, unable to leave their
‘ beds, have to urinate In cans between the sheets of these
beds.
|
The large lad grabbed the urinal and slipped it under
the bed-clothes. Charles squeezed his friend's hand.
He had only to raise his voice and say: "Here,
please." The nurse bent down and removed the urinal.
It flashed in the sunshine, now filled with a froth-
j Ing yellow liquid. The nurse went to the door and
l leaned out; Charles saw her shadow on the partition,
her lifted arm outlined in the rectangle of light. J
She tipped the urinal, and a liquid shadow spurted
out of it. (The Reprieve, p. 252)
j
There is a similar scene, yet more vivid in its
details, which happens among the Imprisoned French
: soldiers being taken to Germany in a closed train. With
i no bath facilities in the freight cars, the soldiers find !
j
themselves in a difficult situation: j
"Want to piss?" A hand pushed an empty can at j
him; it felt warm.
"What's that for?" he said. "Oh, thanks." He
emptied it out on the door; the yellow liquid rained
down on the track. j
"Hey! Pass it Up, quick!" He handed it back with
out turning his head; it was taken from him. He wanted
to go to sleep again, someone tapped him on the shoulder,
he took the cam and emptied it.
20
"Let me have It," said the printer. . . . Brunet
dried his damp fingers on his blouse. A moment later,
an arm was extended above his head and the tin can was
again tilted. The yellow water fell, blown into white
bubbles in their wake. The printer resumed his seat,
wiping his fingers. (Troubled Sleep, pp. 409-410)
As for the other soldiers, they do not mind either their
comrades, people around them, or even the reader! They go
about following the dictates of nature regardless of time
or place. ' Here is an unnamed, lost, bearded soldier of
this sort: "'Pun, shit! No, no fun. When things started
to stink, the captain pissed off, we did too, but we went
the other way not to meet him'" (Troubled Sleep, p. 110).
These are aspects of the sordid realities of life which
Sartre presents to his readers without hesitation. They
show the detestable viscosity of man, which somehow de
bases him; they also uncover existence as it really is
without the falsifying and misleading trimmings of accept-i
|
able social behavior or norms. j
Other Indelicate Aspects.— Besides the unsavory
scenes already mentioned there are a number of other
sorts of indelicate situations which occur from time to
time in Sartre's novels. Some of these scenes though
less pronounced than the ones already mentioned, still
make a rather nauseating impression on the reader. Take,
for Instance, the case of the two homosexuals, Daniel and
Ralph, wrestling: i
21
| "I must finish him off or he'll do me in." He
pushed at Ralph with all his strength, but Ralph re
sisted. Daniel was possessed by a maniacal fury as he
| thought: "I'm making a fool of myself." He bent down
I suddenly, seized Ralph by the small of his back, lifted
him, flung him off the bed, and with the same Impulse
fell on top of him. (The Age of Reason, p. 300)
i Or the less objectionable but highly ostentatious acts of
i |
; Mathieu in embedding a sharp knife in his palm while blood |
i !
! flowed all over it. j
j
i • j
| He jabbed the knife into his palm and felt almost j
| nothing. When he took his hand away, the knife |
remained embedded in his flesh, straight up ... ! j
"Oh-h-hl" shrieked Ivich. "Pull it out I" (The Age of !
Reason, p. 220)
! Or the more humorous, graphic, and realistic manner in
I j
: which Grimaud describes his wife: j
; j
"The whole works. Her tits hand down to her knees, and j
her arse hangs down to her heels. And you should see
| her legs; they're enough to make you croak! When she
pisses it's--what do you call these things?--it's !
between parentheses!" !
"You better pass her on to me," Longin suggested
with a laugh; "soundB like just the woman for me. I
never frigged anything but floozies; my brother got all
the good numbers." (Troubled Sleep, p. 143)
So, this is the extent to which Sartre will go to produce ;
i the desired effect upon his readers. He records lndeli-
I cate aspects of life wherever and whenever he may find
i i
them. He never shrinks from them. But to say that he
uses the unsavory simply to create a sensational effect |
i
would be only partially true. Sartre believes that life
j is such a sordid thing and that man is indeed a creature
I
whose body is partly made up of loathsome fluids. Man j
i
should wake up and face this reality (Roquentin nauseates j
22
| every time he thinks of it)— and not try vainly to white-
i
jwash it. Han should face the facts of life, the facts of
| his real existence, without extolling such existence with
unfounded Idealism which is unreal, delusory, and decadent.
i . .
i
I :
I Faulkner and the Indelicate
Unlike Sartre's novels, Faulkner's contain few un-
| savory scenes and Indelicate aspects of life. Faulkner !
i !
i I
: avoids the indelicate, the insipid, and the offensive. As !
i i
! Sartre has aptly observed with regard to the characters in I
; Sartoris, "The Sartorises never get drunk. . . .^ Sartre
! i
could have, without fear, enlarged this remark to include j
i
I
almost all of Faulkner's major characters with the excep- i
i j
tion of Charles Stuart, who has never appeared as a live
character in any of Faulkner's novels but is only mentioned
by his son as having been a drunkard.
"Sure," he says, "I never had time to be. I never
had time to go to Harvard like Quentin or drink myself
into the ground like Father. I had to work.10
j The drunken scenes which color so much of Sartre's novels
i !
: are absent from those of Faulkner.
j i
j Spitting habits.— There are, however, a few indeli-
i
| cate scenes spread throughout Faulkner's novels. The most
! i
9jean-Paul Sartre, Literary Essays (New York, 1957), !
p. 74.
E
10William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury (New York,
1946), p. 199. i
I :....: '...~......w 23
I
j common offense which occurs with regularity in each of
1
| Faulkner's novels is spitting. Almost every character
t
I
| spits at one time or another, some with great deftness as
well as regularity, some ineptly and occasionally. The
! 1 !
| upper southern classes spit, the businessmen spit, the
■ women spit, the Negroes spit, the children spit. Spitting
i
1
: is a habit, good spitting is an art! j
! -
Among the major characters in Faulkner's novels the j
i i
I !
| greatest and most deft spitter is Flem Snopes. He spits
; j
| when, he talks with Jody Varner, "'Howdy,' he said. 'You’re j
j Flem, aren't you? I'm Varner." "That so?' the other said.
i
He spat."1' * ' He spits when he talks with friends, "'But
| ’ |
Will says they are yourn.1 And Snopes turned his head and j
| spit [sic] and says, ..." (The Hamlet, p. 71)* But as j
!
he grows richer and progresses, he becomes more artistic
i
i in his spitting: [sic] "Snopes turned his head slightly
j . and spat, across the gallery and the steps into the dust
beyond them," (p. 356); or "Snopes raised his head and
i
| turned it slightly again and spat neatly past the woman,
| across the gallery and into the road." (p. 360). While
t - |
| he was talking with the Devil he "turned his head and spit,
I
! the spit flying off the floor quick in a little blue ball
i
of smoke." (p. 174). In addition, when riding a cart, j
j
Flem likes to spit over the cart's wheel: "Snopes spat
| |
11William Faulkner, The Hamlet (New York, 1940)., p.25.|
r *............................................ “ 24
tobacco juice over the moving wheel," (pp. 405-406);
i "Snopes turned his head once and spat over the wheel."
I
I (p. 166).
In As I La.v Dying, the whole Bundren family spit.
| i p
| Anse's son, Cash, "spits over the wheel; Jewel, "spits
! slow and [says] 'hell'" (p. 479); the young Vardanian !
! J j
"slings it [the fish] to the ground and grunts 'Ha' and j
! spits over his shoulder like a man," (p. 358)* But the I
i ■
| most deft by far in spitting is Vernon.
Vernon spits without moving. He spits with decorous
and deliberate precision into the pocked dust below
the porch. . . . Vernon spits neatly into the dust j
(pp. 348-351).
There is considerably more spitting of all sorts by j
j other characters. " . . . and them fellows squatting there j
I I
; and spitting past her into the road," "The driver spits," j
"After a while he spat the cigarette without touching his j
13
I hand to it." "He spat briefly." "Varner sucked his
j teeth and spat into the road." "‘Soured,1 Varner said,
j He spat." "Stamper looked at Ab a minute. Then he spit
| [sic] again. ..." "The other [Ab Snopes] turned his head
j ‘ 1
I and spat into the sand-filled box beneath the old stove." j
j * i
! "‘It was,' the man who had spat said" (The Hamlet, pp. 10,!
i !
30, 47, 96, 104). "Cadet Lowe . . . drank briefly, gagged
12William Faulkner, As I Lav Dying (New York, 1946)
p. 413-
^william Faulkner, Light in August (New York, 1932),
pp. 21, 24, 28, 37.
25
and spat his drink." "The man came to the edge of the
veranda . . . and spat across their prone bodies.
j
I "He spat, not exactly at Horace's feet, and not exactly
j
| anywhere else." "Jackson spat into the fire and stooped
i I
| over the creatures
! Most of the spitting happens because of tobacco chew-
| !
!ing. But Faulkner avoids including any indelicate de- j
: |
| scription of the blackish liquid that is formed in the
mouth by tobacco and saliva, or of the decayed or even
missing teeth of tobacco chewers. I
: i
| . E
! Restrained vomit.--Faulkner also avoids the elaboratej
i i
description of vomit although he talks about it occasion- j
! i
j ally. Thus, his vomit scenes are not described. Yet we
I
! are told that vomiting has taken place and that the mouth
| excrements are still there. At Christmas' birth, when
j
' "hands dragged him violently out of his vomit he did not
resist." (Light in August, p. 114). But this is the
extent of it. There is another similar occasion in As I
j Lay Dying in which Cash, who has been very ill, "vomited
again, but he got his head over the wagon's bed in time."
(As I Lay Dying, p. 470). Apparently, Faulkner makes the
; ■ I
•^^illlam Faulkner, Soldiers' Pay (New York, 1926)
pp. 10, 239- I
■^wiHiam Faulkner, Sartoris (New York, 1929),
pp. 164, 326. I
! effort to be realistic in his descriptions but avoids the
i
j naturalistic tendencies to describe fully an indelicate
I
\ scene.
I Other unsavory scenes.--There are a few violent, of- j
I fensive, and unsavory scenes throughout Faulkner's novels, j
; j
I Jewel, who saved the coffin containing his dead mother
| from the fire set by his mad brother, presents a miserable
i sight:
j |
Jewel was lying on his face. His back was red. |
Dewey Dell put the medicine on it. The medicine was
made out of butter and soot, to draw out the fire.
Then his back was black.
"Does it hurt, Jewel?" I said. "Your back looks
like a nigger's, Jewel," I said. Cash's foot and leg
looked like a nigger's. Then they broke it off. Cash's
leg bled.
"You go on back and lay down," Dewey Dell said. i
| "You ought to be asleep."
"Where is Dari?" they said.
He is out there under the apple tree with her, lying
with her. He is there so the cat won't come back, . . .
(As I Lay Dying, p. 503)
Christmas beating up his prostitute girl friend pre- i
sents another passionate, violent scene:
i
Then one night he was at the corner when she appeared.
He struck her, without warning, feeling her flesh.
He knew then what even yet he had not believed. "Oh," I
she cried. He struck her again. "Not here!" she j
whispered. "Not here!" Then he found that he was
crying. He had not cried since he could remember. j
He cried, cursing her, striking her. Then she was j
holding him. Even the reason for striking her was
gone then. "Now, now," she said. "Now, now."
(Light in August, p. 186)
|
Or kicking the young Negro prostitute and battling it out j
with his youthful friend afterward: j
27
He was moving, because his foot touched her. Then
it touched her again because he kicked her. He
kicked her hard, kicking into and through a choked
wail of surprise and fear. She began to scream, he
jerking her up, clutching her by the arm, hitting at
her with wide, wild blows, striking at the voice
perhaps, feeling her flesh anyway, enclosed by the
womanshenegro and the haste.
Then she fled beneath his fist, and he too fled
| backward as the others fell upon him, swarming,
t grappling, fumbling, he striking back, his breath
j hissing with rage and despair. Then it was male he j
j smelled, they smelled; somewhere beneath it the She
| scuttling, screaming. They trampled and swayed, |
! striking at whatever hand or body touched, until
they all went down in a mass, he underneath. Yet he
still struggled, fighting, weeping. There was no
She at all now. They just fought; it was as if a
wind had blown among them, hard and clean. (Light
in Aiigust, p. 147)
; Or the near macabre scenes scattered throughout As I Lay
j |
1 Dying, such as the making of the coffin for Addle Bundren j
; i
. who is not yet dead and can plainly hear the sawing and |
I i
I nailing; the loss of the coffin containing Addle’s dead !
body while fording the river, the setting fire to the barn
| in which the coffin rested overnight, and the superbly
j j
: macabre following scene:
It was nigh toward daybreak when we drove the last |
I nail and toted it into, the house, where she was laying
on the bed with the window open and the rain blowing
on her again. Twice he did it, and him so dead for
i sleep that Cora says his face looked like one of these I
j here Christmas masts that had done been burled a while
| and then dug up and nailed it down so he couldn1t open
the window on her no more. And the next morning they
found him in his shirt-tail laying asleep on the floor
like a felled steer, and the top of the box bored clean
full of holes and Cash's new auger broke off in the last
one. When they taken the lid off her they found that
two of them had bored on into her face. (As I Lay Dying,
p. 390)
Thus, unlike Sartre, Faulkner avoids the indelicate,
the unsavory* and the offensive. He does not follow
Sartre's naturalistic excursions hut rather a middle
course and describes his scenes in the vein of realism
rather than naturalism.
There is no symbolism in Faulkner's use of the in
delicate, as there is in Sartre's. In addition, Faulkner
does not try to prove anything or particularly "say" any
thing through such use of the indelicate, as Sartre does.
He merely uses it as a means of portraying raw, unalloyed
reality— the reality of the people, their habits, and the
environment of the Southern United States.
The Abnormalities of Characters
At the beginning of this study the background of the
i characters was examined while nothing was said of them as
: individuals. Now, an examination of the personalities of
| these individual characters will be made primarily to
ascertain their physical and mental status, their social
|
; conformity or nonconformity, and their special character-
i
istics or peculiarities.
j sarte's Preoccupation
I with the Abnormal
| ---------------------
I Much has been said, and even more written, concerning
Sartre's preoccupation with abnormal and socially malad
justed characters. Sartre has been accused of creating
characters who are deviates sexually and socially. To
what extent is Sartre really preoccupied with the abnormal
In his characters? What really is meant by the use of the
!
| term abnormal? These questions will be answered in the
: immediately following pages.
i
I ' ■ !
; |
Roauentin1 s "nausea.1 1 --Roquentln1 s apparent abnormal- j
i |
; ity lies in his extreme sensitivity and Intellectual j
: ’ i
| superiority to the masses of people that surround his ex- i
I ‘
! i
istence. He is certainly very learned, abnormally sensi
tive and has a tremendous amount of perception and intui
tion. Such fastidious qualities place him far above the
i average people or even the so-called "learned," who, in !
; his eyes, are worse than ignorance Itself, for they are
(
j
; only half-learned.
j
| It is the vulgarity of the physical world that nau-
j
i seates Roquentln. When this superior, delicate, sensitive,
i and highly perceptive individual comes in contact with
coarse, unoriented, blundering real human beings, he is
overcome by his "nausea." His apparent abnormality thus
I would simply lie in the fact that he is an extremely
i |
refined normality! What makes Roquentln appear abnormal
is that he nauseates too often, excessively, and inappro
priately, by any normal standards. Roquentln is beset by
all sorts of "nauseas." Each different aspect of the
physical world gives Roquentln a different sort of nausea, j
i
The physical world gives him a particularly detestable sortj
i
of nausea. He is standing by the shore, for example, andj
j he has the urge to throw a pebble in the water.
i
reaches for the pebble, but as soon as he feels
his fingers this strange nausea overcomes him. Here Is
! how he describes this sort of nausea himself. I
I
Now I see: I recall better what I felt the other day
I at the seashore, when I held that pebble. It was a |
sort of sweetish sickness. How unpleasant It wasl i
It came from the stone, I'm sure of itf It passed j
from the stone to my hand. Yes, that's It, that's !
just It— a sort of nausea in the hands.1* 5
People, sex, everyday objects, clothes, tables, et cetera,
| give him the same kind of detestable nausea. His nausea
: originates in the outside, objective world, and he, being
; . !
more or less forced to live in this physical world, cannot ■
' get rid or get away from this most distasteful nausea. He
i sees the peasant servant girl and nauseates:
j
j
Things are bad! Things are very bad: I have it, the j
filth, the nausea! And this time it is new; it j
caught me in a cafe. . . . Madalene came floating
over to take off my overcoat and I noticed she had |
i drawn her hair back and put on earrings; I did not
recognize her. I looked at her large cheeks which
never stopped rushing towards the ears. In the
hollow of the cheeks, beneath the cheekbones, there
I were two pink stains which seemed weary on this poor
flesh. The cheeks ran, ran towards the ears and
Madalelne smiled: "What will you have Monsieur
Antoine?"
Then the Nausea seized me, I dropped to a seat,
! I no longer knew where I was; I saw the colors spin
I slowly around me, I wanted to vomit. And since that
! time, the Nausea has not left me, it holds me. . . .
His blue cotton shirt stands out joyfully against a
chocolate-coloured wall. That too brings on the
•^Jean^Paul Sartre, Nausea (New York, 1959)* PP* 19- j
30
He stoops,
it among
31
j Nausea. The Nausea Is not inside me. I feel it
out there in the wall, in the suspenders, everywhere
around me. It makes itself one with the cafe. I am
the one who is within it. (Nausea, pp. 29~3l)
Roquentln finally discovers that he cannot shake off his
; nausea. He cannot do so because he exists. His nausea,
; i
! I
then is not an object, an entity outside himself which he I
could disregard, but existence itself. So he says, in a
rather resigned tone at this discovery of his:
! I can't say I feel relieved or satisfied5 . Just the
opposite, I am crushed. Only my goal is reached:
j I know what I wanted to know; I have understood all
j that has happened to me since January. The nausea |
has not left me and I don't believe it will leave me I
so soon; but I no longer have to bear it, it is no j
longer an illness, or a passing fit: it is I. |
(Nausea, p. 170)
— — .
j
Roquentln feels a vague fear (which must be the fear j
of the certain and ever-approaching death) many a time.
i
He says so himself; and quite probably, he is more con
scious of this fear than other people are. In addition to
this fear of death, or concurrent with it, Roquentln also
feels a tremendous sense of loneliness. But each normal
Individual, at times, experiences both of these feelings, j
i.e., fear of death and an extreme loneliness, although :
j he may not recognize them as such. Therefore, these j
I - ■ !
| should not be considered as unique or peculiar qualities
experienced by Roquentln and contributing to make him an
abnormal character. It is rather the intensity of these
i
feelings, and the comparative supersensitivlty which make
Roquentln appear as an abnormal character. Deep con- j
sciousness of fear of death and extreme sensitivity to
loneliness are recognizable characteristics of the ex
istential man, even though not of him alone— hence Sartre
emphasizes them here. j
The philosophizing Mathieu.— Quite unlike Roquentln !
[ i
j in both feelings and outlook on life is the schoolteacher
! Mathieu, the hero of Les Chemlns de la Llberte. For
: Mathieu is by all measures a very normal individual; con-
: I
I sequently, little can be said of him here. Mathieu is a j
! , i
! very difficult and complicated character. Indeed, he
! |
I would not have been discussed as an abnormal character at
all, had it not been for one incident: the theft of Lola's
, money. j
Mathieu had been in need of three thousand francs, and
; |
| had been unable to borrow them either from a lending in-
i
! stitution, or from his brother Jacques, or from any of his
friends. When, by an error in judgment, Boris reported
I that Lola was dead, Mathieu volunteered to go to her apartH
j j
; ment and retrieve Boris' love letters to Lola so that Boris
would be clear in any future investigations concerning his
mistress' apparent death. Searching in Lola's briefcase
for Boris' letters Mathieu found plenty of money, three |
l
thousand francs of which he badly needed in order to send |
Marcelle to a dependable abortionist. He turned over the
j
question of theft in his mind, and decided that taking the j
money from one who had plenty and using It for a con
structive purpose was not really a theft. So, he returned
to Lola's apartment once more and took the money:
On the third landing he stopped for a moment, then he
| slipped the key into the lock of number twenty-one i
and opened the door. . . . Mathieu knelt down by the |
I suitcase and opened it; he was aware of a faint desire j
to be sick. The bills he had dropped this morning j
had fallen on the packages of letters: Mathieu took
five; he did not want to steal anything for his own
benefit. (The Age of Reason, p. 302)
I Thievery should be considered as a sort of social— if not j
; I
| natural— abnormality even if one does not steal outright j
■ !
| for his own benefit (Mathieu did steal for his own benefit,
! although he did not realize it), especially in view of the
fact that the theft was not an on-the-spur-of-the-moment
decision, but a well-planned and deliberate act. But his
j
I act is rendered one of abnormal behavior in that, Mathieu,
the existentialist, does condone thievery when it is done
j for a specific, benevolent, and important reason in cases
when the money cannot be had through legitimate channels.
| Mathieu stole the money in order to prevent Marcelle from
having an abortion at the hands of an inexperienced hack
at the risk of her health and even her life. Yet Mathieu j
consideres the stolen money a forced loan: "I shall returri
! it to her, of course. It's a forced loan, that's all."
(The Age of Reason, p. 319)
i
Prom the philosophical point of view Mathieu could be j
- !
excused, as he probably would be excused if our society !
34
did not castigate theft; our society considers thievery
an immoral behavior, however, and Mathieu will have to
bear the consequences.
j Homosexuality and Daniel.— If Mathieu's behavior is
j not considered socially acceptable and is thus at least a
| peculiarity, so must be Daniel's personal habits. Por
Daniel's problem is that he cannot help being a homosexual;
j
; his tragedy is that he hates being what he is, and for
i this reason he would give anything to change this situa
tion. But the magnetic power of homosexuality is so great,j
: and this condition is so Ingrained in him that it is im- j
i i
possible for him to change. Por this reason— wanting to j
i 1
. change his way of life but being unable to do so— Daniel i
I j
! is an extremely pathetic figure who draws not so much the !
I disgust or contempt of the reader as his pity and sympathy.
! We sincerely believe Daniel when he expresses his hatred
for himself and his condition, as we also sincerely be-
| lieve that he, indeed, is making an honest effort to changej
j It is thus that a sad feeling of disappointment spreads
I b i
j over us when he miserably fails in his efforts toward a j
i
| new life. Homosexuality is a monstrous, all-powerful, all-
j
pervading disease which has permeated Daniel's life, and
despite his hatred for It, or efforts to shake it off, he
can't escape it. Daniel's life is, indeed, a most unhappy j
|
and dreary one. Although quite successful as a business
35
man (his billfold is always stuffed with plenty of money,
and even Mathieu attempts to borrow money from him), his
personal life is a tragedy. This is so largely because
Daniel lacks moral courage: he cannot either commit
suicide or pull himself out of homosexuality and thus he
finds himself deeper and deeper in trouble. He wants to
forget Ralph’s address, for example, but he knows he won't:
Daniel talks to himself:
"He might be following me to see where I live. Oh!"
thought he, "I wish he had done so. I would give him
such a thrashing in the open street!" But Bobby did
not appear. He had made his day's wages and now he
had gone home. To Ralph's place, 6 rue aux Ours.
Daniel quivered. "If I could forget that address!
If only I could manage to forget that address!" . . .
What was the use? He would take care not to -forget
it. (The Age of Reason, p. 151)
At the height of his hatred for himself and his pathos,
Daniel makes the momentous decision to castrate himself.
Thus, he may be able forcefully to change his way of life.
Indeed, a castration will save him. He should do it. Now!
But can he act?
The razor is there, on the night-table, wide open. He
picks It up by the handle and looks at it. The handle
is black and the blade Is white. ... My hand will
do it all. . . . And he says: 'Now!' A little laugh
ing shiver runs up him from the small of the back to
his neck. 'Now--flnish it!' If only he could find
himself with his throat cut, as a man finds himself
on his legs in the morning, when the alarm has sounded,
without knowing how he got there. But first, that
foul and filthy act must be done, carefully and pat
iently he must undo his buttons. The Inertness of the
razor passes into his hand, Into his arm. A warm and
living body with an arm of stone. The huge arm of a
statue, inert, frozen, with a razor at the tip of it.
He loosens his grip. The razor falls on the table.
36
The razor is there, on the table, open. Nothing
has changed. (The Age of Reason. pp. 303-305)
But if Daniel is to be saved, it will be neither through
castration nor through courage and enough power to resist ;
and eventually forget his pasBion. His salvation might
come, as he sees it, of all things, through marriage! It j
is with this thought in mind that he decides to marry j
i
Marcelle, who has found herself pregnant by Mathieu, who j
wants her to abort the child. Marcelle accepts Daniel in I
i
1
full knowledge of his "peculiarity," and Daniel is at easei
But, unfortunately, even this does not save Daniel, alas! I
|
For we find him trying desperately to trap the youth
Philippe a long time after he has married and is still j
| living with Marcelle!
Kleptomania and Boris.--Boris is another character j
who is a deviation from the norm. Boris has many pecui- j
| arities., First, he is a dedicated kleptomaniac; second,
i he is a conscious "gigolo"; and third, he is an avid user |
; of barbiturates. Boris' kleptomania is a disease ingrained
in him. He loves to 3teal, above anything else, books. j
When a good book attracts him he can find no rest until he j
possesses it--thrcugh theft, of course. It is thus that
when he sees at a certain bookstore a "Historical and
Etymological Dictionary of Cant and Slang from the Four
teenth Century to the Present Day." his appetite for
thievery is whetted to its utmost: j
37
"HistoricalI'1 Boris repeated ecstatically to himself.
He touched the binding with the tips of his fingers,
a gesture of affectionate familiarity that restored
his contact with the volume. "It's not a book, it's
a piece of furniture," he thought with admiration.
. . . Then he became abruptly serious and began to
count; "One; two; three; four," while a high, pure
Joy made his heart beat faster. . . . "One. Two. Three.
Four. Five." At five he Openly picked the volume up
with his right hand and walked towards the bookshop
without any attempt at concealment. (The Age of Reason,
pp. 160-165)
Boris is an obviously extremely good-looking young
man who when walking in the streets, turns the women's
i
heads, attracts their meaningful smiles, and, in general, j
draws them like a powerful magnet. Yet, he is irrevocably*
and shamefully attached to an older but still popular {
!
singer named Lola. What is more important is that he j
knows that he does not love Lola (he tells himself so I
i
many times), and he even hates her. Yet, being appar- j
ently either incapable or unwilling to earn a living for j
j
himself, he goes on living with Lola, forcing himself to
make love to her, suffering her caresses (which are ex
tremely distasteful to him), and accepting her liberality j
I
in money matters. He is then what one might call, a per- |
feet gigolo.
Here is how he feels toward the woman that he forces
himself to love:
He detested her; he felt his body against hers, hard
and gaunt and muscular, he clasped her in his arms
and defended her against the years. Then there came
upon him a moment of bewilderment and drowsiness: j
he looked at Lola's arms, white as an old woman's j
hair; It seemed to him that he held old age between
his hands and that he must clasp It close and strangle
it. (The Age of Reason, p. 35)
There are numerous other occasions in which Boris has an
| opportunity to express his loathing and disgust for Lola,
j while always being her lover. "She revolts me" (The Age
of Reason, p. 242), he confesses to Mathleu once; and at
another instance:
! "If you like," said Lola. "Kiss me." He kissed
her and switched off the light. He hated her; ... j
I He heard Lola's regular breathing; she was asleep; |
and then her body again flopped down on him; it I
wasn't her fault, there was a dip in the middle of
the mattress, but Boris quivered with rage and
I desperation. (The Reprieve, p. 386)
J There are moments, to be sure, when Boris realizes that he
! can't go on living with Lola, that he must leave her. He
swears and promises to leave her— inwardly aware that he
: cannot and will not do so. Thus he angrily tells his
j
! sister Ivich:
i
"I don't want Lola's money!"
"Why? She used to give you money before the war."
"Well, she is not going to give me any more."
! "Then we'd better both of us commit suicide,"
Ivich said passionately. (Troubled Sleep, p. 77)
i
But, instead of agreeing to commit suicide, he decides, in
all seriousness, to ask Lola to marry him! And he does
i
so, only to have her refuse his proposal— at least, !
j temporarily.
1
| Finally, Boris is a deviation from the norm because j
he is a user of barbiturates. He has a little difficulty !
I
in admitting it to his sister and Mathleu. In the convert
39
sation which follows, the drug Is called "poison."
"Did you mention the drug In your letters?"
"Yes, I did," said Boris dismally. ...
"Did you ever take it yourself?" he asked. He
was rather vexed because Boris had never told him.
"I— well, it did so happen. Once or twice, from
curiosity. And I mentioned a fellow who sold it, a
fellow from the Boule-Blanche, I bought some from
him for Lola on one occasion." (The Age of Reason.
P. 231)
So this is Boris: a kleptomaniac, a pitiful gigolo, and
a narcotics addict.
; j
| Cowardice and Philippe.— Philippe, the son of a
i “ ”
| valiant and esteemed general of the French army, turns out
i
! to be a coward. He has read a number of French poets
(
! (among whom is the famous Rimbaud), and has had contacts
| with leftist-pacifist elements among the French intell- j
| ectuals. Both of these influences have left indelible j
t marks on his character. (He, by the way, carries Rim
baud's poems almost always with him while he is trying to
i
skip the country Just before the war). Philippe, himself,i
I insists and vows that he is not a coward but only a pac- j
i j
j if1st. He, apparently, has a horror of being called a j
coward, he refuses to recognize himself as such. When he
engages a forger to make false papers for him so that he
can flee the country, His conscience bothers him, for he
Intuitively knows that he is not a real pacifist, but
simply a spoiled, rich "coward." "He was almost running
now, his heart throbbing. 'With a face like that?
......“.. . " ' ' ■ 4o
Nonsense, you're a coward'" (The Reprieve, p. 173)*
But he openly and forcefully rejects the inner voice
of his conscience: "'I'm not a coward— I'm not a coward,'
he unfolded his pajamas"; (The Reprieve, p. l8l). Later
j on he repeats the same thing to an ex-soldier who has beenj
drafted again.
! "Let me go! cried Philippe. "Let me go! If
you put me out, I shall stay outside your door and
| make a row, I am not a coward, I Insist on you
listening to me." (The Reprieve, p. 194)
* |
He is not a coward, he insists, he is only a pacifist: |
1 |.
"I'm a pacifist," said Philippe on the point of j
tears. j
"A pacifist!" repeated Maurice with stupefaction. I
"That's all we need!" . . .
Philippe shook. "You mustn't laugh," he said
hoarsely. ..." Even if you aren't a pacifist,
you ought to respect me."
j "Respect you?" repeated Maurice. "What on earth
| for?"
"I'm a deserter," said Philippe with dignity.
(The Reprieve, p. 192)
| Despite his professed pacifism, Philippe is a coward.
i |
His youth and high idealism do not in the least hinder him:
j in this respect. When he finds himself faced by a diffi- j
cult situation as when he has to deal with a drunk in a
bar and he gives in and retreats, he still tries to just- j
ify this as being not cowardice but exercise of common
sense and good Judgment. So he reasons: "The man was
drunk, he had to give in, Pitteaux would have given in;
I'm not a coward" (The Reprieve, pp. 176-177)* When
later on he is being accused by Daniel of having lost his
nerve and run before the invading German, he has to admit
that he, indeed, was afraid to die.
i
| "If you think I'm a coward, you're barking up the
wrong tree" he said in a clear, sharp tone.
"Really? Then why did you run away?"
"I ran because the others ran."
"Still, you didn't want to kill yourself."
i "Well, yes; the idea did cross my mind." (Troubled
Sleep, pp. 166-167)
This fear of being killed is strong enough to make Philippe
profess pacificism and try to avoid his military obliga-
; tions to his country.
i
Now, if Philllpe's cowardice can be construed as
social immorality and thus an abnormality, it can be com-
ipared with Marcelle's Immobility.
The Strange Behavior
of Marcelle
To all appearances Marcelle is a very normal woman,
j physically as well as mentally. The fact that she has
1
| been the mistress of Mathleu for six or seven years, and
i sees him invariably three times a week, might or might not
throw a shade of doubt on her morality. If such a moral
question is indeed involved, it is beyond the scope of
this study; therefore, it will be disregarded. However,
Marcelle does behave abnormally in one respect: she never
leaves her bedroom. She stays in her own bedroom day in
and day out for years on end. But since this peculiarity
of Marcelle is fraught with symbolism, it is discussed in
a later chapter of this study.
Hatred and Ivich.--Like Marcelle, Ivich possesses
a strange peculiarity, her abnormal and unjustifiable
sentiments ,of hatred. Ivich is an extremely sensitive
i character, too sensitive, indeed, for her own good. She j
| |
| has a refined, artistic soul and cannot live happily in !
i i
! :
i the real, everyday world. After she marries, she hates ]
i |
i her husband because of her pregnancy. Her hatred has be- j
| come almost psychopathic, since she repeatedly wishes her |
i !
j husband dead. Here is part of her conversation with her j
j i
i brother clearly showing Ivich's abnormal hatred for her j
!
I husband: j
! !
"Have you seen the paper? Paris is captured."
"Yes, I know," Ivich said indifferently. i
"What about your husband?" j
"I've heard nothing, either." She leaned toward
| him and in a low, hurried whisper said: "I hope he I
is dead." (Troubled Sleep, p. 69) !
I
Later on she forgets to whisper. She tells her brother
quite loudly: "When I read, the letters dance about in j
front of my eyes. ... I am forever thinking of Georges,
i I can't but hope we shall hear he's been killed" (Troubled
j i
; Sleep, p. 72).
Since Ivich hates her husband to the point of wishing
him dead, it Is rather natural that she should also hate
her in-laws, although for quite different reasons. As she
confesses to her brother again, when she passionately asks
!
him to take her away from her in-laws so that she can be j
with him, she gives him her reasons for this hatred. I
"Boris," Ivich said with sudden passion, nl Just
can't go on living with those people."........
"Do they treat you badly?"
"On the contrary, they keep me wrapped up in
| cotton wool: I am their son's wife, and all that.
But I loathe the servants . . ." . . . "Oh, borisl"
i she cried, "they're so ugly! If you leave me with
them, I shall kill myself. No, I shall not kill
myself, which is much worse. If you only realized
how odd and evil I feel sometimes 1" (Troubled Sleep,
p. 78)
t
| Such is Ivich's peculiarity which characterizes her and
! sets her apart and outside the norm.
!
Lola's habits.— If Ivich is an extremely sensitive
I !
i i
j woman, Lola can be said to be a possessed one. For, Lola's!
| deviation from the "norm" lies in her excessive and con-
i tinuous use of drugs, and probably, her unrealistic attach-
| ment to Boris. Lola is a drug addict— there is no question
| about this. She takes "the stuff" hypodermically or
j through the mouth at all times of the day, even between her
! singing performances I We already have seen Boris admit
| this about her. But it is also explicitly mentioned by
the author. "Lola was a victim, she had no luck, and she |
j appealed too much to the emotions which was not in her
favor. Besides, she took heroin" (The Age of Reason,
p. 30). Mathleu also knows her habit. As he once saw her
| excusing herself from the table between singing perform-
i
ances, Mathleu "... watched her walk around the room andj
disappear. 'Time for her dose,' he thought" (The Age of
Reason, p. 212). At times, as when Boris took her for
dead and left her bedroom horrified, she used heroin ex
cessively. Then, her condition was pitiful, and, indeed,
regrettable. But this is another matter.
Faulkner's Interest in
Abnormal Characters
The background of Faulkner's characters has been
discussed earlier in this study. An additional examination
will be made here to ascertain the Interest which Faulkner
shows in aberrant, peculiar and abnormal characters. Al-
j i
| most every important novel by Faulkner contains at least
| one such aberrant or abnormal character. Such novels are
| Light in August. Soldiers1 Pay. The Hamlet, As I Lay Dying.
The Sound and The Fury. The Mansion and Absalom, Absalom 1
In the course of this examination, an effort will be made
to explain Faulkner's interest in and his understanding of
this type of character. Finally, a comparison of the lnteri
|
j est of both authors in this type of character will be at- j
] j
jtempted.
| The Peculiarities of Mrs. Margaret Powers.— Mrs. |
■ i
;Margaret Powers1 psychological peculiarity reaches the
realm of abnormality. Having lost her first husband in the
First World War she can find no pleasure nor even any a-
mount of happiness either in accepted social relations
or in conventional behavior. She spurns offers to marry
healthy and sane men in order to marry the idiotic, dis- j
figured and dying Donald Mahon. She knows that he is
doomed to die in a matter of months, that while living he
is worse than a child since he cannot even dress or feed
himself much less play the role of a husband; yet she
marries him. She is a pathetic figure described by
Faulkner as "a ydung girl grieving for the sake of grief"
| (Soldiers1 Pay, p. 285). She, herself, expressed the same
| feeling when she said that nothing but grief itself could
! attract or please her. Her pathological attachment to the
I idiotic Donald Mahon long before she married him, proves
t
| just such a psychological disturbance. Also, Margaret
! Powers, probably, is possessed with the compulsive ob
session of seeing her husbands dead and burying them. She j
i
. l
told the enamoured Joe Gilligan who proposed to her after j
j the death of her second husband:
j
"Kiss me, Joe." He complied. "Bless your heart, i
darling. If I married you, you'd be dead in a year,
j Joe. All the men that marry me die, you know."
"I'll take the risk," he told her.
"But I won't. I'm too young to bury three hus- t
bands." fSoldiers' Pay p. 306)
j But all the same, she asks him to go with her and live as j
j j
i her common-law husband— which he refuses.
Ike Snopes , Ben.1 amln Compson, and Mink Snopes. — j
1
i
Most of the characters of The Hamlet are indeed ordinary I
people, although rather exceptional, each in his own way.
(Elem Snopes is a financial genius who lives exclusively j
|
for wealth and stops at nothing short of murder to acquirej
i
It; Will Varner and his son, Jody, are also exceedingly j
J i
I 46
bent on the acquisition of property, considering any
means to this objective acceptable). Yet, in the person
of Ike Snopes, a cousin of Flem Snopes, we have a portrait
of the perfect idiot. Although he is a minor character,
description of his idiocy as well as his idiotic ways and
behavior covers more than thirty-six pages in one single
! occasion (pp. 288 to 324 of The Hamlet). A description of
his idiocy here would be too cumbersome; it might suffice
| to say that he cannot even pronounce his own name, but can
| only say: "Ike H-mope."
Just as idiotic as Ike Is Benjamin Compson. Like
; Ike, he is a complete idiot, having been born dumb but not
| deaf. He never speaks, although he understands the most
basic sentiments and feelings like love, anger, and dis-
1 like, and reacts accordingly. He mumbles almost contin
uously in recollection and reminiscence of past events.
Such mumblings are understood by no one else but himself.
; i
!He Is a burden and a nuisance not only to the young cour-
; I
I i
!ageous Luster, who takes care of him, but also to his j
| _ |
mother and brother, who can scarcely stand him. His un
intelligible mumblings spread through a considerable part
of The Sound and The Fury.
Another of Ike's relatives, Mink Snopes, although
not afflicted by a disease, certainly cannot be called a
normal man. For he murders a rancher neighbor named
Houston for the most Insane reason that a man can think of:
: .. . ' 47
a one-dollar pound fee. Mink’s only cow had pastured
i
illegally in Houston's meadow. Houston took the case to
court and won an $18.75 judgment against Mink who, unable
| to pay the fine, agreed to work it out at Houston's place
| for half a dollar per day. Although Mink worked steadily
| for thirty-seven and one-half days, he did not claim his
j cow on the evening of the last day of work, but waited
i
| till the next morning. However, the following day Houston
demanded an extra dollar pound fee explaining that
The law says that when anybody has to take up a stray
animal and the owner don't claim it before dark that
same day, the man that took it up is entitled to a j
one-dollar pound fee. (The Mansion* pp. 25-26) i
This is enough to make Mink decide there and then to kill j
I
| Houston. He admits this to himself when he finally murderej
!
I Houston and says: j
"I aint shooting you because of them thirty-seven j
and a half four-bits days. That's all right; I done
long ago forgot and forgive that. . . » That aint
why I shot you. I killed you because of that-ere
extra one-dollar pound fee." (The Mansion, p. 39)
| This trifling and insane cause is enough justification in j
i !
i the eyes of Mink to waylay and kill Houston. Such exces- ;
sive pride and peculiar stubbornness which lead to murder
are certainly a form of abnormality and madness in Mink
Snopes.
The low birth of Januarlus Jones.--Januarius Jones j
1
is an Illiterate, ill-kempt, and, as his name intimates,
a comic Palstaff-type of character. On top of these
j shortcomings he Is also a bastard; as the author says,
] i
j "Jones, Januarius Jones, born of whom he knew and cared
not. ..." (Soldiers1 Pay, p. 56). He is crude, very
i
much lacking In knowledge of social behavior, especially J
J I
I among women, and extremely fat; yet he has a heart capable |
i of tenderness, love and affection and, thus, he somewhat j
I reminds the reader of Quasimodo of Hugo1s Notre Dame.
\ . \
I |
The peculiar couple Hightower.— Nor are the Hlgh-
: towers a couple within the "norm." Hightower's wife,
I obsessed by illicit sexual desires and finding no satis-
j i
! faction from her husband, takes frequent trips to Memphis,!
■ t
1 i
Tennessee, where her burning desires are satisfied. With j
I I
the passage of time she becomes a debauched prostitute;
I
' finally, knowing the damage that she has caused to her
I husband, the minister, and unable to continue her de-
j bauched life, commits suicide by Jumping from a hotel |
I ;
' window in Memphis.
Her husband, Gail Hightower, resembles, in irrever
ence, his counterpart, Rector Saunders, when he says:
"It's not Just. God didn't intend it so when He made ;
!
marriage. Made it? Women made marriage" (Light in
1
August, p. 299). He lets himself "forget the habit of j
prayer" (Light in August, p. 301). But this is not his
main deviation from the norm. It is the kind of life thatj
i
he leads, a hermit's life, cut off from the life of the j
49
village, being ignored by its inhabitants, and, he, in
| turn ignoring all about him. He is a hermit, a recluse.
J Many more things could be said, indeed, about Gail High
tower. His relations with his parishioners belong, how-
j ever, to a different chapter.
i
I Jason Compson. Quentin Compson and Anse Bundren.—
| Jason Compson the IV, although a physically sane char-
i
: acter is, nevertheless, rather abnormal because of his
; pathetic attachment to money. He refuses to accept
collect-long distance phone calls (only letters), because:
... I says I don't mind you writing me now and then
in a plain envelope, but if you ever try to call me
up on the telephone, Memphis won't hold you I says.
I says when I'm up there I'm one of the boys, but I'm
not going to have any woman calling me on the tele-
! phone. Here I says, giving her the forty dollars.
| If you ever get drunk and take a notion to call me
on the phone, Just remember this and count ten before
you do it. (The Sound and the Fury, pp. 211-212)
; He sends telegrams collect, and even becomes a black-
1 mailer, a doublecrosser and defrauder for the sake of a
| few extra dollars. He never spends a penny except in
j
| absolute necessity, does not trust the banks (he hoards
his money in a locked drawer in his room at home), and
when his money is stolen he behaves like an insane man.
The following quotation taken from Jason's own speech
gives a perfect picture of his fanatic stinginess:
There's a man right here in Jefferson made a lot of
money selling rotten goods to niggers, lived in a room
over the store about the size of a pigpen, and did his
own cooking. About four or five years ago he was
j " .... 50
| taken sick. Scared the hell out of him so that when
he was up again he joined the church and bought himself
a Chinese missionary, five thousand dollars a year.
I often think how mad he'll be If he was to die and
find out that there's not any heaven, when he thinks
about that five thousand a year. Like I say, he'd
better go on and die now and save money. (The Sound
and The Fury. P. 212) |
1 j
i Quentin Compson, |
I ... who loved not his sister's body but some concept
; of Compson honor precariously and . . . only temporar-
| ily . . . who loved not the Idea of incest . . . but j
some presbyterian concept of Its eternal punishment I
... who loved and lived in a deliberate and almost
perverted anticipation of death as a lover loves and
deliberately refrains from the waiting . . . until he
can no longer bear . . . and so flings, hurls himself,
relinquishing, drowning. (The Sound and The Fury, pp.
I 9-10) |
It is thus that Faulkner describes Quentin Compson and
his abnormality. Quentin ended his life by commiting
[
suicide two months after his sister's marriage. j
j
Anse Bundren, although not an abnormal character in !
the proper 3ense of the word, looks to us at least as a J
peculiar man in that he married again the very day he
I buried his first wife, and sent his maddened son to the
' asylum. But the consistency of his unorthodox behavior
prepares us for even such an ending. For he knew that his:
I !
I j
! wife was dying; yet !
j 1
I He stands in the door, looking at her. I
"What you want, Dari?" I say. j
"She is going to die," he says. And old turkey- >
buzzard Tull coming to watch her die but I can fool |
| them.
"When is she going to die?" I say.
"Before we get back," he says.
"Then why are you taking Jewel?" I say. j
"I want him to help me load," he says. (As I Lay j
I 51!
I
| Dying, p. 356)
I And when he learns about his wife's death:
i ^
| "I reckon you better get supper on," he says.
Dewey Dell does not move.
"Git up, now, and put supper on," pa says. "We
got to keep our strength up. I reckon Doctor Peabody's I
I right hungry, coming all this way. And Cash'll need ;
to eat quick and get back to work so he can finish It |
[the coffin] in time." (As I Lay Dying, p. 37^)
It is thus evident that both authors do create a I
I large number of characters who are afflicted by one or
I
j another kind of physical or mental abnormality, aberration,
' peculiarity, or oddity. The degree of the character's de-
! vlation from normality does vary from a mere harmless ob- j
session to outright lunacy, and from simply a "natural"
: ' i
I birth of idiocy. Such abnormal characters do not, as a j
] |
j rule, play the role of villains in the stories. Faulkner j
! !
; creates them because they are part of our real world and I
I as such should have their proper place in fictional rep- I
| resentation of reality. Sartre, on the other hand,
creates them in order to show what an individual is worth
I ;
| when he follows his inclinations whatever these may be or j
I lead to. Sartre wants also to symbolize concepts or ideas.1
i i
I f
| E
I Humor
It Is rather commonly agreed that the word "humor" is
a very difficult one to define, as it is known that this
word was not originally even concerned with the laughable, j
I
However, an effort can be made to present here the various ;
52
! existing definitions of the word "humor." Perhaps one of
i
| the best and most modem definitions (or rather descrlp-
I tlons) of humor is to be found in Hazlltt's contrast and
i
; comparison of humor and wit in the Encyclopaedia Brltan-
nica:
i
Humour is the describing the ludicrous as it is in
Itself; . . . Humour is, as it were, the growth of
j nature and accident. . . . Humour, as it is shown
j in books, is an imitation of the natural or acquired
! absurdities of mankind, or of the ludiferous in
accident, situation and character.1*
The American College Dictionary "defines" humor thus:
Humor consists in the bringing together of certain
incongruities which arise naturally from situation
or character, frequently so as to Illustrate some _
fundamental absurdity in human nature or conduct.1®
Here are a few quotations from writers regarding
! humor:
1
"[Humor] deals with incongruities of character and
circumstance. . . ." (Hunt). "Humor is expansive . . .
slow . . . gentle . . . objective." (Carolyn Wells).
"Humor is meant, in a literal sense, to make game of a
man/that is to dethrone him from his official dignity
and hunt him like game." (G. K. Chesterton). "Humor
always laughs, however earnestly it feels, and some-
j times chuckles; but it never sniggers. y (Saintsbury)
The word "humor" will be used in this study to
describe those incongrUent situations or character qual-
^^The Encyclopaedia Brltannlca. 11th Edition, XIII,
890.
•^The American College Dictionary (New York, i960),
P. 589.
■^William f . Thrall and Addison Hubbard, A Handbook
to Literature (New York, 1936), p. 465.
53
itles which evoke laughter or merriment. It will include
anecdote, caricature, surrealism, joke, Jest, and the tall
tale. Since this chapter concerns itself, to some extent,
also with irony, I shall try here to define the word
| irony, for convenience’s sake. The Encyclopaedia Britan- j
| nlca defines irony as "a form of speech in which the real
i j
! meaning is concealed or contradicted by the words used"; !
| (p« 839). It goes on to make the distinction among many
; types of irony and then discusses dramatic irony. Dram-
! j
: atlc irony is prevalent in literary works, the drama being j
; the most prominent. And we are concerned here with dram- |
I atic irony, perhaps more so than with any other type of lt.j
Here is, then, how The Encyclopaedia Brltannica defines
i
dramatic irony as the "form of irony in which the words and|
1 I
1
| actions of the characters belie the real situation, which I
i (
| the spectators fully realize" (p. 839)*
: i
The American College Dictionary, in discussing irony j
: says:
j In Irony the essential feature is the contradiction
between the literal and the intended meaning, since one
thing Is said and another is Implied; it attacks or de
rides, or, often, is merely playful, (p. 645)
Humor in Sartre’s Novels
. ■■ ■ .............— 1 1 1 ■ i . 1 I
Sartre's humor partakes very little, if any, of the j
I
grossness, boisterousness, and anecdote which abound in j
i
Faulkner’s novels. On the contrary, it is quite sedate,
unpretentious and calm. It does not make the reader laugh;:
! ' “ ' ~ ......54
it makes him faintly smile. His humor which becomes irony
almost before one can realize it, reaches the reader
through his intellect, not through his senses. It is a
i
subtle, suave, discriminating, abstruse kind of humor
i
! heavily soaked with iroryif, indeed, it is not irony it- j
| self. It is intended for the intellectual and learned
: i
i reader; it is so fine, so subtle, so eerie that it can j
i ’ ' !
| often be missed. Roquentin's life, for instance, is |
i i
! filled with such ironic humor. Yet, one has to search in
I !
! \
\ order to discover it. >
Subtle humor and irony.--There is a most subtle and
I
: delightful scene which takes place between Roquentin and j
Anny. Roquentin has looked forward to Anny's return and |
| 1
| his visit with her, greatly hoping that he could, at last, !
find a few perfect moments at the company of the sweet -
I heart of his youth. This is Roquentin's last hope. If
this fails, Roquentin's hopes will crash forever. Indeed,
j Anny comes to Paris and Roquentin visits her. While he is ;
. ! I
expecting his hopes to be fulfilled, he learns to suffer
all of Anny's witticisms, her humorous teasings, and her
ironical jibes:
Anny burst out laughing, "What are you laughing
at?"
As usual, she does not answer right away, and
starts looking quarrelsome.
"Tell me why you're laughing."
"Because of that wide smile you've been wearing j
ever since you got here. You look like a father 1
who's just married off his daughter." (Nausea, p. 183) i
“ ....... “. 55
This is the first indication of the disappointment which
Roquentin is about to experience. He is full of smiles
and hopes but there is no encouragement or hope but only
humor and irony behind Anny's eyes. Yet, Roquentin does |
1
I
not realize it— yet. So, Anny continues to tease him. j
i
"You haven't changed at all? You're still just !
as much of a fool?"....
i
. . . . . . . . . . . . . j
"Need me? You mean you needed me these four !
years I haven't been with you? You've been pretty quiet ;
about it." j
I spoke lightly: She might think I am resentful. j
I feel a false smile on my mouth, I'm uncomfortable.
. "What a fool you are! .... !
"Where is your hat? I want to see if your taste i
is as bad as ever." [
"I don't wear one any more."
She whistles softly, opening her eyes wide.
"You didn't think of that all by yourself! Did
you? Well, congratulations, of course." (Nausea.
pp. 184-185) |
I
Roquentin has Just begun to realize that his hopes might \
just prove to be a dream, but he will not give up, he
I
J
fights: |
"Listen," I say spontaneously, "I'm going to admit
my shortcomings, too. I never really understood you,
I never sincerely tried to help you. If I had known
• • •
"Thank you, thank you very much," she says ironi- ;
cally. "I hope you're not expecting recognition for j
your delayed regrets." (Nausea, p. 199)
Roquentin understands now. But he still does not want to
give up. His search for perfect moments could only suc-
i
ceed with Anny, and now Anny is closing the door on his I
i |
f
face Irrevocably. Roquentin discovers that she is not the j
Anny that he used to knowj she is a different Anny. Under
56
I
i any circumstances, It makes no difference at all: she Is
!
| leaving him.
!
"What are you going to do, then?"
"I told you, I'm going to England."
"No, I mean . . .
"Nothing!"
I haven't let go of her arms, I tell her gently:
"Then I must leave you after finding you again?". . J
"No," she says slowly, "no. You haven't found me j
again." j
She pulls her arms away. She opens the door. The
hall is sparkling with light.
I Anny begins to laugh. j
"Poor boy! He never has any luck. The first time j
he plays his part well, he gets no thanks for it. Get
out." |
I hear the door close behind me. (Nausea, p. 206) j
Thus, Roquentin finds only humor, humiliation, and
! I
I irony in the person in whom he had his only and highest
i
; I
hopes.
Uncouth humor.— The only gross, rude, and coarse
i
: humorous scenes which are found in Sartre's works pertain j
to the groups of drunken French soldiers whose exploits j
: have been quoted elsewhere in this study. The only time
. at which the reader may laugh (and what a pitiful laugh
ter!) is when the drunken soldiers tell indecent and
indelicate jokes and do improper acts. The drunken Longin,
for example, soaks his handkerchief into the wine and then
pulls It out saying: "Going to make myself a liquid com
press." (Troubled Sleep, p. I4l); at another instant, the
serious character of Mathleu is made an object of laughter
by the drunken soldiers: "The Hainies'll bum the whole
dump down, and here's Delarue won't smash the cupboard.
They all roared with laughter" (Troubled Sleep, p. 139)*
i Probably the only other humorous scene that might
: wake, In some people, loud laughter Is the one In which
i the Negress streetwalker, after having had her affair with
I
| Philippe left the house and locked his trousers in a trunk
| hoping that thus he would be unable to leave her. When
j Philippe discovered her trick he ran into a rage.
He dashed towards it [the cupboard], but the key was
not in the lock; he tried to open it with his nails,
then with a pair of scissors that he found on the
table, but he failed. He flung the scissors down
and stamped on the floor, muttering in a voice of
fury: "The little bitch'. She has locked up my
trousers to keep me from going out." (The Reprieve.
P* 329)
j Sartre turns his plainly humorous scene to a most pro-
1
; foundly ironical disturbing situation. He contrasts
Philippe's ridiculous predicament with the one in which
I Czechoslovakia found itself Just prior to World War II.
The line following immediately after the above quotation
; reads:
On this matter I can only say gne thing: two men
are now confronted: Herr Benes and myselfI The
whole crowd began to j^ell. Anna looked uneasily
at Milan. (The Reprieve, p. 329)
It can be said that behind almost all of Sartre's
!
contrasts there looms a bitter, ironic smile. It looks as
though it is pure humor at the beginning, but it soon
changes outlook like a chameleon and becomes bitter irony.
Thus, the sufferings, misery and demoralization of the
fighting men in the front are ironically contrasted with
the opulence, comfort, and carefree ease of those behind
the lines. It is, thus, that while Boris has his usual in
consequential and trite moments making love to and cheating
with Lola in a plushly furnished, de luxe apartment,
. . . she pushed him from her.
"Get off me."
"What?" He raised his head and looked at her
in surprise.
"It's my heart," she exclaimed. "It's beating too
hard and you're suffocating me." (Troubled Sleep,
pp. 230-231)
It is indeed ironic that in the same nation, on the same
date and exactly the same hour, a man has to make many
decisions which will affect his honor and his very life
itself and stand to fight his country's enemy in the front
lines while another has shed all manly responsibility and
Is making illicit and base love without any regard for the
grim, Indeed, the shameful reality engulfing him.
But probably the most ironic of all situations is
the one displayed in the person of the Self-Taught Man.
The Self-Taught Man poses as a conscious and serious human
ist. He betrays almost shock when In one of his dis
cussions with Roquentin, the latter violently attacks all
sorts of humanists. Yet, this shocked, sanctimoniously
humanistic Self-Taught Man proves to be the same type of
humanist that Roquentin had told him that they all are:
"They all hate each other" (Nausea, p. 188). And the
Self-Taught Man proves to be just that: an avaricious
59
selfish humanist; a self-styled humanist for what he can
get from humanity; a humanist who loves humanity, but,
unfortunately, loves himself more than he does humanity.
; In fact, the Self-Taught Man is a homosexual who is caught
| by the librarian while he is trying to corrupt two young
l
i
! boys. The librarian in rage smashes his face and makes
! blood streak down his nose. Roquentin tries to protect
| i
j and comfort him, but the Self-Taught Man knows well that j
' • 1
i his pretense has been unmasked and that he no longer will I
i t
| i
: be able to face the blatantly upright Roquentin. j
’ ’Come to the drugstore with me," I told him |
awkwardly. !
He did not answer. A loud murmur escaped from
the reading room. j
"I can never come back here," the Self-Taught j
Man said. He turned and looked perplexedly at the i
stairs, at the entrance to the reading-room. This
| movement made the blood run between his collar and
his neck. His mouth and cheeks were smeared with
blood.
"Come on," I said, taking him by the arm. He
shuddered and pulled away violently.
‘ "Let me go!
"But you can't stay by yourself, someone has to
wash your face and fix you up."
He repeated: "Let me go, I beg you, sir, let me
go."
He was on the verge of hysterics: I let him go.
(Nausea, p. 225)
This is the ironic and humiliating end of the humanist who
all the while pretended that he loved humanity and did not
J
want to admit for a moment any selfish reasons for his
humanism.
!
!
Humor in Faulkner's Novels j
Although Faulkner is not primarily or purely a !
humorist, his major novels, with the likely exception of
Absalom, Absalom! teem with humor of all types: the tall
tale, the humorous anecdote, Negro humor, caricature,
Rabelaisian humor, surrealistic humor and the southern
frontier humor. Southern frontier and surrealistic
humor seem to be the two predominant types of humor of
which Faulkner makes use--with the former being almost ever
present in and haunting all major novels.
Southern frontier humor.— This Southern frontier
type of humor is a crude combination of joke, the tall tale,
the humorous anecdote, Negro humor and the caricature. Or
it may be of any of these at one time.
Perhaps the purest "southern" humor is to be found
in The Unvanquished. Here Faulkner seems to be at his j
best. Since The Unvanquished deals with aspects of the
American Civil War, and since it is written by a southerner^!
the humor in question has to do with the warring parties
and, most often, is at the expense of the Yankees.
Colonel John Sartoris, for example, who served the
Confederate Army, pokes fun at the Yankees thus:
"Get on him from that side," Father said laughing.
Ringo looked at the horse and then at Father. Git up
from the wrong side?" Ringo said. "I knowed Yankees j
wasn't folks, but I never knowed before they horses
aint horses.20
I
20Wllliam Faulkner, The Unvanquished (New York, 1959\
p. 56. j
Another time, when a few union cavalry soldiers are
looking for the rebellious John Sartoris, they inquire
about his whereabouts from John Sartoris himself! Here is
j how he handles them, taking advantage of the fact that
they can't recognize him.
| Marse John setting on the porch and them Yankees
| riding through the flower beds and say, "Brother,
we wanter know where the rebel John Sartoris live,"
and Marse John say, "Hey?" with his hand to his ear
and his face look like he bora loony like Unc Pew
Mitchell, and Yankee say, "Sartoris, John Sartoris,"
and Marse John say, "Which? Say which?" until he
know Yankee stood about all he going to, and Marse I
| John say, "Oh, John Sartoris. Whyn't you say so in )
the first place?" and Yankee cussing him for idiot
| fool, and Marse John say, "Hey? How's that?" and j
! Yankee say, "Nothing'. Nothing! Show me where John j
Sartoris is 'fore I put a rope around your neck too!"
and Marse John say, "Lemme get my shoes and I show
you," and come into house limping, and then run down
the hall at me and say, "Boots and pistols, Louvinia."
I (The Unvanauished. p. 63)
I
!Or when Granny tries to tell the Yankee colonel that two j
t
of her Negroes, Loosh and Philadelphy, ran away from her i
|
household talcing with them two mules, Old Hundred and j
!Tinney, and a trunk of silver, the colonel cannot under-
| i
|stand her because of her heavy southern accent. So here is!
what comes out of Granny's request:
"I will do it," Granny said. She didn't open her
eyes. "The chest of silver tied with hemp rope. The
rope was new. Two darkies, Loosh and Philadelphy.
The mules, Old Hundred and Tinney."
Colonel Dick turned and watched the orderly writ
ing. "Have you got that?" he said. . . .
"Ten chests tied with hemp rope," the lieutenant
read. "Got them? ... A hundred and ten miles. It
says from Philadelphia— that's in Mississippi. . . .
And here are your niggers, madam." j
62
Qranny was looking at him with her eyes wide as
Ringo's. . . . "But they're not— They ain't— " she
said. . . . (The Unvanquished, pp. 88-89)
Another similar funny scene occurs when John
; Sartorls lets the Yankees1 prisoners escape in their under-*
| clothes; while he and his gang shake with laughter (see j
i i
! The Unvanauished. p. 60).
I
Or the occurrence of the hilarious episode well
worth mentioning in which John Sartoris and Drusilla set
I out for Memphis to get married but instead get mixed up
I ‘ I
: in the voting that is going on, kill two men, and return
I home with the balloting box to continue balloting—
I southern style. Meanwhile they have forgotten to get j
; i
! 1
I married. This, of course, infuriates Aunt Louisa,
| Drusilla's mother. j
"So you are not married"j she said.
"I forgot," Drusilla said. I
! "You forgot? You forgot?" I
| "I . . . Drusilla said. "We ..." (The
I Unvanguished. p. 159)
In As I Lay Dying, the teenager Dewey Dell presents j
j the reader with a few merry moments, which almost touch
the macabre. She rides on the wagon which is taking her
dead mother's body to Jackson not so much because she
cares to accompany her to her last abode but because in
the city she hopes to find some medicine which will effect
the abortion of the illegitimate child and thus end her
ignominious pregnancy. Her efforts to buy such a medicine
and her resulting meetings with the various druggists are,
63
to say the least, ludicrous.
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen," she said.
"Oh, I said. "I thought maybe you were ..."
She was watching me. But then, in the eyes all of
them look like they had no age and knew everything
in the world, anyhow.
"Are you too regular, or not regular enough?"
She quit looking at me but she didn't move. j
"Yes," she said. "I reckon so. Yes."
"Well, which?" I said. "Don't you know?"
(As I Lay Dying, p. 486)
But she is more successful at her next try--successful not
in obtaining any real medicine for her purpose but in
getting swindled of her money and suffering another sexualj
j
humiliation in the hands of a bullish druggist. j
"Oh, I sayB. "You got something in your belly
you wish you didn't have." She looks at me. "You
wish you had a little more or a little less, huh?"
"I got the money," she says. "He said I could
get something at the drug-store for hit."
"Who said so?" I says.
"He did," she says, looking at me.
"You don't want to call no names," I says. "The
one that put the acorn in your belly? He the one
that told you?" She don't say nothing. "You ain't
married, are you?" I says. "I never saw no ring.
But like as not, they ain't heard yet out there
that they use rings.
"I got the money," she says. She showed it to
me, tied up in her handkerchief: a ten spot. |
"I'll swear you have?" I says. "He give it to
you?« . .
"Yes, she says.
"Which one?" I says. She looks at me. "Which
one of them give it to you?"
"It ain't but one," she says. She looks at me.
(As I Lay Dying, p. 519)
And later on:
"Where is it?" she said.
I gave her the box of capsules. She held the
box in her hand, looking at the capsules.
"Are you sure it'll work?" she says.
"Sure," I says. "When you take the rest of the
treatment."
j "Where do I take it?" she says.
! "Down in the cellar," I says. (As I Lay Dying,
j P. 523)
Faulkner has strewn his novels with a kind of coarse,
gross and somewhat scurrilous southern frontier humor.
It is examples of this kind of humor which, in all likeli
hood, have prompted Malcom Cowley to make a most compli
mentary remark regarding Faulkner's humor; in his article
"William Faulkner Revisited" he writes: "It is a sort of
| homely and soberfaced frontier humor that is seldom a- j
! 21 I
chieved in contemporary writing. ... I
i ■
! However, the situation in which Faulkner seems to
i
I find extreme pleasure and which he uses repeatedly, is the
|
| one in which an uncouth, awkward and unlearned young man j
| is thrown into the intricacies and comparative sophisti-
| cation of society and made an object of humor and ridicule
as a consequence of contrasts and incongruities. The
young and ambitious Labove, for example, is astonished
beyond description to learn that he can play football at j
i
college and be paid for it I When his prospective coach !
I
urges him to attend college and thus be eligible to play
football, young Labove counters:
"I ain't going to borrow money Just to play a
game on," he said.
"You won't have to, I tell you'." the coach said.
"Your tuition will be paid. You can sleep in my
21Malcom Cowley, "William Faulkner Revisited," Satur
day Review of Literature, April 14, 1945, p. 15*
I attic and you can feed my horse and cow and milk
| and build the fires, and I will give you your meals.
Don’t you understand?” It could hot have been his
face because that was in darkness, and he did not
believe it had been in his voice. Yet the coach
said, "I see. You don’t believe it."
j "No," he said. "I don't believe anybody will
give me all that just for playing a game."
"Will you try it and see? Will you stay here j
! and do it until somebody comes to you and asks you I
for money?" j
"Will I be free to go when they do?" j
"Yes," the coach said. "You have my word."
(The Hamlet, p. 122)
|
i Or, the following similar humorous situation in which young
i |
| Christmas enters a coffee shop as a paying customer for the
j
first time in his life only to find himself in a ludicrous
predicament.
j "Coffee and pie," he said.
Her voice sounded downcast, quite empty. "Lemon
cocoanut [sic] chocolate."
| In proportion to the height from which her voice
i came, the hands could not be her hands at all.
I Yes," Joe said.
The hands did not move. The voice did not move.
! "Lemon cocoanut [sic] chocolate, which kind."
| To the others they must have looked quite strange.
(Light in August, p. 169)
I Christmas has to return the coffee brought along with the
1 ;
i pie because he had with him only ten cents while coffee and |
pie cost twenty cents. j
Or the ribald, sexy humor created by his persistent j
1
and ignorant questioning of his prostitute girl friend as
to the kind of "sickness" from which she suffered.
"I forgot about the day of the month when I told
you Monday night. You surprised me, I guess. There
on the street Saturday. I forgot what day it was,
anyhow. Until after you had gone."
His voice was as quiet as hers. "How sick?
j 66
! Haven't you got some medicine at home that you can
! take?"
"Haven't I got ..." Her voice died. She
said, "Weil, say." She said suddenly: "It's late.
And you with four miles to walk."
“"I've already walked it now. I'm here now."
His voice was quiet, hopeless, calm. "I reckon it's
getting late," he said. Then something changed. Not
looking at him, she sensed something before she heard
it in his hard voice: "What kind of sickness have j
you got?" |
She didn't answer at once. Then she said, still I
| down-looking: "You haven't ever had a sweetheart, yet. i
| I'll bet you haven’t." (Light in August, pp. 176-177) I
I |
j Such is then the type of humor that arises out of incon- j
; I
i gruous situations— when the innocent, naive youth meets j
i j
j with sophisticated society. There are numerous other in- ]
| stances of such humor interspersed throughout Faulkner's
: novels. Soldiers’ Pay, the first,bears its share of such
unrefined, southern humor. Here is an example of humor
arising out of mistaken identity. In one instance Cecily
embraces the fat and shapeless Jones, whom she loathes,
! but who is in love with her. She buries her head in his j
j bosom murmuring sweet and apologetic words to him all the ;
time thinking that she is in the arms of her fiance,
j • ;
j Donald.
"Donald, Donald! I will try to get used to it, I
will try! Oh, Donald, Donald! Your poor face! But
I will, I will," she repeated hysterically. Her fumb
ling hand touched his sleeve and slipping down his arm
she drew his hand under her cheek, clasping it. "I
didn't mean to, yesterday. I wouldn’t hurt you for
anything, Donald. I couldn’t help it, but I love you
Donald, my precious, my own." She burrowed deeper
into his lap. "Put your arms around me, Donald," she \
said, "until I get used to you again."
He complied, drawing her upward. Suddenly, struck
with something familiar about the coat, she raised her
~~ ' ' “ 67
head. It was Januarlus Jones. She sprang to her feet.
"You beast, why didn't you tell me?"
"My dear ma'am, who am I to refuse what the gods
send?" (Soldiers1 Pay. p. 137)
There are other comico-dramatic scenes. Joe 01111-
gan, after having changed his mind and accepted Margaret's
offer to live with her in free love, hunts for her through
the entire train while she waits in tears on the last car
to bid him a final farewell. Bayard is saved from humili
ation by a melodramatic gesture of MacCallum. Again
Bayard is teased for "maiden" shyness in his timid court
ship in playing "one tune beneath a lady's window, just
enough to waken her from sleep, then go away" fSartoris. j
p. 15*0 • Upper class southern ladies reveal an insinu
atingly obscene humor in blushes and avoidance of improper
words, as shown by Narcissa's refraining from putting her
thoughts into realistic words: j
i
"But that woman" Narclssa wailed suddenly, like j
a little girl, burying her face in her hands. "She's
so dirtyI
Miss Jenny dug a man's handkerchief from the pocket
of her skirt and give it to the other. "What do you
mean?" she asked. "Don't she wash often enough?"
"Not that way. I m-mean she's -- she's ---"
Narcissa turned suddenly and laid her head on the
piano. "Oh," Miss Jenny said. "All women are. if
that's what you mean." (Sartorls. pp. 201-202)
And the fear with which the Negro servant, Simon, ap
proaches the new devilish contraption driven by the
younger Bayard.
i
Bayard turned in the door and spoke his name. |
"Cut the switch off, Simon," he ordered.
"Cut do which whut off?" Simon said. |
"That little bright lever by the steering-
wheel there. Turn it down."
"Naw, auh," Simon answered, backing away, "I
ain't gwine tech it. I ain't gwine have it blowin'
up in my face."
"It won't hurt you," Bayard said impatiently.
"Just put your hand on it and pull it down. That
little bright Jigger there."
Simon peered doubtfully at the gadgets and
things, but without coming any nearer; . . .
(Sartoris. p. 114)
Luster tries to sell the golf ball that he found but he
fails:
"Where'd you get it?" he said.
"Pound it." Luster said.
"I know that," he said. "Where. In somebody's
golf bag?"
"I found it laying over here In the yard,"
Luster said. "I'll take a quarter for it."
"What makes you think it's yours." he said.
"I found it. Luster said.
"Then find yourself another one." he said. He
put it in his pocket and went away. (The Sound
and The Fury, p. 72)
And Jason exchanges some rather deadly humor with his
niece Caddy: j
"But I've got a position in this town, and I'm j
not going to have any member of my family going on
like a nigger wench. You hear me?"
"I don't care," she says, "I'm bad, and I'm going
to hell, and I don't care. I'd rather be in hell j
than anywhere where you are."
"if I hear one more time that you haven't been
to school you'll wish you were In hell," I says. j
She turned and ran across the yard. "One more time, j
remember," I says. She didn't look back. (The Sound j
and The Fury, p. 207) j
Irony.--At times Faulkner's humor is heavily coated
with irony, and, on various occasions, it becomes pure
irony. It is ironic, for example, that Lena Grove remains
69
Insensitive to her final abandonment by Lucas and that she
is so immeasurably attracted by the wonders of travel and
new places that she forgets her own condition; and that
her search for her child's father has not only ended in
failure but, what is more, has brought Lena to the point
! of probable moral dissolution*
j i
Irony is quite obvious, almost rude, in Soldiers'
Pay. Donald, who after his accident, has become idiotic
and is on the threshold of death, is being thought of as
a lucky man for being "married soon" and his father as a
| "Happy" one by Mrs. Burney who does not know Donald's true
condition:
; i
"Dewey may be dead, but thank Qod he ain't engaged
to her. 'Your boy is home, he'll be married soon
| and everything. So nice for you, so nice. . . .'"
fSoldiers' Pay. p. 183)
And the same situation is exploited later on in order to j
| produce a marked Ironical twist as Mrs. Burney discusses j
j j
| Donald's future marriage with Margaret Powers.
| "Mahon's boy come back, anyway. That's something.
! 'Specially as he's taking a bride."
She became curious again, obscene: "He's all
| right, ain't he?"
j "All right?"
"I mean for marriage. He ain't - it's just - I
! mean a man ain't no right to palm himself off on a
woman if he ain't — " (Soldiers' Pay, p. 258)
In As I Lay Dying the irony is of a slightly more
refined character and much more subtle, but It still
i
remains the irony which is identified with the frontier j
i
humor. It is, for example, an irony of major proportions
70 i
that Anse, after obeying his wife's last wish (risking not !
| I
ionly his own life but the lives of his sons as well, and I
going deeply into debt in order to keep her last wish) gets
his teeth fixed, buys a "gramophone1 1 and marries within
twenty-four hours after he buried his dead wife with his
own hands 1 Thus, the husband who has risked his life to
carry out his dead wife’s wish thinks nothing of her mem
ory. For Anse it is the promise Itself that counts, not
the spirit of such a promise. He kept his promise relig-
; iously although he felt no inclination to honor the spirit,
the love, and the companionship which the dead woman had
shared with him for a long period of years.
Anse is a most ambiguous and peculiar character for, ;
! even under the most dire circumstances when his wife is j
; |
dying, he thinks of his comfort. Although he believes in j
the rewards and punishment meted out by God in the after j
; i
: life, "It's because there is a reward for us above. ...
j
; Every man will be equal there" (As I Lay Dying, p. 4l4), j
j Anse wants to be comfortable here and now, "But now I can
j get them teeth. That will be a comfort. It will" (As I \
I Lay Dying, p. 415).
j ■ j
! A similar kind of irony is to be found in The Sound
I and the Fury. The main ironical situation there is the
! |
! one involving Jason the IV and the blind old lady Corapson. |
| Lady Compson bums the monthly checks sent by her wayward |
i ‘ i
I daughter for the support of the ill legitimate child, j
7 1 i
Quentin. However, Jason has contrived to substitute bogus |
checks for the real ones, thus making a profit. He thus j
passes for a great benefactor to Caddy and her grandmother
when he actually is an embezzler, blackmailer and double-
crosser:
I says, "It's your money. Do as you please with
It. You want me to tell the bank to pay it?"
"I know you begrudge him," she says. "I realize
the burden on your shoulders. When I'm gone it will
be easier on you." (The Sound and the Fury, p. 242)
And the irony continues when the youthful Caddy steals all
of Jason's money and he cannot do anything about It, not
even ask for help from the law simply because his forgery
and blackmail would then have been discovered. i
i
Irony is also to be found in contrasts of charact
ers and situations. Januarius Jones, for instance, con-
j
trasts ironically with George Farr, Emmy with Cecily, the |
young Bayard with Simon, and Will Varner with Jody, his son.;
Surrealistic humor.--Some of Faulkner's humor is not j
J ;
related at all to the southern frontier humor which has
been described in this study but is, actually, a contrast
to it. This is what can be called--because of close
22 S
resemblance— surrealistic humor. Faulkner attempts this s
22For an excellent analysis and Interpretation of
surrealism see the two books written by Anna Balakian, !
Surrealism: the Road to the Absolute* especially pp. 3-8
and 91-110 and Literary Origins of Surrealism, especially j
pp. 6-20.
type of humor when he laboriously experiments with the
sort of stream-of-consciousness writing described else
where in this study. Notably,such surrealistic humor
can be found in the human-animal relations of Ike Snopes
with Houston's cow. In this case, the mind of the idiot
Ike confuses human reality with bestial to the extent that
he substitutes the latter for the former. This psycho-
physiological distortion in Ike's mind and his refusal to
recognize realities result in some coarsely humorous !
events. Thus, the pathetic love-friendship developed by
| the idiotic Ike for a cow, with its few attendant humorous
| incidents narrated in the stream-of-consciousness technl-
j
i que produces such surrealistic, although, indeed, coarse
i
humor. Take, for example, the part in which Ike saves his
beloved cow from the burning barn and receives the cow's
excrement as his reward.
Where he, lying beneath the struggling and bellowing
cow, received the violent relaxing of her fear-constric-
In these pages Dr. Balakian explains surrealism as, among
i other things, "the flight from consciousness into the
dream-mystique fSurrealism; The Road to the Absolute,)
. . ." evidence for their dream-wlsh that something more
resourceful than logic might be found to endow life with
fuller significance (p. 93) .... the ultimate achieve
ment of dream study, the marriage of the two states, in
appearance so contradictory, of dream and reality, into
one Bort of absolute reality (p. 95) • • • the strong
element of absurdity commln in dreams, and a certain type
of unsought humor revealed in the hallucinations of the
deranged mind (p. 99) * • • the knowledge of the Inter
relation of the subjective and the objective (p. 105).
73
ted bowels. . . . When he moved toward her, she
whirled and ran at the crumbling sheer of the
slope, scrambling furiously at the vain and shift
ing sand as though in a blind paroxysm of shame,
to escape not him alone but the very scene of the
outragement of privacy where she had been sprung
suddenly upon and without warning from the dark and
betrayed and outraged by her own treacherous bio
logical Inheritance, he following again, speaking
to her, trying to tell her how this violent viola
tion of her ^mAIiden's delicacy is no shame, since
such Is the very iron imperishable warp of the fab
ric of love. But she would not hear. (The Hamlet,
pp. 198-99)
Like the surrealists, Faulkner also achieves humor
j mainly through the dexterous use of language. In
|
; The Hamlet he describes the 3ex-appeal of Eula, which
I eventually, got her into serious trouble, through her
curves, thus:
On the first morning Varner had put the horse into
a fast trot, to get it over with quick, but almost
at once he began to feel the entire body behind him,
which even motionless in a chair seemed to postulate
an invincible abhorrence of straight lines, Jigging
its component boneless curves against his back. He
had a vision of himself transporting not only across
the village's horizon but across the embracing pro
scenium of the entire inhabited world like the sun
itself, a kaleidoscopic convolution of mammalian
ellipses. (The Hamlet, p. 113) !
I
The use of language here approaches a certain as- |
pect of literary absurdity and word hallucination, both j
widely practiced by the surrealists. j
Humor in names.--Another way In which Faulkner
likes to insert humor is in choosing the names of his
characters. When he wants to convey to hiB reader
quickly, effectively and Irrevocably the idea that a
----------- 74
particular character is either funny, comic, or ridiculous
or all of them at once, he starts by giving him a name,
the sound, meaning or connotation of which Is comic. In
Soldiers1 Pay, for example, he opens the chapter in which
the funniest character of the novel is introduced thus:
Jones, Januarlus Jones, bom of whom he knew and
cared not, becoming Jones alphabetically, January
through a conjunction of calendar and biology,
Januarlus through the perverse conjunction of his
own star and the compulsion of food and clothing—
Januarlus Jones baggy in gray tweed, being lately
a fellow of Latin in a small college, leaned upon
a gate of iron grill-work breaking a levee of green
and embryonically starred honeysuckle, watching
April busy in a hyacinth bed. (Soldiers1 Pay,
p. 56)
And, indeed, Januarlus Jones is and remains a funny and j
i
comic character throughout the novel. Joe Gilligan, j
i
although not particularly a funny character, is nonethe
less bordering the comic through his pathetic and un
reasonable attachment to a war widow and blind service to
an idiotic lieutenant. To say the least, Gilligan,
has neither hopes and dreams for success in life nor the
capabilities to achieve success. His name sounds comical |
even to Margaret Powers, who, in a moment of extrovert
i
!
candor, tells him when he asks her to marry him:
"I can't, Joe," she answered, standing easily in
his arms.
"But why not, Margaret? You never give me any
reason."
She was silent in profile against sunshot green.
"If I didn't like you so much, I wouldn't tell you. !
But it's your name, Joe Gilligan. I couldn't marry
a man named Gilligan." (Soldiers' Pay, p. 305)
75
Sometimes, the funny sound of a name Is intrinsically
bound with some sort of unpleasant characteristic to be
found in a character. The first name, "Flem," as well
as the first two letters with which the last name Snopes
begins, have not only comic overtones but also carry un
pleasant connotations. As Modean Campbell has analyti
cally observed:
The initial letters, "sn" in fact, have many un
pleasant connotations. About fifty percent of the words
beginning with "an" in Webster's Un-Abridged Dictionary
have disagreeable connotations (snake, snarl, sneer,
snivel, snob, and so on). "Snopes," then, is a carica
ture of all "Sn-ishness in human nature. Beginning
with this surname, Faulkner goes on to carricature the
particular qualities of "Sn-ishness" possessed by each !
of the Snopeses. Most important of all is Flem Snopes—
the bellwether of the clan. The name suggests two
things to us. In the terminology of I. A. Richards,
Flem, as a "sense" metaphor, suggests "Phlegmatic";
as an emotive metaphor, it suggests phlegm (phoneti
cally spelled "Flem" in the dictionary). Both fit
Flem's character. The medieval humor, phlegm when
predominant, made a person cold, apathetic, unemotional-+■
so Flem— phlegmatic. As a mucous discharge from the
mouth, it bears further revolting connotations.23
Equally, the name of Joe Christmas or McEachern may con- j
nqte a man of low origin, very earthy, unable to succeed
s
/
in life with such a comic as well as peculiar name, with j
tragic overtones. The name of Miss Burden may have a
self-evident connotation, and the name of the school
teacher Labove sounds outlandish, funny and bizarre.
Also, the names of the two brothers in As I Lay Dying.
2^Modean Campbell and Ruel Foster, William
Faulkner (Oklahoma, 1951)* P« 10^*
76
Jewel and Cash, bear a connotation of anxiety as well as a
ludicrously hopeful wish for wealth. Since the family is
one of extreme poverty, the names of "Jewel" and "Cash"
seem to be a comic effort of compensation.
i
! Treatment of Sex
Sartre's Treatment of Sex
Much, perhaps too much, has been written and said
i about Sartre1s use of sex in literature. It is true that
there is much eroticism in Sartre's novels. The preponder
ance of sex relations, however, is decent and socially ac
ceptable .
j Many characters in Sartre's novels indulge openly
in sex relations. Roquentin has an affair with the land-
! lady. Pinette makes unashamed love to an acquaintance of
the moment— a very bashful postmistress who is nevertheless
full of sexual desires. Philippe has a night filled with
! sex with a Negro prostitute called Flossie— during which,
j
j by the way, he loses his virginity. Mathieu, the main
!
I
hero of Les Chemins de la Llberte* has not only a regular
affair with his mistress Marcelle but finds time to rape
his student, Ivich, and also to sleep with the unattractive
prostitute, Irene.
Sartre focuses our attention upon these scenes, he
makes us aware of the situation and of the feelings of the
characters, and with few exceptions, that is the extent of
it; therefore, the sex scenes are neither immoral nor
overdone, nor do they provoke the disgust of the reader.
Sartre does not exploit the sex scene for its own sake.
Professor Alfred Stem is rather unjust when he says:
Sartre’s Existentialist psychoanalysis, nevertheless,
gives an Important role to sex, and most of his novels
and short stories are almost pornographic. Should this
be considered a typical feature of Existentialism?
! Apparently many French feel that way. (Sartre: His
j Philosophy and Psychoanalysis, p. 124)
j i
! Sartre's men are, Indeed, passionate. So are his j
■ ■ i
| women. Both make love mostly because for them it is a j
! |
! natural and unavoidable urge. At times, they think it is
| fun, but, with the possible exception of Daniel, they are
! not perverts, and seldom, if ever, do they exaggerate or
overemphasize love. Quite on the contrary, much of Sartre's
eroticism is only suggested. Throughout the novel, Nausea.
; for example, there is only one sex scene, and that is only
i j
{ suggested. See, for instance, how only slightly developed
is the scene in which Roquentln makes love to his landlady.j
S He relates the scene himself: "Taking off her dress she
i
tells me: . . .I'll keep my stockings on if you don't
mind" (Nausea, pp. 14-15)- And this is the extent of it, j
i
nothing else. j
Mathieu's love-making with Marcelle is again only
sketched with somewhat daring, indeed, but not Immoral or
pornographic items:
Mathieu had kept on stroking Marcelle's back, and her
eyelids began to droop; she liked having her back
j stroked, particularly at the level of her hips. . . .
Mathleu laid a hand on Marcelle's leg and stroked it
gently. He loved that soft and buttery skin. (The Age
of Reason, d o. 7-8)
I — — — — —
j
| Suggestive in this way are many other scenes through-
j out Sartre's novels. j
! i
! j
When it comes to Daniel's homosexuality, Sartre, j
!
j i
; although he presents and examines the distress and the j
predicament of the sufferer, fails to deal with it openly.
.
; However, the morality of this question lies not in j
I whether Sartre presents homosexuals in his novels or not, I
I i
: but in what his attitude is toward such presentation. A j
! j
careful and objective reading of The Age of Reason will j
j 1
! prove that Sartre neither condones nor condemns homo- j
1 ;
sexuality. He views it as a disease (that is how Daniel j
looks at himself— as a diseased man) and pities the man
; who suffers from it.
Sartre's existentialism admits sex as another nat-
i I
ural manifestation of the individual apart from consider- j
| ations of morality and sin which Christianity has imputed j
to it. The scenes of unlawful or "sinful1 1 love-making
I
are in Sartre's novels to show the concept that morality j
is man-made, not absolute, and that the individual has a
responsibility to be himself first and follow social norms
if they are coincidental with this freedom and self-
responsibility of the individual. In addition, Sartre
writes about real men and women living in an authentic j
79
world and has to represent all aspects of such reality.
Sex In Faulkner's Novels
While Sartre makes rather ample use of eroticism,
mainly for the reasons explained immediately above,
Faulkner is more reserved in this respect. For Faulkner,
! unlike Sartre, does not like to picture sex scenes, avoids
any detailed description of them, and, at times, even
t
I eliminates them altogether or relegates them to one or two
I lines. At times Faulkner carries this caution to the \
\ ' t
! point that he seems to be rather modest and bashful in |
| {
1 regard to sex description, as compared with Sartre.
j
| Intruder in the Dust and The Unvanauished. for example,
are free of any treatment of sex. Soldiers1 Pay contains
i almost no sex material at all, while Requiem for a Nun
I
is as pure and unadulterated by sex as a nunnery. In
Light in August Faulkner has an excellent chance to give
the reader a picture of Christmas' first love affair with j
his prostitute girl friend, but he does not elect to do soj.
|
All the reader gets is a broad intimation that the affair j
'
does take place:
He drew her from the road, toward the fence which he
had crossed a week ago. "Wait," she said, the words
jolting from her mouth. "The fence--I can't— " As she
stooped to go through, between the strands of wire which
he had stepped over, her dress caught. He leaned and
Jerked it free with a ripping sound.
I'll buy you another one," he said.
She said nothing. She let herself be half carried
and half dragged among the growing plants, the furrows,
and Into the woodB, the trees ..." (Light in August,
p. 178)
Sometime later we learn> indirectly, that an affair did
take place. There Is a similar occasion in which Christ
mas rapes Miss Burden. Although Miss Burden is not ex
actly unwilling, and the affair, this time, takes place
before the eyes of the reader, there is no description
of sex whatever.
He began to tear at her clothes. He was talking
to her In a tense, hard, low voice: I'll show youl
I'll show the bitch!" She did not resist at all. It
! was almost as though she were helping him, with small
| changes, of position of limbs when the ultimate need
! for help arose. But beneath his hands the body might
have been the body of a dead woman not yet stiffened.
But he did not desist; though his hands were hard and
| urgent it was with rage along. "At least I have made
a woman of her at last," he thought. "Now she hates
me. I have taught her that, at last . . . (Light in
j August, p. 223)
!
Sex, in Sanctuary. eludes the reader's attention.
It is like a magician's trick: Sex is there; yet it is
not; it takes place; yet no one can see it happening.
t
I The reader can only sense that it is there, that acts have
|taken place, but that is Just about all. Here is, for ex
ample, what is perhaps considered as the most daring scene
in the novel:
His hand clapped over her mouth, and gripping his
wrist, the saliva drooling between his fingerB, her body
thrashing furiously from thigh to thigh, she saw him
crouching beside her bed, his face wrung above his
absent chin, his bluish lips protruding as though he
were blowing upon hot soup, making a high whinnying
sound like a horse. Beyond the wall Miss Rosa
filled the hall, the house, with a harsh shocking
817
2 4
uproar of obscene cursing.
Here the chapter ends. The act, apparently, takes
place but the reader does not witness it. Similarly, we
know that Rosa had been a prostitute, but we never see
her plying her trade or witness any indecency on her part.
| On the contrary, although the early part of her life
might have been a despicable one, in both novels,
Sanctuary and Requiem for a Nun, where the reader gets
acquainted with her, she is a reformed woman, a force of
kindness, morality and righteousness.
[
The Case of the Asexual Woman.— What is more, a
i
I number of Faulkner's women lack erotic desires. Miss
i Jenny Du Pre is an old spinster, Miss Burden is a mas-
i
i
I cullne pervert; Mrs. Powers is a statue of stone— so
; incredibly able to control her sexual desires, even when
! she slept in the same room with the lovelorn Joe Gilligan,
that nothing happened.
j She evaded her blanket and reaching her arm swept
the room with darkness. She slipped beneath the covers,
settling her cheek on her palm. Gilligan undisturbed
snored, filling the room with a homely comforting sound.
(Soldiers1 Pay, p. 45)
These are a few examples out of a number in
Faulkner's novels.
2 William Faulkner, Sanctuary with Requiem for a
Nun (New York, 1961), p. 9& " .
Thus, although his novels Include erotic scenes,
Faulkner shies away from candid description or delineation.
What is more, a number of his women are simply not inter-
i
ested in sex. Whatever eroticism there is in Faulkner's
novels is there in keeping with the tradition of the pre-
j sentation of all aspects of human life and behavior with
decency and decorum so that the imaginary inhabitants of
Yaknapatawpha County can be accepted as real ones.
j From the discussion in this chapter, it seems evi-
j
j dent that with regard to characters present in the novels
| of the two authors under Investigation, such characters
! are presented realistically and are true to life. While
i
i
i Sartre's characters are mostly city dwellers, rather
sophisticated, and Interested in intellectual pursuits,
Faulkner's characters come from rural and provincial areas
and small towns, are, for the most part, unsophisticated
■
and live in a comparative Isolation from the rest of the
j world. Furthermore, Sartre's characters are mostly
j i
| middle class, with a few samples of lower class workers i
and laborers, while those of Faulkner encompass the whole
gamut of the social scale, from the southern aristocrats
and the respectable southern middle class all the way down
to the Negro slaves, poor tenant farmers, and even il
literate bastards.
In the use of the indelicate, Sartre is rather lib-
I
eral and appears to be much more naturalistic than
83
Faulkner. Although the use of the indelicate and the
unsavory by Sartre is pronounced, it seldom becomes
offensive. His presentation of drunkenness and vomit
j in particular, although overplayed at times, is quite
consistent with the realistic treatment of characters.
The fact that Faulkner's novels, on the other hand, con
tain only few unsavory or indelicate scenes, may show some
puritan influence, which is indeed absent in Sartre.
Yet the two authors under discussion meet on a com
mon ground when it comes to the selection and emphasis of
| peculiar, abnormal, and otherwise strikingly odd or de-
I fective individuals. In this respect, Faulkner more than
i
j Sartre shows an interest in the abnormal, idiotic, and
peculiar. , However, while the abnormalities in Faulkner's
characters are mostly due to physical defects, such aB
i
hereditary illness or idiocy, those in Sartre's characters
seem to be psychological and social eccentricities. For
' example, Ike Snopes, Benjamin Compson, and Mink Snopes
are physically sick people, while Boris, Roquentin, and
Daniel are socially and psychologically maladjusted;
Roquentin, along with Ivlch and Marcelle, is an eccentric.
The several idiotic, abnormal or otherwise aberrant
characters in Faulkner's novels apparently serve two pur
poses, each Inextricably related to the other. The first
is ralated to slavery in the southern United States, which
seems to have caused a curse to be placed upon the land.
~~ “ ' ~ 84
The "curse" is being lifted, but the expiation is a
lengthy and costly one. Suffering and retribution, which
the expiation entails, appear, among other things, in the
form of idiotic and aberrant people. Second, since it was
the white race, and especially the southern plantation
owners who prolonged and profited by slavery, they are the
i
I
ones who "fell" and decayed after the conclusion of the
Civil War. It is thus that a few descendants of the once-
| powerful families of the Compsons and the Sartorises--and
j
also of Thomas Sutpen--are idiotic and aberrant; and,
being white, even the lowly Bundren and Snopes families
!
| are not free from a few decadent progenies.
j With regard to humor it would seem that Faulkner's
humor has three main objectives: (l) to entertain, (2)
to create the proper atmosphere, and (3) to help the
structure of the novel. Januarlus Jones, both by his
i
| name and behavior, does entertain the reader, but such
: characters also help the structure by the creation of a
I
humorous foil to the dramatic parts of the novel. The
tale of the swapping of horses in The Hamlet is a merely
entertaining story, more or less standing on its own
merits and for its own sake. Most of the comic situations
in Sartoris are for the sake of mere entertainment, while
the comic exclamation of Lena Grove at the end of Light
in August ties the novel together structurally by present
ing her traveling again as at the beginning. The con
85
notation of names is, again, a purely entertaining in~
vention although each name does betray a few of the char
acteristics which each individual character possesses.
A few of the comical situations in Sartoris. i.e., old
Sartoris being persuaded by Simon that his debt should be
!
paid, the quoted comments of Narcissa, MacCallum saving
Bayard's ’ ’face," et cetera, do help to recreate the pecul-
i iarly southern atmosphere in which these characters move
i
| and spend their lives.
E
Sartre's humor is very closely knit with the ideas
and meanings of his novels. It is through humor and Irony
1 that Sartre unmasks the true intentions of his characters
|
and tells us of their true nature and beliefs. Humor and
irony are tools in Sartre's hands which he uses neither to
make us laugh at or with someone, nor to reform society,
but to communicate to us effectively his ideas and beliefs
--to build his novels toward perfection. Faulkner's humor,
: t
j j
; depending upon incongruity and ambivalence, reflects j
i
j
! mainly the Incongruities and a certain ambivalence preva-
1 lent in and peculiar to the southern United States.
This study has also shown that although Sartre is
not a pornographer nor Faulkner a defender of chastity,
the two authors differ in their use of sex scenes in their
novels. Sartre does make rather extensive use of sex
episodes because his characters, as existentialists, are
not unduly burdened by a commonplace sexual morality.
86
Since morality is man-made, not absolute, and since the
individual has to act and be himself above and before all
other considerations, whatever delineation of eroticism
there is in Sartre's novels advances this existential prin
ciple. But Sartre is definitely not a pomographer since
he neither makes immoral use of the sex scene, nor does he
use it for its own sake.
Faulkner, on the other hand, avoids a detailed de-
I
scription of erotic scenes wherever possible. Such scenes
are, however, Interspersed throughout his novels in accord
ance with realistic concepts of representation of life as
i
i
I it really is without lapses into romanticism or dips into [
naturalism. For the most part, sex and eroticism in
Faulkner's novels are manifested in and reflect the natural
forces of fecundity and reproduction, while sex abnorm
alities may suggest the violence, exploitation and unrest
in the South during and immediately following the Civil
War.
CHAPTER II
PLOT
First of all, let me attempt briefly to define, de
scribe, or otherwise identify the term "plot." Because
of inherent difficulties in certain word definitions, and
since it is easier to describe than define, it is obvious
!
| that any definition of plot cannot be as successful as its
|
| careful description. With this reservation, I quote here
I
I the following definition of plot from A Handbook to
Literature:
A planned series of interrelated actions progressing
because of the interplay of one force upon another,
through a struggle of opposing forces to a climax j
and a denouement. (p. 315) j
The American College Dictionary gives a meaning of the j
| word "plot" as "the play, scheme, or main story of a play, j
i
novel, poem or the like" (p. 932). The Encyclopaedia j
Britannlca gives no other definition of the word "plot" j
£
than the following:
Plot, in the sense of a plan, scheme, which would
then be identical with "plot," a conspiracy, which
may be a shortened form of "complot" a French word,
also of doubtful origin, (p. 849)
whereas the Encyclopedia Americana although it lists the
i
i
word "plot" gives neither definition nor description of j
88
its literary aspects.
E. M. Poster defines plot as, "a narrative of events,
the emphasis falling on causality."1 He senses, however,
that such a definition is insufficient, so he writes more
than ten additional pages trying to explain and describe
it. He says: "'The king died and then the queen died1
is a story. 'The king died and the queen died of grief'
is a plot." (A College Book of Modern Fiction, p. 575)-
Then he goes on to explain that plot demands Intelligence
and memory, and that "we expect him [the plotmaker] to
leave no loose ends. Every action or word ought to count;
j it ought to be economical and spare . . . economical and
i
I free from dead matter" (p. 575)-
Plot is also a series of actions moving logically
from a starting point to a conclusion. There is an abund
ance of interplay and interrelationship of action, which
contains opposition, and, as a result of it, conflict oc-
; curs. Plot is, usually, artificial and contrived not
necessarily in natural or orderly fashion.
The above explanation and description rather than
definition of plot, although neither all-inclusive nor
exhaustive, may be sufficient for my purposes. Let me
then proceed with the task at hand.
1E. M. Foster. A College Book of Modem Fiction, eds.
W. B. Rideout and James Robinson (New York, 1961), p. 57^.
89
Sartre's "Plotless" Novels Analyzed
It would be, perhaps, just to say that Sartre's novels
have "weak" plots rather than that the plots of his novels
are uninteresting and flat. Sartre is primarily a
philosopher-writer— not a storyteller. He is more inter
ested in exposing, expounding, and elucidating his exis
tential philosophy than in telling a story. Indeed, a
story is of no interest to him and even without value if
I
it has no serious underlying philosophy. He not only
! strongly disapproves of any literary work that has no
i
i
| underlying philosophy but also seems to deride it. For
example, in his essay, "Camus' The Outsider" he furiously
attacks Camus' novel because, as he says:
The Outsider is not an explanatory book. The
absurd man does not explain; he describes. Nor is
it a book which proves anything. The Outsider is a
leaf from his [Camus'] life. And since the most
absurd life is that which is most sterile, his novel
aims at being magnificently sterile. (Literary Essays.
I pp. 28-29)
; i
In his effort to expound, analyze, and elucidate,
however, Sartre falls into the other extreme, that Is, i
i
!
almost complete disregard for plot. For as one reads
Sartre's novels he finds neither a story unfolding before
his eyes, nor does he discover Intricate or artful threads
running throughout them to attract and keep his Interest;
he does not experience suspense, and has no expectations,
hopes, or fears— much less is he ever "absorbed" in the
midst of the story; he never wonders what is going to
90
happen next, either to any of the characters, or the novel
as a whole. He seldom identifies himself with any of the
characters, and he rarely shares their Interests. Frederic
Will writes about the plot and the character Roquentin of
Maassfti
A certain vagueness spreads out from Roquentin over
the entire organization of the book. Structurally
this is clear. The book has no beginning or end. It
lacks the 'plot' on which, in one sense, meaningful
literary experiences depend. Inevitably, the book
seems arbitrarily put together. Here, again, we feel
that Sartre's experimentation has involved an artistic
loss. To a greater or less degree— and here we omit
much— a comparable loss is apparent in those other
I works of Sartre to which we have just alluded.2
|
| I disagree with Mr. Will's statement that meaningful liter-
i
i
| ary experiences must to some extent depend on plot; they
can very well be found in situation, character analysis and
description. Then, what does he exactly mean by "artistic
i
I loss?" If he simply means lack of plot, which apparently
is the case, he misuses the termi For, under the term
"literary artistry" there are many more "devices" and \
i . ;
j values than mere plot.
i
Sartre's novels do have vague— only very vague--
plots. Nausea. for example, is "one character’s" book.
Roquentin has no story to unfold, no tale to tell. He
suffers from an unspeakable, sickening, disgusting nausea,
and through some two hundred odd pages, he tries relent-
2Frederic Will, "Sartre and the Question of Character
in Literature," PMLA. 76:455-460, 1961.
91
lessly to discover its origin. Once he discovers it, the
novel has no more reason to continue, and it properly ends.
The Reprieve tells no unified story, and has no plot to
!
unfold. War between Prance and Germany is inevitable. The
two nations mobilize, but the last moment the Munich Pact
is signed. This, however, does not mean that the causes
for the war have been ironed out, but only that the war
has been postponed. Hence such a postponement of a fright-
i
! ful war.is, in one sense, a respite. The Reprieve then is
I
I
designed to show this perturbed, uneasy, and ominous period
of time between the threat of war and the war itself. A
i
perfect plot might, stylistically speaking, have been un
equal to such a task, i.e., to give a realistic picture
i
of this time. On the other hand, an apparently plotless
novel which shows the chaotic European condition through
pronounced contrasts, and disjointed glimpses of the lives
of Individuals widely separated in interests and background
: has been successful. The Age of Reason places the charac- j
ters in their proper position just before the war starts i
* '
l i
and gives an account of each one. It is an analytic,
explanatory, and expository novel without a plot. Mathieu,
its main character, is not "going'1 anywhere. He is trying
to discover the meaning of freedom and the meaning of his
existence. The reader does not find any physical progress
in the novel nor does he anticipate that anything might
happen to Mathieu. Yet Mathieu is progressing intellec-
92
tually. With the exception of two minor subplots— Lola's
passionate and unconditional love for Boris and Daniel's
unexpected decision to marry Marcelle— the novel has a
negligible unifying plot.
The same observations can be made for Troubled Sleep.
Yet there is some action in this novel; there is conflict,
expectation, hope and despair. There is at least a token-
reslstance battle between a company of the French Army and
! the Invading Germans. The action of this battle scene
| comes closer to systematic plot in the traditional sense
| than does the largely unpattemed action in the rest of
j the novel.
j
The Meaning of Plotlessness
The above discussion of the plotlessness of Sartre's
novels is the product of an objective study and analysis
i
| of the works which have been mentioned. The merits of
I i
i Sartre's novels cannot and should not be assessed through
| mere evaluation of plot or any other of his stylistic use3.j
j Sartre discards the value of plot in the conventional
sense. Yet, in this apparent plotlessness there is deep
harmony, sense, and meaning. The Reprieve may not have a
plot but it needs no plot. The uneasiness, insecurity,
and fears of the immediately prewar period in Europe are
perfectly understood in terms of the disjointed and
scattered lives of the French people. No plot could give
93
a better picture than the outstanding plotlessness of
The Reprieve. Also, Nausea has no plot, but no plot is
needed to study the inner feelings of a man who is nause-
! ated by the mere existence of the physical world. Sartre,
as it has been indicated earlier, is not a storyteller.
He is the philosopher-novelist who wants, above all, mean
ing in literature. He is not concerned or contented
merely to entertain. The significance in the characters
of Roquentin and Mathieu, for instance, lies not in what
| happens to them externally and in relation to other people,
j but in what they do with themselves in their efforts to
I establish and understand their existences in relation to
| the physical world which surrounds them. Under these cir-
i cumstances plot is unimportant.
! Exposition of Plot Versus
! Study of Character
j In his efforts to compensate for the lack of plot,
i
Sartre makes another substitution, besides the use of
i i
| plotlessness, to portray internal situations. Instead of j
the well-planned story, or the carefully worked out plot,
he substitutes a philosophical, deep, and careful study
and analysis of character. His novels are filled with
long passages in which character is studied, analyzed and
explained— and, perhaps, formed. Sartre has a number of
means through which to study and analyze his characters.
He analyzes characters through description, he makes use
94
of introspection, and, occasionally, he probes the sub
conscious; whereas plot-exposition is rather rare and
almost lost in the torrents of dialogue and character-
analysis.
The use of introspection and self-examination.—
Sartre can be properly called an "introspective" writer.
The term is simple, easily understood, and does not need
any elucidation or explanation since the word "introspec-
I tlve" is used here in its ordinarily accepted denotation.
| The most important characters of his novels have sincere,
| true, and most revealing moments during which they analyze
: their past actions through a most vigorous and honest proc-
| ess of introspection. Such a process of introspection
L
i resembles, on the one hand, the stream-of-consciousness
!
j techniques of James Joyce, Virginia Woolf and, after a
| fashion, Marcel Proust; and, on the other hand, the prob-
i
| lngs of the subconscious used by Dostoyevski and a number
of naturalistic writers. Actually, it is neither of them,
since most of it (but not all) is pure introspection. Now,
let us look closely at some examples.
When Odette inwardly discovers that she has very
little in common with her husband, at a time when the lat
ter fails to satisfy her intellectually or even sexually,
and when she apparently feels no love for him any longer,
her mind shuts off reality and she gives herself to the
sweet contemplation of memories from her past life.
A memory came back to her from the distant
past. I was running along a little pinkish road; 1
was twelve years old, I said out loud: "I am indis
pensable." She repeated the words: "I am indispen
sable," but Indispensable to what, she did not know.
She tried to think about the war, and it seemed to
her that she was on the point of discovering the
truth. "Is it a fact that victory will profit no
body but the Russians?" Suddenly she gave up the
attempt, and her joy was turned to a feeling of dis-
; gust. I don't know enough about it.
| She wanted to smoke. "I don't really want to;
| it's just nerves." The desire grew and grew, dis-
j tending her breasts, a peremtory and conquering
! desire, as in the days of her uncontrolled girlhood.
He put the packet in his coat pocket. Why should he
j smoke? In his mouth the taste of tobacco must be so
terribly boring, so terribly ordinary. Why Bhould
he smoke rather than I? She leaned over him. He was
breathing regularly. She slipped her hand Into his
pocket and took out the cigarettes; then, very
quietly, she pushed back the catch of the door and
slipped out of the car. . . . (Troubled Sleep, p. 215)
This is not only a thoughtful introspection in order
that Odette may discover her true place in the society in
! which she lives— in other words, who she is In relation to
I her environment— it is also an attempt at an objective
| analysis of conditions surrounding her. |
The homosexual Daniel has, on the other hand, a few |
| i
! moments of self-examination when he thinks of the moralityj
of his behavior in his relations with young Ralph.
Sartre's comments on this occasion are also Interesting:
Daniel was devoured by thirst, but he would not drink:
die, then;' die of thirst! "After all," he thought, "I
haven't done anything wrong." But he had done worse:
he had let the evil thing come very close to him, he
had done everything except satisfy his senses. . . .
He swung around. He might be following me to see
where I live. Oh!" thought he, "I wish he had done so.
I would give him such a thrashing in the open street!" j
96
But Bobby did not appear. He had made his day's
wages and now he had gone home. To Ralph's place,
6 rue aux Ours. Daniel quivered. If I could for
get that address! If only I could manage to forget
that address! . . ." What was the use? He would
take care not to forget it. (The Age of Reason.
P. 151)
It is probably in the person of Roquentin that
Sartre makes his most profound and extensive use of both
■ a
introspection and self-examination. Roquentin is the
lonely man who is filled with many vague fears (obviously
fear of death which is a certainty for each man). In
Nausea, for example, there are a large numbe of intro
spective and self-examining passages like the following:
i
I am alone in the midst of these happy, reasonable
| voices. All these creatures spend their time explain-
! ing, realizing happily that they agree with each other.
. . . When I was eight years old and used to play in
the Luxemburg gardens there was a man who came and
sat in the sentry-box, against the iron fence. . . .
j It wasn't this creature's poverty-stricken look which
frightened us, nor the tumor he had on his neck that
rubbed against the edge of his collar: but we thought
that he was shaping thoughts of crab or lobster in
j his head. And that terrified us, the fact that one
could conjure thoughts of lobsters on the sentry-box,
on our hoops, on the bushes.
Is that what awaits me then? For the first time
i I am disturbed at being alone. I would like to tell
I someone what is happening to me before it is too late
and before I start frightening little boys. (Nausea.
P. 17)
^The difference between introspection and self-exami
nation is that while the former word refers to the obser
vation of one's own mental processes, the latter involves
an examination of one's own conduct, motives, and moral
outlook. For an exact definition of these two words see
The Oxford English Dictionary published by the Clarendon
Press, (Oxford, England, 1961). V, 44lj IX, 149.
97
Or another similar passage:
I am alone, most of the people have gone back
home, they are reading the evening paper, listen
ing to the radio. Sunday has left them with a
taste of ashes and their thoughts are already turn
ing towards Monday. But for me there is neither
Monday nor Sunday: there are days which pass in
disorder, and then, sudden lightning like this one.
Nothing has changed and yet everything is differ
ent. I can't describe it; it's like the Nausea and
yet it's just the opposite: at last an adventure
happens to me and when I question myself I see that
it happens 'that I am myself and that I am here1; I
am the one who splits the night, I am as happy as
the hero of a novel. (Nausea, p. 76)
Mathieu is second only to Roquentin in the frequency
of his introspective, self-examining, philosophizing
moments. Here is Mathieu lost in introspective thought as
he goes to the railway station to keep his appointment
with Gomez:
Mathieu thought of Spain, Maud thought of Spain, the
Moroccan clambered over the cracked soil of Spain,
he thought of Tangier, and he felt alone. Mathieu
turned into a dazzling street, Spain swung round,
blazed, then dwindled into a smudge of fire on his
left. Nice on the right, and beyond Nice a gap—
Italy. Before him lay the railway station, France
and war, the real war; Nancy. He was at Nancy;
beyond the station he was making way to Nancy.
He wasn't thirsty, he wasn't hot, nor tired. His
body swung beneath him, but seemed no longer his:
colors, sounds, sunshine, smells, found harborage
in that body— all of which concerned him no more.
'It's like the beginning of an illness,' he thought.
. . . The terrace of the Tour d'Argent hummed like
a beehive, red-pink-mauve frocks, rayon stockings,
painted cheeks, caramel drinks, a syrupy, sticky
crowd; pity stabbed his heart; they would be snatched
out of their cafes and their rooms, and with their
bodies the war would be waged. He pitied them, and
he pitied himself; they sweltered in the light—
cilammy, satiated, desperate. Philippe was suddenly
possessed by an access of weariness and pride: I
am these people's conscience. (The Reprieve, pp. 257“
258)
98
Probing the subconscious.— There are, however, a few
instances where conscious, deliberate, and exact intro
spection gives way to dreamlike self-examination, which
reminds one instantly of Dostoyevski. For example, when
Brunet, the communist, falls sick because of prolonged
undernourishment in the concentration camp, he loses his
sense of reality, and the unreal, the dream world, the sub
conscious take over. This, however, is a subconscious
which keeps close touch with reality and is not completely
unbridled:
The face vanished and a dream began. The shadows
of the bars crept slowly across the floor, slipped,
bending, over the prostrate bodies, scaled the crates,
bent and bent again, and then grew dim; darkness scaled
the walls. Through the bars the skylight looked like
a bruise, a pallid bruise, a black bruise, which turned
suddenly to a bright and mocking eye. The bars resumed
their progress, turning and turning around; the dark
ness turned like the lamp of a lighthouse; the beast
was in its cage. For a moment men scurried, then dis
appeared. The ship drifted from the shore with all the
convicts dead from hunger in their cages. . . .
. . . What catastrophe? Perhaps the sun had turned
cold? A voice sounded from the back of the cages;
'Some evening I’ll tell you the loveliest things.' A
catastrophe, everyone is screwed up. . . .1 used I
to love pineapple, oh, a long time ago, in the days j
when I loved skiing, the mountains, boxing, little I
sailboats, women. Fragile, what is fragile? We are i
all fragile. The savor, on the tongue, twists,
turns like a.solar whirlpool, an ancient taste, for
gotten, I have forgotten . . .
... He moved. There's something I've got to do,
there's something I've got to do now. He had arranged
an urgent meeting with whom? With Krupskaia. He
fell back: Fragile. What have I done with my loves;
... He remembered, he started up, he shouted:
"The printer, has the printer come?" No one
answered. He fell back into sticky sap, into SUBJEC-
99
~ TIVITY, we have lost the war and this Is where I am
going to die, Mathieu was leaning over him whisper
ing: you didn't love us enough, you didn't love us
enough; the monkeys were chattering and laughing,
slapping their thighs: you loved nothing, no,
nothing at all!
The shadows made by the bars circled slowly across
his face, darkness, sunlight, darkness; he found it
amusing. I am a member of the party, I love the com
rades; I have no time to waste on others, there's some
one I've got to meet. "Some evening I'll tell you
lovely things, some evening I'll tell you that I love
you." (Troubled Sleep, pp. 320-322)
This passage is almost Dostoyevskian in its probing
i
of the subconscious as exhibited in Dostoyevski's Notes |
i
from the Underground. Brunet has lost reality, not I
through the distortion of his senses from the use of al
cohol, but by loss of strength from prolonged undernour
ishment and exhaustion. As reality flees, the world of
dream sets in but does not stay long. The existence of the
man is divided almost equally between reality and dream,
consciousness and subconsciousness. Brunet's most sacred
role In society, that of a communist revolutionary, is so
I i
much a part of his existence that it evinces itself even
j
in his most miserable moments. I
Another similar Instance of probing Into the subcon
scious, although not as pronounced as the above example,
is to be found in Mathieu, when he furiously fights against
the Germans. When the quiet, peace-loving, thoughtful
school teacher, determined to make a stand against the
invading Germans, finds himself not only face to face with
them but right in the middle of a most bitter and devastat-
100
lng battle, he starts shooting and killing. Machine guns,
grenades, and guns explode all around, soldiers are killed
and wounded, some buildings catch fire while others fall to
I shambles: It Is then that Mathieu gets Intoxicated by war.
1
I
He fires, fires, fires:
. . . 'ChristI' he said out loud. 'No one can j
say we didn1t hold out for fifteen minutes.1
He made his way to the parapet and stood there
firing. This was revenge on a big scale; each one
of his shots wiped out some ancient scruple. One
for Lola, whom 1 dared not rob, one for Marcelle,
whom I ought to have ditched, one for Odette, whom
I didn't want to screw. This for the books I never
dared to write, this for the journeys I never made,
this for everybody in general whom I wanted to hate
and tried to understand. He fired, and the tables
of the law crashed about him— Thou shalt love thy,
| neighbor as thyself— bang! in that bastard's face—
j Thou shalt not kill— bang! at that scarecrow oppo-
i site. He was firing on his fellow men, on Virtue,
on the whole world: . . . Beauty dived downwards
obscenely, and Mathieu went on firing. He fired:
he was cleansed, he was all-powerful, he was free.
| Fifteen minutes. (Troubled Sleep, pp. 255-256)
But it is through Roquentin that Sartre makes his most pro
found and extensive use of a sort of stream-of-conscious-
I i
ness technique, or perhaps, to be more correct, of the
probing into the subconscious. Roquentin has a number of
J
i
"attacks" of Nausea. During these times he finds himself
in another world— the world of his own supersensitive
intellectuality, which cannot be properly called conscious
ness. In such instances reality disappears and Roquentin
is alone with his super-refined feelings, understanding,
and sentiment. He is, apparently, lost in mystic ecstasy.
101
Above all, not move, not move . . . Ahl
I could not prevent this movement of the shoulders.
« • •
The thing which was waiting was on the alert, it
has pounced on me, it flows through me, I am felled
with it. It's nothing: I am the Thing. Existence,
liberated, detached, floods over me. I exist.
I exist. It's sweet, so sweet, so slow. And
light: you'd think it floated all by itself. It
stirs. It brushes by me, melts and vanishes.
Gently, gently. There is bubbling water in my
mouth. I swallow. It slides down my throat, it
caresses me— and now it comes up again into my mouth.
For ever I shall have a little pool of whitish water
im my mouth— lying low— grazing my tongue. And the
throat is me.
I see my hand spread out on the table. It lives—
it is me. It opens, the fingers open and point. It
is lying on its back. It shows me its fat belly. It
looks like an animal turned upside down. The fingers
are the paws. I amuse myself by moving them very
rapidly, like the claws of a crab which has fallen
on its back.
The crab is dead: the claws draw up and close
over the belly of my hand. I see the nails— the only
part of me that doesn't live. And once more. My
hand turns over, spreads out flat on its stomach,
offers me the sight of its back. A silvery back,
hairs on the knuckles. I feel my hand. I am
these two beasts struggling at the end of my arms.
My hand scratches one of its paws with the nail of
the other paw; 0 feel its weight on the table which
is not me. It's long, long, this Impression of
weight, it doesn't pass. There is no reason for it
to pass. It becomes Intolerable. (Nausea. pp. 134-35)
Or, the dream-like relapse into the subconscious:
I dined at the Rendezvous des Cheminots. The
Patronne was there and I had to kiss her, but it
was mainly out of politeness. She disgusts me a
little, she is too white and besides, she smells
like a newborn child. She pressed my head against
her breast in a burst of passion: she thinks it is
the right thing. I played distractedly with her
sex under the cover; then my arm went to sleep. I
thought about de Rollebon: after all, why shouldn't
I write a novel on his life? I let my arm run along
the woman's thigh and suddenly saw a small garden
with low, wide trees on which Immense hairy leaves
were hanging. Ants were running everywhere, centi
pedes and ringworm. There were even more horrible
102
animals: their bodies were made from a slice of
toast, the kind you put under roast pigeons; they
walked side-ways with legs like a crab. The larger
leaves were black with beasts. Behind the cactus
and the Barbary fig trees, the Velleda of the pub
lic park pointed a finger at her sex. "This park
smells of vomit," I shouted.
"I didn't want to wake you up," the woman said,
"but the sheet got folded under my back and besides
I have to go down and look after the customers from
the Paris train." (Nausea, pp. 82-83)
There are other most illuminating and masterful
passages in which Roquentin loses touch with reality.
Take, for example, the superb one when he is overcome by
j his ever-present Nausea while he is eating lunch in a
1
j cafe (see Nausea. pp. 29-36). j
I j
| A similar Instance of loss of consciousness occurs |
in The Reprieve. It is a sick man who is probably near
death:
He sank back, and a whirl of black and gray skirts
approached within a few inches of his face. The man
was now less vociferous; the sounds he uttered were
more like gasps and gurgles. A shoe appeared above
his head, he saw a pointed sole, with a cold of earth !
still sticking to the heel; the sole descended with a !
! creak beside his stretcher; it belonged to a large !
black buttoned shoe. He raised his eyes, saw a cas
sock, and high up in the air two hairy nostrils above
the twin neckbands of a cleric. Blanchard whispered
in his ear: "Our chum there must be pretty bad or
they wouldn't have sent for a priest.
What's the matter with him?" asked Charles.
"I don't know, but Pierrot says he's a goner."
(The Reprieve, p. 304)
Such are the nature and extent of Sartre's use of
introspection and self-examination, which show his inter
est in character analysis and interpretation. The variety,
intensity and depth of these analyses and interpretations
103
not only reveal Sartre's experimentation with aspects of
his own stream-of-consciousness technique but indicate as
well the introspective and self-analytical tendencies of
the existential man.
Dialogue vs. Action
Sartre's novels are filled with frequent dialogue.
More than fifty percent of each novel is made up of dia-
!
! logue. It would not be an exaggeration to say that almost
| everything happens through dialogue. In a few instances,
i
! it takes the place of action, description, and narrative.
The Age of Reason, for example, ends with almost forty
pages of dialogue, while one hundred pages of dialogue in
j
Troubled Sleep are interrupted by just over ten pages of
narrative writing (see The Age of Reason, pp. 293-3^2 and
! Troubled Sleep, pp. 109-207).
i
1 A great number of parts of Sartre's dialogue found in
I his novels could be acted on stage without even a single
alteration! Such is the dramatic power of his dialogue.
| See, for instance, part of the discussion between Mathieu
and Daniel:
"Well, that's that," he said.
Daniel smiled. "Don't you worry," he said by way
of consolation. "Homosexuals have always made
excellent husbands— that's well known."
"Daniel! If you are marrying her as a sort of
gesture you will ruin her life.
"You ought to be the last person to tell me so,"
said Daniel. "Besides, I'm not marrying her as a
sort of gesture. The fact is, what she wants above
all is the baby."
104
"Does she— does she know?"
"No."
"Why are you marrying her?"
"Because I'm fond of her."
The tone was not convincing. They refilled their
i glasses, and Mathieu said doggedly:
"I don't want her to be unhappy."
"I swear she won't be."
"Does she believe you're In love with her?"
"I don't think so. She suggested I should come
and live in her place, but that wouldn't suit me at
all. I shall bring her to my apartment. It Is agreed
that any emotional relation shall come gradually.
And he added with laborious irony: "I mean to fulfill
all my marital duties I"
"But— " Mathieu blushed violently. "Do you like
| women too?"
i Daniel emitted an odd sniff and said: "Not much."
j "I see."
Mathieu bent his head, and tears of shame came
into his eyes. He said: "I'm even more disgusted
with myself because I know you're going to marry her."
I Daniel drank. "Yes," he said with a nonchalant,
! absent-minded air. "I suppose you must be feeling
pretty rotten." (The Age of Reason, pp. 337~338)
| Faulkner also makes rather extensive use of dialogue.
J
i
| Although large parts of his dialogue are informative, they
are also dramatic. At the closing of Requiem for a Nun,
for example, when Temple visits Nancy, who has been sen-
! tenced to die for the killing of Temple's child, there
ensues a dramatic dialogue between the two:
Temple
. . . And now I've got to say "I forgive you, sister,"
to the nigger who murdered my baby. No: it's worse:
I've even got to transpose it, turn it around. I've
got to start off my new life being forgiven again.
How can I say that? Tell me. How can I?
Nancy
I don't know. But you got to trust Him. Maybe that's
your pay for the suffering.
Stevens
Whose suffering, and whose pay? Just each one's for
his own?
105
Nancy
Everybody's. All suffering. All poor sinning man's.
Stevens
The salvation of the world is in man's suffering. Is
that it?
Nancy
Yes sir. (Requiem for a Nun, pp. 327“331)
The function of dialogue.— Dialogue plays an important
role In the novels of both Faulkner and Sartre. Both
authors pay special attention to dialogue and use it In a
masterly manner. For dialogue Is a most powerful literary
device and has been used by our authors to carry out var
ious functions.
The most Important function which dialogue performs
! in the novels of both Faulkner and Sartre Is to advance
i
the action in a novel in a rather definite way. An excel
lent example of this Is found in Troubled Sleep. Brunet's
entrance into a French home and his conversation with the
family tell the reader a number of things which have
happened during the past few days and which have altered
! |
the situation. Thus the action of the novel is being |
I
t
advanced. Here is the conversation. j
Suddenly the man said: "My wife is sick."
"What of it?" asked Brunet.
"I didn’t want her to spend the night in the woods."
"Why tell me that? I don't give a good God-damn,"
Brunet answered. He was in the cellar now.
The man looked at him defiantly. "What do you want,
anyhow?"
"I want to sleep here," said Brunet.
The man pulled a face; he was still staring hard.
"You a warrant officer?"
Brunet did not reply.
"Where are your men?" asked the other suspiciously. j
106
"Dead," Brunet replied, moving over to the pile of
straw.
"What about the Germans?" the man asked. "Where
are they?"
"Everywhere."
"They mustn't find you here," the man said.
Brunet took off his blouse, folded it up, laid it
on one of the oasks.
"Hear what I said?" shouted the man.
"I heard," Brunet said.
"I've got a wife and kid: I don't want to pay for
any of your nonsense!"
"Take it easy, said Brunet. He sat down.
The woman looked at him with hatred. "There are
some Frenchmen up there who are going to fight; you
ought to be with them." fTroubled Sleep, p. 260)
A similar example of the use of dialogue in order to
advance the action Is the following:
"Did you know that Boris was in need of five thousand
francs?"
"No," he said, "I didn't. He needs five thousand
francs, does he?
Lola was still looking at him and swaying to and
fro. Mathieu observed the pin-point pupils In her
large green eyes.
I've Just refused him the money," said Lola.
"He tells me it's for Picard, I thought he would have
applied to you."
Mathieu burst out laughing. "He knows I never
have a bean."
"So you hadn't heard about it?"asked Lola with an
Incredulous air.
"Well— no."
"H'm,” said she. "That's odd." (The Age of Reason.
P. 213)
Similarly, Faulkner uses dialogue rather prodigiously not
for purely ornamental purposes but In order to advance the
action In a novel and make it follow its natural and un
avoidable course. The following quotation shows how
through Rittenmeyer's unexpected intervention on behalf of
Henry Wilboume the action in the novel is brought to its
--------- “ " TT07~
climax through the masterly use of dialogue.
"Your Honor--If the Court please— "
"Who Is this?" the Judge said.
"I am Francis Rittenmeyer," Rittenmeyer said. Now
It was a roar again, the gavel going again, the Judge
himself shouting how, shouting the roar into silence:
"Order! Order! One more outbreak like this and
I will clear the room! Disarm that man!"
"I'm not armed," Rittenmeyer said. "I Just want— "
But already the bailiff and two other men were upon
him, the smooth gray sleeves pinioned while they
slapped at his pockets and sides.
"He's not armed, Your Honor," the bailiff said.
The Judge turned upon the District Attorney, trembling
too, a neat orderly man too old for this too.
What is the meaning of this clowning, Mr. Gower?"
"I don't know, Your Honor. I didn't— "
"You didn't summons him?"
"I didn't consider it necessary. Out of considera
tion for his--"
"If the Court please," Rittenmeyer said. "I Just
want to make a— " . . . "This case is closed," the
Judge said. "The accused is waiting sentence. Make
your statement from there." Rittenmeyer stopped. He
was not looking at the Judge, he was not looking at
anything, his face calm, impeccable, outrageous.
"I wish to make a plea," he said. (The Wild Palms,
pp. 144-145)
Besides the important use of the dialogue discussed
above, both Sartre and Faulkner make another equally impor
tant use of dialogue and that is to present through it an
interplay of personalities and ideas among the people con
versing. This type of dialogue is based on a serious con
versational give and take and not simply on a series of
remarks made by alternating speakers. Let us see, for
example how Sartre uses dialogue to establish the interplay
of personalities of the two brothers, Mathieu and Jacques.
Although there are other pieces of dialogue in Sartre's
novels which bring out the interplay and clash of person-
108
allties very vividly, the following, which brings the
two brothers face to face for the first and last time is
of special merit:
"Listen; as I said, I'm going to make you a proposal;
if you refuse, you won't find much difficulty in getting
hold of four thousand francs, so I don't feel any
compunction. I am prepared to put ten thousand francs
at your disposal if you marry the girl."
Mathieu had foreseen this move; in any event, it
provided him with a tolerable exit that would save
his face.
"Thank you, Jacques," he said, getting up. "You
are really too kind, but it won't do. I don't say
you are wrong all along the line, but if I have to
marry some day, it must be because I want to. At this
moment it would just be a clumsy effort to get myself
out of a mess."
Jacques got up too. "Think it over," said he,
"take your time. Your wife would be very welcome here,
as I need not tell you; I have confidence in your
choice. Odette will be delighted to welcome her as a
friend. Besides, my wife knows nothing of your private
life."
"I have already thought it over," said Mathieu.
"As you please," said Jacques cordially— was he
really much put out? And he added: "When shall we
see you?"
"I'll come to lunch on Sunday," said Mathieu.
"Good-by.."
"Good-by," said Jacques, "and of course if you
change your mind, my offer still holds." (The Age of
Reason, pp. 119-120)
A similar example of the use of dialogue to present
an interplay and clash of personalities is quoted here
from Faulkner's novel The Wild Palms. This piece of dia
logue shows that it is not a mere series of remarks but a
deadly confrontation of Wilbourne and Rittenmeyer.
He can't say it. Wilbourne thought. He can't even
bear to say it. "if I'm not good to her, gentle with
her. Is that what you mean?"
"I'll know it," Rittenmeyer said, "if I don't
109
hear from her by the tenth of every month, I am going
to give the detective the word to go ahead. And I'll
know lies too, see? See?"
"I was going to do that with some of my money,"
Wilbourne said.
"Damn that too," the other said. "And it's for
| the ticket. If It is ever cashed and returned to the
j bank and no ticket bought with it, I'll have you
arrested for fraud. See? I'll know."
"You mean, you want her to come back? You will
take her back?" But he did not need to look at the
other's face; he said quickly, "I'm sorry. I retract
that. That's more than any man can bear to answer."
"God," the other said; "God. I ought to sock you."
He added, in a tone of Incredulous amazement, "Why
don't I? Can you tell me? Ain't a doctor, any doctor,
j supposed to be an authority on human glands?" (The
j Wild Palms, p. 38)
Linked with the Interplay of personalities is the
interplay of ideas. Although both authors make use of
! dialogue for such a purpose, i.e. . to bring out the in-
I
I
j fluence of one character's ideas upon another, Sartre makes
perhaps more such use than Faulkner does. Let us quote
one such example from one of Sartre's novels. The scene
is one of the most powerful ones, as far as serious ideas
are concerned, and presents the Communist Brunet trying to
persuade the teacher-philosopher Mathieu to join the
Communist party.
'So you think I need to commit myself?"
"Yes," said Brunet emphatically. "Yes, you need
to commit yourself. Don't you feel so yourself?"
Mathieu smiled sadly: he was thinking of Spain.
"You have gone your own way," said Brunet. "You
are the son of a bourgeois, you couldn't come to us
straight away, you had to free yourself first. And
now it's done, you are free. But what's the use of
that same freedom, if not to join us? You have spent
thirty-five years cleaning yourself up, and the
result is nil. You are an odd sort of creature, you
know," he continued with a friendly smile. . . .
110!
I'm glad to have you say all that to me.” j
Brunet smiled an absent smilej he was still pur
suing his idea. "You renounced everything in order
to be free," he said. "Take one step further,
renounce your own freedom: and everything shall be
rendered unto you."
"You talk like a parson," said Mathieu laughing.
"No, but seriously, old boy, it wouldn't be a sacri
fice, you know. I know quite well that I shall get
everything back— flesh, blood and genuine passions.
You know, Brunet, I've finally lost all sense of
reality: nothing now seems to be altogether true."
Brunet did not answer: he was meditating. (The
Age of Reason, pp. 130-131)
A third and most important use of dialogue which is
made by both Sartre and Faulkner is to show language con
sistency between the character of the speakers and their
social and economic positions as well as their racial and
geographic backgrounds. Since, however, there is a separ- j
I
ate chapter on language, the reader Is referred to Chapter !
1
III, especially pp. 135“l45 and 146-158 for further con
sideration of dialogue as it is used by the different
characters.
Faulkner and Plot
No general statement can be made regarding the
existence or absence of plot in Faulkner's novels. j
1
Faulkner has written a large number of novels, each one
differeing from the others in manner of construction. For
example, Light in August, Intruder in the Dust. Sartorls,
Soldiers' Pay. and The Wild Palms are what might be
called "plot novels" In the traditional sense. On the
other hand, The Sound and the Fury. Absalom. Absalom1, and
Ill
A Fable so dislocate and rearrange their material as to
defy definition as novels of the traditional "plot type."
Finally, other novels, like The Unvanquished, and perhaps
Requiem for a Nun, lack Identifiable plots altogether.
Before I enter into a detailed explanation of the con
cept of plot in Faulkner, I would like to devote my atten
tion to one specific novel representative of the group con
taining novels with well-written plots. Because among
4
Faulkner's novels with substantial plots, The Wild Palms
occupies a prominent place, it has been chosen for a care1 * •
ful dissection and structural analysis. The problem of the
novel can be said to be this: What happens to a couple of
young people who fall in love at first sight, decide to
follow their feelings, and, in so doing, disregard society's
ethical and moral standards?
First of all, the novel contains a planned sequence
of events. It begins in medias res and tells of the ad
ventures of Harry Wilbourne with Charlotte Rittenmeyer
which last for approximately one year. Wr hen Chapter I
opens, the whole year which the story covers has gone by,
except for a few days. At this time, the couple occupy a
rented summer cottage somewhere on the coast of the Gulf of
4
The Wild Palms and The Old Man were published in one
volume by the New American Library in 1959— second edition.
This edition, which has been used throughout this study,
differs structurally from the original publication of both
stories as a unified whole under the title The Wild Palms.
This edition by The New American library has untangled the
two stories and placed one alongside the other.
112
Mexico not very far from New Orleans. Harry has attempted
an abortion on Charlotte and has failed. Charlotte Is
about to lose her life; she lies on a crude mattress in
pain and bleeding. Harry has to call a doctor in a vain
effort to remedy the situation. These events cover the
first thirteen pages which make up the first chapter of
the novel.
There follows a long flashback (pp. 21-116) in which
the meeting, falling in love, and adventures of the couple
are related in chronological order. This flashback covers
ninety-six pages and is divided into three chapters:
Chapters II, III and IV. The couple depart for Chicago,
where they lead a sort of Bohemian free-love life for a
while; then they move to a lake resort area near Chicago,
! where they spend almost three months of carefree living. j
i i
Having run out of money by Christmas, Harry accepts a job
with a mining company in Utah, where the couple suffer
privations until spring. Finally, broke and out of work, j
with Charlotte pregnant with an undesired child, the
i ' !
couple move to a warmer climate on the Gulf of Mexico,
where their needs may be fewer and easier to meet. An
abortion of Charlotte's child is performed by Harry, and,
fearful at the possibility of a failure, they move to
Mobile, Alabama. Here the flashback ends.
The last chapter of the novel, Chapter V, runs
forty-one pages and picks up where the first chapter left
113 |
i off. Charlotte Is taken to a hospital whei?e, aft.er hours
1
i
| of suffering and agony, she dies. Harry is brought to
i
! trial for manslaughter and attempted illegal abortion.
; Rittenmeyer makes an unconvincing effort to save Harry's
1 • s
I life but is rebuffed by both the public and Harry himself. '
| Finally, Harry, after long meditation, rejects suicide as
i ' i
! it was proposed by Rittenmeyer because, as he expresses it,;
|"between grief and nothing I will take grief" (The Wild
i Palms. p. 148). Crushed, he accepts a fifty-year sentence
I meted out to him by the Jury.
i
I This is the well-planned sequence of events which
i •
S i
makes up the novel. These events, moreover, are not loose j
i I
I or independent of each other but are tightly held together ;
|by causality; that is, one event is the cause of another
|one which follows, and that cause generates an effect. j
j J
jFor, indeed, there is not going to be any salvation for
i i
Ithis couple which has defied social norms of ethical and j
! j
;moral behavior. This is made clear at the very beginning, !
| l
and it is so because their love is not soundly based.
Charlotte is married to an understanding and good husband
I
i
and has two daughters by him. Harry, on the other hand,
gives up his medical career when he has but four more
months of internship before receiving his license to prac
tice. Once they decide to give up their respectable posi
tions in society, they start on the road which leads
them from bad to worse until Charlotte dies because of his
114
Incompetent abortion and Harry receives a fifty year
prison sentence. The reader is prepared for serious
trouble when he reads, quite early in the novel, a brief
discussion between the lovers:
"Can't you get the divorce?"
"On what ground? He would fight it. And it would
have to be here— a Catholic judge. So there's just
one other thing. And it seems I can't do that."
"Yes," he said, "Your children."
For a moment she looked at him, smoking. "I wasn't
thinking of them. I mean, I have already thought of
them. So now I don't need to think of them any more
because I know the answer to that and I know I can't
change that answer and 1 don't think I can change me
because the second time I ever saw you I learned what
I had read in books but I never had actually believed:
that love and suffering are the same thing and that
the value of love is the sum of what you have to pay
for it and any time you get it cheap you have cheated
yourself. So I don't need to think about the children.
I settled that a long time ago. fThe Wild Palms.
PP• 32)
The Initial period of exalted bliss in a Chicago
I
studio apartment is demonstrated in the following quota
tion:
"But this is honeymoon; later will be— "
"I know that too." She grasped his hair again, j
hurting him again though now he knew she knew she j
was hurting. "Listen: it's got to be all honeymoon, i
always. Forever and ever, until one of us dies. It j
can't be anything else . . ."
"So it's not me you believe in, put trust in; it's
love." She looked at him. "Not just me; any man."
"Yes. It's love." (The Wild Palms, p. 42)
From this the couple passes to a secluded existence
in Wisconsin, during which illusions are destroyed:
Yes, he thought. It's the Indian summer that did it.
I have been seduced to an Imbecile's paradise by an old
whore; I have been throttled and sapped of strength and
volition by the old weary Lilith of the year. (The
Wild Palms. p. 64)
115
There follows a miserable existence of Isolation and In
clement weather in Utah, where a realization of their pos
ition and further moral dissolution occur:
"Suppose it was us. I know you will have to throw
away something. But we have thrown away a lot, threw
it away for love and we're not sorry." (The Wild Palms,
p. 93).
"So there's just one thing left," he said, aloud in a
kind of calm like that which follows the deliberate
ridding of the stomach of a source of nausea. Just one
thing left. We'll go where it is warm, where it won't
cost so much to live, where I can find work . . . Yes!
he thought, cried aloud into the immaculate desolation,
with harsh and terrible sardoniclsm, "I will set up as
a professional abortionist." (The Wild Palms, p. 103)
The final catastrophe is brought about when Charlotte is
! dying:
j
j "I am holding on. I'm holding on so you can go,
get out of here before they come. You promised me
j you would. I want to see you go. I want to see you
I go. I want to watch you."
"All right. But don't you want to say good-bye
first?"
"All right. But Jesus Qod, don't touch me. It's
like fire, Harry. It doesn't hurt. It's just like
fire. Just don't touch me." So he knelt beside the
bed; she stopped her head now; her lips lay still
under his for a moment, hot and dry to the taste, with
the thin sweetish taste of the blood. Then she pushed
his face away with her hand, it hot and dry too, he
hearing her heart still, even now, a little too fast,
a little too strong. (The Wild Palms, p. 122)
Although the seeds of destruction are sown with the
couple's initial action, external forces contribute to it.
Rittenmeyer is, perhaps, the most pronounced external
contributing force to the couple's ruination. Quite early
in the story he admonishes Wilbourne:
116
M,If I'm not good to her, gentle with her. Is that what
you mean?' 'I'll know it,' Rittenmeyer said . . . 'And
I'll knbw lies too, see? See?'" (The Wild Palms, p. 38)
When, indeed, Charlotte neglects to write him, Rittenmeyer
sends the detective to find out the reasons. The Detec
tive's awkward handling of the situation results in Ritten
meyer's loss of his Job:
"It was the detective. You were busy then, that
was the month you forgot to write to New Orleans.
He wasn't trying to hur— get me fired. He Just hadn't
j heard from you and he was worried. He was trying to
| find out if you were all right. It wasn't him, it was
i the detective who spilled the works. So they let me
j go. It was funny. I was fired from a Job which existed
i because of moral turpitude, on the grounds of moral
; turpitude. Only it wasn't actually that, of course.
The Job Just played out, as I knew in time it would— "
(The Wild Palms, p. 51)
The consequent loss of a steady income complicates further
the situation by restricting the freedom of movement of
the couple.
Attendant with and symbolic of this road to moral and
j physical destruction is the comparative lack of means of
support. Poverty is with the couple from the first time
they meet. It almost causes their separation as soon as
they meet, when Charlotte refuses to see Harry again:
"Harry?" she said. Her voice was rapid but calm:
I told Rat about today, and that it was a bust. So
he's right. It's his turn now. He gave me a free
shot, and I didn't make it. So now it's no more than
fair to give him a free shot. And it's no more decent
to tell you what the score is, only decent is such a
bastard word to have to use between you and me--"
"Charlotte," he said. "Listen, Charlotte— "
117
"So It's good-bye, Harry. And good luck." (The Wild
Palms. pp. 35-36)
But Harry finds $1278 miraculously, which he uses for the
escape. From then on, they race against money and time.
The initial capital keeps diminishing; and, although it is
meagerly replaced from time to time, this only postpones
the day of its exhaustion. The couple keep close watch
over the money: "Then she wrote down a date beside the
j last figure; it would be in early September. 'On that
day we won't have any money left1" (p. 44). Soon there
after the money has dwindled considerably: "'How much
money have we got?' 'A hundred and forty-eight dollars.
But it's all right. I— '" (p.51)- Their true poverty
is shown later on when they let their neighbor, Bradley,
| have a marionette. "'Take it,' Charlotte said pleasantly,
i 'You must need it much worse than we do.'" (p. 59). They
I are penniless in Utah since Harry is never paid his |
| |
| promised salary. When the couple arrive, in the vicinity
of New Orleans, Henry possesses only two ten-dollar bills
with which he has to pay the rent for the cottage and the
doctor's fees, as well as buy food. When all the money is
spent, Charlotte is dead at a hospital and Harry is in
prison.
The plot of this novel can be further dissected as
follows: The "situation" of the novel is explained on
pp. 21-34, in which the background of both, Charlotte and
118
Harry Is explained; also the couple meet and hold their
first and second meetings. The "generating circumstance"
takes place on pp. 33-36, when Harry decides to keep the
$1278 he found, destroys all evidence about the find, and
informs Charlotte of it. The "rising action" follows on
pp. 37-110, in which the adventures of the couple are re
lated. The climax is reached on p. Ill, with the ill-
fated abortion of Charlotte's child by Harry. When soon
after the abortion Charlotte has a premonition of death,
it is evident to all but Harry that the bad has come to
worse and the game of love is over.
"Listen," she said. "If we're going to get it."
"Get it?"
"You'll know in time, wont you?"
"We're not going to get anything. I'm going to
hold you. Haven't I held you so far?"
"Out?"
"Promise me. Don't you know what they'll do to you?
You can't lie to anybody, even if you would. And you
couldn't help me. But you'll know in time. Just tele
phone an ambulance or the police or something and wire
Rat and get to hell out fast. Promise me." (The Wild
Palms, pp. 115-116)
t
Pages 117-148 comprise the denouement, in which Charlotte j
|
actually dies and Harry, crushed with grief, stoically
accepts a fifty-year prison term for manslaughter.
The tremendous conflict in this novel arises from the
fact that two free but weak souls are pitted against the
inexorable and inflexible forces of society, as well as the
immutable laws of nature; therefore, there exists here a
sort of man-against-environment conflict, in which the
119
freedom of the soul is crushed by social norms, and the
rebellious flesh is destroyed by the laws of nature. This
is primarily, then, a moral conflict, not a clear-cut
choice between black and white but between two similar
shades, and as such it may be considered qualitatively one
of the superior conflicts in literature.
Since many situations in real life have unhappy end
ings, the unhappy ending in this story shows that this
( !
| novel serves to illuminate life in a realistic way. It
also demonstrates that, since it was the logical conclusion
of the behavior of the couple, Faulkner has avoided plot
manipulation. The power and quality of this unhappy end
ing cause us to brood over the results and embark upon a
meaningful contemplation of the couple's behavior. Fin-
i ally, significant issues are raised, and important ques
tions are likely to be asked because of the tragic failure
of this love affair.
There are additional attributes to plot, such as sus- I
i
pense, surprise, withheld Information, unexpected happen- ,
ings, and Interrelation of characters' behavior. These
concepts, along with other aspects of plot, will be dis
cussed and analyzed in the pages Immediately following.
The Embedded Short Stories.--In The Wild Palms there
Is not a scene which does not contribute directly toward
the ultimate climax of this novel. This, however, is
120
not true of all other Faulknerian novels, even those with
substantial plots. There are, here and there, chapters or
parts of chapters which distract the reader from the main
course of events and contribute little, if anything, to
the novel structurally. Especial attention should be paid
to Faulkner's use of independent, embedded short stories
within a novel.
The fact that parts of The Hamlet were cut up and
made into five different short stories which were pub
lished independently in various magazines before the whole
product came out in novel form, shows this tendency on the
part of Faulkner to invent and then embed stories of var-
| ious lengths into the main narrative of his novels. Such
stories, however, although they can be read independently
■ of the main novel and stand on their own merits, are not j
outside the main theme of the novel. They concern charact
ers intrinsically tied up with the plot, and serve as an
; explanation, illumination, and illustration of the charact-j
j
I ers concerned, so that the actions and behavior that fal
low can be better understood and more easily accepted.
Portions taken out of The Hamlet and published
independently as short stories prior to publication of the
book in novel form bear such titleB as, "Spotted Horses,"
"Fool about a Horse," "The Hound," and "Lizards in Janshy's
Courtyard." These short stories, among numerous others,
are now embedded in The Hamlet. They are not easily
121
recognizable by their quoted titles, mainly because the
names of the main characters have been changed. For ex
ample, the last few pages of The Hamlet contained in Part
IV, and bearing the title "The Peasants" (in which the mad
and vain search for hidden treasure in Frenchman's Place
by the three partners, Ratliff, Bookright and Armstid is
told) was published as an independent short story en
titled "Lizards in Janshy's Courtyard," in the Saturday
! i
i Evening Post of February 27, 1932, with the name of
J Ratliff appearing as Suratt. (The book first came out in
| novel form In 1940). The story of the murder of Houston
| by Mink Snopes was, similarly, published in short story
i
| form entitled "The Hound" in Harper's Magazine, in August
1
1931* with the name of Mink Snopes appearing as Cotton.
The story of Pat Stamper, about the trading of a horse,
i
| and another story, relating the auction of the Texas
i
| ponies in Frenchman's Place, were published in Scribner's j
Magazine. the first story bearing the title, "Fool About
a Horse," (August 1936), and the latter, "Spotted Horses"
(June 1931)* The last story mentioned is characteristi
cally introduced with these words":
"Spotted Horses" is a work of native American
humor— a tall tale with Implications of tragedy, a
hilarious story of Fiem Snopes, rural financial
genius, corrupting a Mississippi town with Texas
horses.
^Editor's note in William Faulkner's "Spotted Horses,'
Scribner's Magazine. 89:585-597, June 1931*
122
Also independently published was the story of the peculiar
school teacher, Labove, who abandoned his dreams for suc
cess because he happened to fall madly in love with a
i
j fifteen-year-old attractive student of his.
j The imbedded short story is not only to be found in
The Hamlet: it is a characteristic that is to be found in
abundance in all Faulkner's novels. For example, Light in
August contains, among other stories, the story of priest
Hightower and that of his debauched wife, while Christmas'
| life story itself is told in consecutive, almost independ
ent short stories. Again, in Sartoris, Bayard's hunting
trip in the estate of the MacCallum family (related on
pp. 305-333), could very well be told as a completely in
dependent and self-sustained short story.
The Use of the Flashback.— Faulkner makes frequent
use of the flashback. In The Old man, there are two main
flashbacks, the first one short and the second rather long
In the first flashback, the "tall, lean, flat-stomached"
convict who, influenced by mystery novels, tried to rob
a train and was caught, tells the other convicts of his
attempted train robbery (after years of imprisonment).
The other, very long flashback, 3tarts early in the novel
with the disappearance of this same, nameless convict, on
the flooded Mississippi River. His adventures during the
six weeks when he was lost in the flooded region (and pre
123
sumed drowned) are recounted to the other convicts after
he surrendered to the authorities and was given an addi
tional ten-year sentence for, of all things, attempted
escape! With the exception of four to five pages of in
terruption this latter flashback extends throughout the
rest of the novel.
In Sanctuary Faulkner tells the reader of Popeye's
parentage and early childhood, and gives much important
Information about the early years of his life only in the
last four pages of the novel! Everything has happened to
Popeye that can possibly happen to a man (who, it should
be remembered, along with Temple Drake, is the hero of the
j novel) but the reader has had to wait until the end of the
novel to discover important information about him— such
important facts about Popeye's life that helped in the
formation and determination of his character and behavior.
This withheld information may not be considered to be
i !
I purely a flashback, but it properly belongs in this part
of the discussion. j
l
But perhaps the most dramatic (in the literal as well
as llteiary sense of the word) flashback occurs in Requiem
for a Nun. In this novel-play, there is a "play within
a play" device. This device serves to clear up a number
of things in the mind of the reader— such as who the
young man was that blackmailed Temple Drake with Red's
letters, who it was that foiled Temple's attempted elope-
124
ment, how Temple got Involved In her illicit love after her
marriage to Oowan Stevens, and so on. These facts are re
lated long after they have happened hy the use of the "play
within a play" device (see Requiem for a Nun, pp. 274-285).
There are other flashbacks of various lengths in other
novels of Faulkner. Faulkner makes skillful use of the
flashback with the intention of presenting a well-told tale
through the enhiancement of plot. In all examples cited
j
above, the flashback has been used to excite the reader's
curiosity, complicate the course of events and thus enrich
the quality of the plot. This is the function of the flash
back as used In The Old Man. for example, when the "tall"
convict recounts the train robbery which he attempted, |
after serving years of imprisonment. Similarly, when in
Sane tuary Pop eve's parentage and unhappy childhood are re
lated at the very end of the novel, they serve to explain
Popeye1s character and behavior and result in a kind of
poetic justice, since Popeye is then being,hanged and thus |
1
receives his due. This use of the flashback, which in many
cases, enables the author to begin his story in medias res
is a time-honored device used by Faulkner to subtilize the
quality of his plot. The use of the flashback is also
closely related to Faulkner's attachment to an explanation
of the past. Meaningful moments in the lives of men cannot
be based on a chronological recounting but should rather be
a recollection of the meaningful, regardless of time se
125
quence. Finally, this use of the flashback is related
to the dislocation of time, and as such it may suggest the
South's terrible dilemma of segregation, its feelings of
guilt, and its efforts at expiation.
The Use of the Indirect Method.— Not only do all the
important characters of Faulkner have their secrets, but
what is more complicated, they move in a beclouded atmos
phere filled with temporary vagueness and inscrutability.
i
j Faulkner will very seldom tell his audience anything dir
ectly; nor will he let his main characters do any direct
talking so as to reveal their intentions. The reader is
left guessing through dozens of pages without knowing what
exactly is happening, or to whom it is happening, until
finally he is Informed about the truth by the deliberate
yet quite natural gossip of minor characters. As Sartre
has pointed out unerringly, "The men Faulkner likes— the |
I
; Negro in Light in August, the father in Absalom, Absalom1, I
i
Bayard Sartoris— are men who have secrets and keep quiet”
I
(Literary Essays, p. 78). The following quotation from
Sartoris illustrates perfectly what Sartre meant when he
wrote the above line:
"But they have secrets," she explained. "Shakespeare
doesn't have any secrets! He tells everything."
"I see. Shakespeare had no sense of discrimination
and no instinct for reticence. In other words, he I
wasn't a gentleman," he suggested.
"Yes . . . that's what I mean." I
"And so, to be a gentleman, you must have secrets."
fSartoris. p. 177)
126"
Similarly, in The Hamlet we know nothing of the
marriage between Plem Snopes and Eula Varner, already
pregnant by another man, until after the marriage has
taken place; when we do learn of the marriage it is from
two minor characters who gossip idly:
The next morning Tull and Bookwright returned from
Jefferson, where they had delivered another drove of
cattle to the railroad. By that night the country-side
knew the rest of it. . . . From there they had gone to
the court house, to the Chavery Clerk’s office, where
a deed to the old Frenchman's place was recorded to
j Flem and Eula Varner Snopes.
!
I • * •
j "Paid for what too?" Armstid said.
I "The wedding license," Tull said. (The Hamlet,
j pp. 166-167)
!
i And this is how we learn of a marriage of importance,
!
j days after it has taken place. In another Instance, we
learn of the outcome of the trial of Houston vs. Mink
| Snopes neither through the author directly, nor by wit-
I nessing the court scene, but, again, by the gossip of minor
|
j characters:
I "The plaintif seems to had legal talent," he said.
What was the verdict?"
"When Snopes pays Houston three dollars pasturage,
he can get his bull," Quick said.
"Sho now," Ratliff said. "Wasn't his lawyer even al
lowed nothing by the court?"
"The lawyer was fined what looked like the consider
able balance of one incompleted speech," Bookwright said.
(The Hamlet, p. 184)
In Light in August, we again learn indirectly, from prob
ably the most obscure character in the whole novel, a fel
low called Mooney, that Christmas is held in prison and j
will be indicted for murder on the next day. j
™~ 127
"If you want to see him, Byron Bunch," Mooney says.
"I reckon you'll find him downtown at the courthouse?
"At the courthouse?"
"Yes, sir. Grand Jury meets today. Special call.
To indict that murderer [Christmas]. (Light in August.
PP. 391-392)
What is probably the most important event in the novel,
Christmas' murder, is first told in a similarly indirect
manner:
"Excitement?" Byron says. "What excitement?"
The man is looking at him. "Prom your face, a man
would say you had been in some excitement yourself."
I "I fell down," Byron says. "What excitement in town
| this evening?"
! "I thought maybe you hadn't heard. About an hour ago.
I That nigger, Christmas. They killed him." (Light in
| August, p. 418)
I Observe the use of indirection in a lengthy speech in
j the Sanctuary, for example, when Horace Benbow relates to
his sister the discussion which he had with the Imprisoned
| Lee Goodwin whom he will defend (Sanctuary, pp. 72-72).
There is, indeed, widespread use of the indirect method
through all Faulkner's novels.
Indirection, along with the secrets entertained by
|
many characters, is an added attribute to plot. There is
an air of mysteriousness about secrets, since withheld or
deferred information excites the curiosity of the reader
and creates suspense. The same objective and plot en
hancement are also created by having minor characters
comment first on major events before the events themselves
are described. Thus, as there are appetizers before a
good dinner, there are hints and gossip before the main
128 i
event occurs. Faulkner handles these devices with great
skill and success in his efforts to tell a good story-
well.
Enigmatic Chapter Openings.— Faulkner's style is,
however, made somewhat difficult and complicated by his
consistent writing of vague, enigmatic and rather baffling;
chapter openings. What happens usually is that as a chap- j
ter opens, the reader has to put forth an effort to grasp
the situation and understand what is going on. Who is
talking? What is the subject discussed and to what end?
What is the occasion and immediate environment? What is
the author aiming at? Sometimes, it takes hours of read
ing, and, at times, as many as two or even three hundred
pages before these questions are answered. At times, j
j
answers to questions raised in a chapter are not found ‘
i
till the end of the book. Faulkner's novels contain a
i
number of such baffling beginnings of chapters. In
Soldiers' Pay, for example, the opening of Chapter II, on j
page 56, introduces Januarius Jones, a foundling, discus- j
sing with another completely new character, the affairs of
rector Mahon. The reader has to read eleven pages in order
to learn that the rector is somewhat related to Donald
Mahon, thirteen pages to learn that he is his father,
seventeen to be informed that Cecily Saunders is engaged
to Donald, and twenty-five more to discover that the
129
rector Is expecting his son home, even though he had
earlier thought that the latter had been killed.
Similar situations abound in Faulkner’s novels. On
page 188 of The Hamlet, we are introduced to a paralytic
and idiotic member of the Snopes' family. The reader did
not know of his existence before this introduction. What
is more, the idiot is introduced in a baffling manner,
thus:
i !
| As winter became spring and the spring itself advanced,
! he had less and less of darkness to flee through and
from. Soon it was dark only when he left the bam,
backed carefully with one down-groping foot, from the
harness-room where his quilt-and-straw bed was, and
turned his back on the long rambling loom of the house
where last night’s new drummer-faces snored on the
pillows of the beds which he had now learned to make
as well as Mrs. Littlejohn could; by April it was
actual thin. . . . (The Hamlet, p. 188)
We don't know who the "he" of the opening line is; and
I the narration goes on for pages before we discover the j
idiot's identity and are reoriented once more. Only after
j reading more than twenty-five pages do we get a full view
of his character, when he befriends a cow and sleeps in j
the open air alongside her, and when he transfers friend
ship, affection and love reserved for human beings, to a
cow. In Light in August, which by the way, haB more such
baffling openings than any other of Faulkner's novels, the
most pronounced example is to be found on page 111, with
the opening of Chapter VI: The reader Is puzzled as he
reads:
I ----- - - - - - - - 13o
Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes
longer than recollects, longer than knowing even
wonders. Knows remembers believes a corridor in a
big long garbled cold echoing building of dark red
brick sootbleakened by more chimneys than its own,
; set in a glassless cinder strewnpacked compound
surrounded by smoking factory purlieus and enclosed
by a tenfoot steel-and-wire fence like a peniten
tiary or a zoo, where in random erratic surges, with
sparrowlike childtrebling, orphans in identical and
uniform blue denim in and out of remembering but in
knowing constant as the bleak walls, the bleak
windows where in rain soot from the yearly adjscent
ing chimneys streaked like black tears. (Light in
| August, p. Ill)
! Such an opening, coming after Christmas (now thirty-four
i
years old) has killed Miss Burden, takes the reader
| thirty-four years back to an orphanage, where Christmas
i was bom. And the reader has to read page after page in
| order to discover where he is, and who is being bom, and,
then, suddenly, to realize, after an hour's reading, that
Faulkner has been talking about Christmas all this time,
j Although it has to be admitted that a few of those
enigmatic chapter openings found in Faulkner's novels are
I i
somewhat difficult to follow and perhaps some are not
| very explicit or clear, they serve an important purpose: j
i *
| they reveal part of Faulkner's skill in temporarily with-
holding information from the reader in order to attract
his attention, baffle him at first, and thus create sus
pense. When the information is later given and the un
clear clarified, the plot of the novel appears in all its
compactness and articulation.
It has become apparent throughout this chapter that
131
there Is a basic difference in the attitude of the two
authors In regard to plot. Jean-Paul Sartre Is scarcely-
interested In plot at all; yet even plotlessness can have
an Important place and meaning In his novels. The plot
lessness of the novel corresponds harmoniously with the
meaninglessness of the universe. To put it another way,
there is an unconventional plot which the reader can impute
to the novel as he can impute a subjective meaning to the
: existing universe. A general statement of Faulkner's use
of plot cannot be made because of the large number and var
iety of novels which Faulkner has written. Many of these
novels contain well-constructed plots, even In the conven
tional meaning of the word. The plot of one of these
; novels has been dissected and the planned sequence of
action, causality of events and compactness have been ana
lyzed. A few Faulknerian plots are rather loose and some
what difficult to comprehend. Although Faulkner's use of
other stylistic peculiarities, such as the embedded short
story, the Indirect method, and the extensive flashbacks,
j do complicate his style, they are skillfully handled in
i order to enhance the dynamics of plot. Similarly, Sartre's
!
novels which are rather devoid of plot, are, nonetheless,
easily understood because of the preponderance of Import-
i
1
| ant and philosophical Ideas contained in them and seriously
i
F
! discussed and advanced.
I
132|
It has been further shown that both authors make
rather extensive use of introspection and subconscious
probing. This is further evidence that character study
and analysis play an important role in the novels of both
authors discussed.
There exists a great similarity in the literary
styles of the authors In regard to the purpose and func
tion of their dialogue. Both Sartre and Faulkner use
dialogue In order to advance the action in the novel. Thus
dialogue Is not a mere ornamentation but performs a cer
tain basic function in their novels. In addition, both
writers use dialogue well in order to present interplays
or clashes of either personalities among the people con
versing, or Ideas of these people. Dialogue thus is not
a mere exchange of remarks but a powerful means of estab
lishing personalities and Ideas. Lastly, the dialogue j
]
which both authors use is superbly consistent with the
characters' social and economic positions, as well as j
I
their racial and geographical backgrounds. There exists, j
as a consequence, a large and rich variety of dialogue in
both Faulkner's and Sartre's novels.
Finally, they both make such use of literary devices
in relation to plot as might help them uncover reality and
express it as dramatically as It is possible to do. Also,
if the meaninglessness of the universe and perhaps man's j
133
relation to the universe are reflected in the plotlessness
of Sartre's novels, baffling chapter openings, and similar
rather unorthodox literary devices may Indicate Faulkner's
concepts of a disturbed, perturbed and restless southern
conscience.
! CHAPTER III
i
LANGUAGE
This chapter will he devoted to an examination of the
language used by the authors In question as well as by
j their characters. Questions to which answers will be
! sought pertain to sentence structure and length, realistic
j
!
language, dialect and colloquial language. The type and
quality of words will also be analyzed. For example, what
do our authors think of words? How do they use them and
what do they expect of them? In addition, the relation
between characters of various races and social strata to
language use will be analyzed. What type of language do
the southern Negroes use, for instance, and how does It
differ from that used by the southern Whites? Although
it is, Indeed, difficult to compare or contrast the j
| Faulknerian type of language with the kind and type which j
i j
the Parisian characters of Sartre use, an effort will be
made to establish some pattern of use.
Language is the main means of expression not only of
our authors but also of their characters.1 Let us then
i
j
^he language used in a novel shows both the author's;
135'
see how the authors as well as their characters handle
the languages which they have been taught.
Sartre's Use of Language2
: What Are Words?
! ............................................
Mathleu, in one of his conversations with his mis-
i tress, Marcelle, says:
"I'm afraid she may do it again, or get some fan
tastic Idea into her head."
His tone, which suggested a sort of protective
detachment, was surely intended to mislead. Every
thing that could be expressed in words, he said.
"But what are words?" (The Age of Reason, p. 6)
! What are "words?" The question echoes throughout Sartre's
i :
-novels. What indeed, are words? What is their substance? j
| ]
Are they objects, meanings, beautiful entities, vehicles
I or aesthetic embellishment, simple means of communlca-
: i
Ition? What is their function? Do they exist outside the
;individual? Are they subjective or objective? For what
i i
I purpose should they be used? We know what Sartre thinks
jknowledge of it as well as his ability to handle it; there !
is a distinction made, however, between the speech of the
characters and the narrative, the descriptive, and the ex- I
!planatory parts of the novel in which the author communi-
|cates directly with his readers. Each character speaks
!his own language. The author copies each character’s
speech realistically. Thus, when the drunken soldiers In
Troubled Sleep talk, we know it Is their speech, not
Sartre's. Whenever, on the other hand, descriptive or
narrative passages appear, one expects that the language
used Is Sartre's own.
2For an explanation and clarification of the apparent j
ambiguity of this subtitle and a clear understanding of its 1
contents, please see footnotes 1, on p. 134; 4 on p. 138;
6 on p. 140; 7 on p. 141; 8 on p. 142; 9 on pp. 142-143;
and 10 on pp. 143-144. j
i " ■ " " " “““ 136
of words, for example, when he accuses Ivich in the fol
lowing terms:
. . . it's fantastic, you've got a savage's respect
for words; you apparently believe that they were made
simply for announcing deaths and marriages and saying
Mass. (The Aae of Reason, p. 64)
Words are meant to communicate effectively an action, an
event, a state or a condition. The outward appearance of
words— their beauty, sonority, melodiousness— is meaning
less for Sartre. For, as he puts it,
. . . the words are first of all not objects but deslg- j
nations for objects; it is not first of all a matter of
knowing whether they please or displease in themselves,
but whether they correctly indicate a certain thing or
a certain notion.3
Sartre minimizes beautiful or poetic language when he
writes in the above-mentioned book that it is a serious
error to assume that "the word is a gentle breeze which
plays lightly over the surface of things, which grazes
them without altering them" (p. 22). Words, according
to Sartre, are actions, should be considered as such by
I the writer, and are nothing more or less. Sartre is defin-|
I
ite and unequivocal when he says:
The word is a certain particular moment of action and
has no meaning outside of it. . . . The "engaged" writer
knows that words are action. He knows that to reveal is
to change and that one can reveal only by planning to
change, (pp. 21-23)
Thus, words, according to Sartre, are an extremely
3jean-Paul Sartre, What is Literature? (New York,
1949), P. 20.
137
powerful action-moulding and action-expressing instrument.
Moreover, they are more than this, for they are the author
himself1 For, as Sartre writes, in the same book again,
We are within language as within our body. We feel it
spontaneously while going beyond it toward other ends,
as we feel our hands and our feet; . . . (p.20)
Since words are action and the end of language is to
communicate effectively, truly, and correctly, words are
chosen by Sartre not because of their inherent aesthetic
values, but because of their effectiveness or because of
their closeness to the action which they represent.
I
Yet Sartre goes further in his novels. It is obvious
to his readers that when there is a choice between a beau-
I tlful or an ugly word both of which approach "action"
i I
J equally, his choice is invariably the ugly, unsavory word.
1
| Indeed, it would not be an exaggeration to say that Sartre
deliberately avoids the use of pleasing words, since he be
lieves that such words do not properly constitute action.
I
i Thus, the language communicates perfectly, to be sure, but ;
j i
| it is rather a matter-of-fact and down-to-earth language, j
| as we shall see. j
I
The Choice of Sentences
Sartre uses the short sentence extensively, if not
exclusively. Obviously, he believes that the shorter the
sentence, the better it communicates. For this reason, j
I
Sartre almost invariably breaks up the long, logical, or j
j ' ' ~ 138
what might appear poetic sentence into smaller sentences.
As he does so, he also makes prodigal use of all sorts of
punctuation marks. Colons and semicolons can he counted
by the thousands in each one' of his novels. Here are a
few examples of Sartre's use of the short sentence and
punctuation marks:
She let her hand rest in his; and she smiled,
lying back in her chair. He was glad that she should
be happy; he wanted to leave her pleasant memories.
He stroked her hand and thought: "A year; we've
only a year left together"; he felt quite moved;
their affair already possessed the charm of some
thing past. He used to treat her roughly, but
that was because their lease was unlimited: that
upset him, "he liked definite commitments. ^ (The
I Reprieve. p. 225)
Or,
She had receded into shadow, and lay there, a large,
dark, shapeless package. But the vision of her lingered
in his eyes. He clasped his hands across his stomach
and stared at the ceiling. Blanchard was snoring gently
the patients had begun to talk among themselves, in twos
and threes; the train rumbled on. She was poor and ill,
she was lying on her back in a cattle-car, she had to be
dressed and undressed like a doll. And she was beauti
ful. As beautiful as a screen star. Beside him lay alii
that humiliated beauty, that slim, pure, tarnished body.j
| She was beautiful. She sang in music halls, she had !
^The original French, with regard to length of sen
tences and punctuation marks, is not substantially differ
ent from the translation. "Elle lui avait abandonne sa
main; elle sourlalt, renversee dans le fauteuil. II etait
content qu [sic] elle soit heureuse: 11 voulait lui
lalsser un bon souvenir. II lui caressa la main et 11
pensa: un an; je n’en ai plus que pour un an & vlvre avec
elle; il se sentit tout attendri: dejk leur histoire avait
le charme du passe. Autrefois il la^menait durement, mals
c'est qu'ils avaient un bail illimite: ca l'agacait, il
aimait bien les engagements k duree definie (Le Sursls.
pp. 261-262).
139
looked at him through her eyelashes, and she had wanted
to make his acquaintance; he felt as though he had been
lifted on to his two feet.5 (The Reprieve, p. 244)
Sartre goes to the extreme of breaking up what other
wise could have been a long sentence in order to create
the proper realistic atmosphere. The long, harmonious, and
serene sentence would admittedly be out of place with the
subject matter and background of The Reprieve and Troubled
Sleep. The times are anything but harmonious, serene, or
quiet. There is turbulence in the air, fear of destruc
tion, annihilation, and death. No one knows what the next
moment will bring. The souls of the people are perturbed,
disturbed, uneasy, anxious. A very destructive and de
vastating war is a constant threat. Such a war will dis
band the family, take away comforts, bring misery, under
mine or destroy security, and disrupt order. And when war
breaks out, serenity and order are, indeed, gone.
Such perturbed and anxious times, then, can be por-
^Elle etait rentree dans l1ombre. Un gros paquet, j
informe et sombre. Mais il avait encore son image dans les
yeux. II ramena ses deux mains sur son ventre et se mit a
regarder le plafond. Blanchard ronflait doucement; les
malades s'etaient mis a causer entre eux, par deux, par
trois; le train roulait en gemissant. Elle etait pauvre et
malade, elle etait etendue dans un wagon h. fcestiaux,on
l'habillait et la deshabillait corame une jaoupee. Et elle
£tait belle. Belle comme une star de cinema. Pres de lui
toute^cette beaute humiliee, ce long corps pur et soullie.
Elle etait belle. Elle chantait dans les music-halls et
elle l1avait regarde entre ses cils et elle avait desire
le connaitre: c1etait comme si on 1'avait remis debout,
sur ses deux pieds. (Le Sursis, p. 283)*
trayed more effectively by the use of the short, choppy,
unsteady sentence. Hence Sartre chops his sentences up,
shortens them, makes them look unsteady, perhaps too short
and cut up as though something were missing from them; he
thus achieves a tremendous effect by creating the proper
atmosphere in which his distraught characters can move in
relative harmony.
The Use of Substandard and
! Colloquial Language i
j j
| Sartre reproduces language as it probably would have
f
| been spoken by real people. For instance, the intellect-
j ual Mathieu talks differently from the rank and file
; soldiers, in Troubled Sleep. Guiccioli, a private, speaks,
when he is drunk, in the peculiar language which is the
outgrowth of slang distorted by drunkenness. When he tries
| to persuade the intellectual Mathieu to join the other
soldier3 in a drink, he cannot, and does not use standard
! diction. To a certain question of Mathieu's he answers
thus: "'No business o' yours.' said Guiccioli. 'Have a j
drink or get to hell outta here!1" (Troubled Sleep . j
p. 138)- Or, addressing his private, he says: "'You'll j
.
make dozens of 'em, y’ ole devil, you!'" (p. 139)* And
here is the often repeated, famous expression of the
6
drunkards: "Whass zat?" (p. 140).
^The French expressions from which these translations
have been made are, in respective order: "T'occupe pas,
141
When the colloquial Is mixed with drink and colored
with a few vulgarisms and obscenities, we have a perfect
example of the lowest type, or I should say, the purest
type, of language as used by the best naturalists.
Guiccioli, speaking again, "Y're a bastard! ... If yer
can't vomit, you shouldn’t drink." (Troubled Sleep, p.
141).
Longin, another drunken soldier, talks much like
Guiccioli. Addressing Mathieu, he cries, "Do’s I tell yer,
. . . do’s I tell yer. Oh God!" (p. 142). And later he
tells Mathieu about his brother being discharged from the
J army in this language:
! "Hell, no, he's discharged. He an' his little
wife go walkin' unner the trees, and sayin': 'Poor
Paul's out of luck.' They're hav'n their fun,
screwing their heads off and thinking about me all
! the time. I'll give 'm poor Paul, arse and all."'
(Troubled Sleep, p. 142)
Another soldier, named Grimaud, adds his own dis-
dit Guiccioli. Tu bois, oui ou merde?"; "Vous nous en !
ferez d'austres par douzaine, polisson!"'and, "Hein? grognaj
Longin, d'9u." (La Mort dans L'ame. pp. 107-108) It is
evident that these expressions cannot be considered stan
dard French, and the translator has used the most closely
corresponding English equivalent with discretion and suc
cess.
7The observations made in the previous footnote appJLy
equally well to the translation from the original quoted
below: "Ce que tu es cassecul! . . . Quand on ne salt
paB vomir, on ne boit pas." (p. 109); "Fais ce que Je te
dis, . . . fais ce que Je te dis, bon Dieui" . . . "Penses-
tu-i .c'est un affranchi. II se promene dans les pins avec
sa petite femme; ils se disent: Pauvre Paul n'a pas eu de
veine, et 11s se frottent en pensant 4 moi. Te leur en
foutrai, tlens, du pauvre Paul. (p. 110)
“ ' ' 142
torted language as an echo to the already abused and mis
used language by: "'You ain't seen nothin' yet,' Grimaud
put in. 'You ain't seen nothin.'" (Troubled Sleep, p.
146). The bum who tags Mathieu's sleeve as Mathieu walks
alone in the darkened street and asks for a franc speaks
j
his own kind of language. Here are a few examples of it: j
I j
! "'Listen, chief, can you spare me a franc or two? ... j
I
I Not on your life, kid, . . . not on your life ... I j
j j
don't give a good God-damn, . . (The Age of Reason,
Q
p. l). The pitiful, jovial but illiterate character,
!
Gros-Louis, speaks his own colloquial language without
j realizing that there is a difference between the way he
| speaks and that of other people. When Gros-Louis happened
to wander in a classy cafe in Marseille and the clerk
chased him out, he answered good-naturedly, although j
! I
quite naively, "'I'm off,' said Gros-Louis. 'You don't
need to be afraid; I don't stick around where I ain't
wanted.'" Yet, while he uses other ungrammatical and
slang expressions such as, "'ain't that a pretty kettle j
i
of fish?' (The Reprieve, p. 186),'what's up with the
old drip?' (p. 167)# 'Well, whatya knowl'"^ (p.437),
®The original of the French expressions "Donne-moi
quelque chose, patron. . . . Je te jure . . . Je m'en
fous, tu sais. . . ."is, again, more Innocuous and less
pronounced than the translation.
9Following are a few comparisons between the French
original and the English translations which tend to prove
there is not a more delightful colloquial conversation in
(this novel than the one that Gros-Louls holds with a Negro.
Here it is:
Gros-Louis clapped him on the back.
"Whatcha laughin' at?" he said, laughing too.
The Negro had recovered his gravity. "Dunno," he
said.
"Have a drink," said Gros-Louis.
The Negro took the bottle by the neck and drank her
down. Gros-Louls drank too. The street was again de
serted.
"Where did ya sleep?" asked the Negro.
"I don't exactly know," said Gros-Louis. "It was a
sort of square, with trucks under a tarpaulin. It smelt
like coal."
"Got any money?"
"Could be." (The Reprieve, p. 42).
that the translator has, generally speaking, translated
correctly. For example, the expression "9a va pas mal
imaintenant," in the sentence, has been rendered with "ain't
that a pretty kettle of fish?" This is somewhat stronger
than the original but quite acceptable. The expression
"Que est-ce qu'il lui prend, h. cet angle-la?" is trans
lated with "Whatfs up with the old drip?" and "Eh bienl dit- ;
il. Eh bieni" is rendered with "Well, whatya know!" when
jperhaps it could very accurately have been rendered with
("Well. well!" The renditions of "II y a des fumelles, ici"
iwith Therete females around" and "D'ou c'est que te viens
; comme 9a? with "Where ya come from?" seem also well done.
IThe expression "Laissez done tomber" is translated with
"Why don't ya give up?" "Ah blen! Et d'oti c'est que vous
jvenez, comme 9a?" as "Well? Where ya come from, eh?" These
(seem to be also quite accurate translations.
^^However, the French original of this quotation is,
(perhaps, not as colloquial as the translator has made It
(appear. Here it Is:
; Gros-Louis lui tapa dans le dos: j
"Pourquoi que tu rls?" lui demanda-t-il en riant. I
Le negre avait repris son serieux:
"Comme 9a," dit-il.
— Bols un coup," dit Gros-Louis.
Le negre prit la bouteille et but au goulot. Gros-
! Louis but aussi. La rue etait redevenue deserte.
144
Vulgarisms
Here are a number of slang words and vulgarisms
which abound in the translations of Sartre's novels:
"'The bastards.' said Chariot again. 'The bastards.'"
(which, by the way, is repeated more than two dozen times
!
i
j in The Reprieve); "'waiting for the God damned infantry
[
. . "'You stink of booze.'", "'You fucking bas
tard!'"; "'It's just that I am a God-damned fool'";
"'a God-damned coward.'"; "'To hell with it!'":(Troubled
Sleep). "'You damn fool!'"; "'God damn it all!'";
"'Beast!'"; "'0, hell!'"; "'swine! . . , swine!'".
| (The Age of Reason). "'Bums, dirty bums!.'"; "'Dirty
!
| cop!1"; "'we’re bitched,'"; "'The God-damned fools!'"
(The Reprieve).
"ou as-tu couche?" demands le negre. ,
--Je ne sais pas, dit Gros-Louis. C'etait une place,
avec des wagons sous une b&che. £a sentait le charbon. !
— T'as de 1'argent?
— Peut-§tre qu'oui," dit Gros-Louis.
Thus, the expression "Pourquol que tu ris?" has been
rendered with "Whatcha laughin' at?" "Comme 9a"with
"Dunno," "Ou as-tu couche?" with "Where did ya sleep?" j
and "T'as de 1'argent?" with "Got any money?" The
sentence "Pourquoi que tu ris?" although ungrammatical
French, is not colloquial; therefore, the translator's
use of "Whatcha laughin' at? is stronger than the
French. The lack of distinction in English between the
singular "you" and plural "you," and the politeness and
learning that the use of the French "vous1 carries as
contrasted to the simple "tu," does not really Justify
the substitution of slang. The same holds true with
the substitution of "ya" for "tu" in the sentence
"where did ya sleep?" Yet the translator has chosen j
the best available English equivalent.
A close examination of and comparison between the
French original and the English translation of swearwords
and curses, revealed that, in cases, the translation is
more severe and socially unacceptable than the original.
For example, the following original and translations show
very obvious discrepancies: "Salaud" rendered with "You
fucking bastard", "Tu sens le vin," translated with "You
* stink of booze", "C'est con," translated with "It's Just
t
j that I am a God-damned fool"; and "comme un l&che," and
!
j "Ta gueule," rendered with "like a Go-damned coward"
and "You God-damned fool" respectively. But even the
i
following expressions are rather overdone: "Oh! laisse
tomber," "On te pisse a la rale," "t'es pas fous?" "Merde,"
translated with, "Oh shut up!" "You can go to hell,"
i
j "Hell, no, the bastards!" "Hell!" For, according to A j
i ]
I Dictionary of Colorful French Slanguage and Colllquialisms I
i 1
! by Etienne and Simone Deak, (New York, 1961), a "con" can
i be rendered as "silly" or "dope"; "salaud" with "stinker" i
i
or "dirty"; "merde" with "nuts"; "laisse tomber" with
"drop It"; "Ta gueule" with "What a mug!" and "comme un
l&che" with simply "like a coward." j
1
Such vulgarisms are used abundantly by Sartre in !
f
|
order to represent the reality of the existing individual |
I
and his particular and peculiar place in society.
146
Language In Faulkner's Novels
The Lyrical Passage
William Faulkner's use of language la one of the most
striking characteristics of his style. He sets side by
side or juxtaposes lyrical language with the most Idiomatic
.
and realistic speech that has ever been composed by an
American novelist. The third chapter of The Hamlet as well
as the last one of Light In August, to mention just two
representative examples, contain some outstandingly beauti
ful passages in American literature.
He would smell her [the Earth]; the whole mist reeked wJtfc
her; the same malleate hands of mist which drew along his
prone drenched flanks played her pearled barrel too and
shaped them both somewhere In immediate time, already mar
ried. He would not move. He would lie amid the waking
Instant of earth's teeming minute life, the motionless
fronds of water-heavy grasses stooping Into the mist be
fore his face In black, fixed curves, along each parabola
of which the marching drops held in minute magnification
the dawn's cosy miniature, smelling and even tasting the
j rich, slow, warm bam-reek mllk-reek, the flowing imme-
j morial female, hearing the slow planting and the plopping
i such of each deliberate cloven mud-spreading hoof, Invls-
j ible still in the mist loud with Its hymeneal choristers.
(The Hamlet, p. 189)
! ■ i
j This nature description and rapport between nature and man,;
clothed in poetic language, and permeated by emotionalism |
show Faulkner's type of lyricism. In Light In August, the
actual whereabouts of Byron Bunch and Lena Grove as well as
their present condition are revealed by a repairer and
dealer who recounts their details to his wife as a romantic
tale. And the exclamation of Lena with which the novel
closes adds the finishing touch to such lyricism: "'Hty,
147
my. A body does get around. Here we ain’t been coming
from Alabama but two months, and now it's already Tennessee
(Light in August, p. 480).
Yet Faulkner's lyrical prose is not easy to read. As
Conrad Aiken says of it:
. . . with each new novel, . . . the first fifty
pages are always the hardest, that each time one
must learn all over again how to read this strangely
fluid and slippery and heavily mannered prose, such
that one is even like a kind of Laocottn, sometimes
tempted to give it up.H
The single most important factor that contributes greatly
to such difficulty of the language, is the use of the long,
complicated sentence. Consider, for instance, the follow
ing:
To him it was as though the ledgers in their scarred
cracked leather bindings were being lifted down one
by one in their fading sequence and spread open on
the desk or perhaps upon some apocryphal Bench, or
even Altar, or perhaps before the Throne Itself for
a last perusal and contemplation and refreshment of
the Allknowledgeable, before the yellowed pages and
the brown thin.v. ink in which was recorded the injus- j
tice and a little at least of its amelioration and
restitution faded back forever into the anonymous
communal original dust
the yellowed pages scrawled in fading ink by the
hand first of his grandfather and then of his father
and uncle. , . .12
H tfllllam Faulkner: Two Decades of Criticism, ed.
Frederick J. Hoffman and Olga W. Vickery (Michigan State
College Press, 1954). p. 140.
^This is the first part of a sentence which has been
mentioned as the longest sentence in American fiction.
The sentence is actually more than sixteen hundred words
long, contains six paragraphs (each beginning with a small
letter) and a host of quoted material, and runs over
148
In comparison.to the above sentence the following Is a
comparatively short one:
He was still hearing that while he stood beside
the table on which papers were scattered and from
which she had not risen, and listened to the calm
enormity which her cold, still voice unfolded, his
mouth repeating the words after her while he looked
down at the scattered and enigmatic papers and
documents and thinking fled smooth and idle, wonder
ing what this paper meant and what that paper meant.
(Light In August, p. 26l)
It Is sentences like these that prompted Aiken to |
; ' i
i i
j write: !
! |
! Over elaborate they certainly are, baroque and j
I involuted in the extreme, these sentences: trailing
I clauses, one after another, shadowily in apposition,
| or perhaps not even with so much connection as that.
I It is as if Mr. Faulkner, in a sort of hurried despair,
! had decided to try to tell us everything, absolutely
i everything, every last origin or source or quality or
qualification, and every possible future or permuta
tion as well, in one terrifically concentrated effort:
each sentence to be, as it were, a microcosm. And
it must be admitted that the practice is annoying
and distracting.
It is annoying, at the end of a sentence, to find
j that one does not know in the least what was the sub-
| Ject of the verb that dangles in vacuo— it is dis
tracting to have to go back and sort out the meaning, I
; track down the structure from clause to clause, then
| only to find that after all it doesn't much matter, J
j and that the obscurity was perhaps neither subtle j
nor important. (William Faulkner: Two Decades of Crlti-i
cism, pp. 141-142") |
Here is a passage from The Sound and The Fury equal in j
i
i
obscurity to a number of similar ones, which could prompt
any critic to agree with Aiken's criticism.
seven printed pages. See Malcom Cowley's The Portable
Faulkner (New York, 1961), pp. 295-302.
149
"That's where Damuddy is." Caddy said. "She's
sick every day now. When she gets well we're going
to have a picnic."
"I know what I knows." Frony said.
The trees were buzzing, and the grass.
"The one next to it is where we have the measles."
Caddy said. "Where do you and T. P. have the measles,
Frony?"
"Has them just wherever we is, I reckon." Frony
said.
I "They haven't started yet." Caddy said.
"They getting ready to start," Ti P. said. "You
stand right here now while I get that box so we can
see in the window. Here, les finish drinking this
here sassprilluh. It make me feel just like a
squinch owl inside."
We drank the sassprilluh and T. P. pushed the
bottle through the lattice, under the house, and
went away. (The Sound and The Fury, p. 57)
But it must also be admitted for the sake of objectivity
that, although Faulkner does write as long and difficult
j
sentences as those discussed above, he also writes, and
much more frequently, shorter— much shorter ones. Compare
the above two quoted long sentences with the following, for
|instance, and the surprise will not be small:
"Go away, Byron. Go away. Now. At once. Leave
this place forever, this terrible place, this terri
ble, terrible place. I cam read you. You will tell
me that you have Just learned love; I will tell you
| that you have just learned hope. That's all; hope.
! The object does not matter, not to the hope, not even
to you. There is but one end to this, to the road
that you are talcing: sin or marriage. And you would
refuse the sin. That's it, God forgive me. It will,
must be, marriage or nothing with you. And you will
insist that it be marriage." (Light in August, p. 298)
Or the following part of a paragraph filled with short
sentences:
"Remember that. His doom and his curse. Forever
and ever. Mine. Your mother's. Yours, even though
you are a child. The curse of every white child that
ever was bom amd that ever will be bom. None
.... " 150
can escape it." And I said, "Not even me?" And he
said, "Not even you. Least of all, you." I had seen
and known Negroes since I could remember. (Light in
August, p. 239)
The passages quoted above in regard to the length of
the sentence, are not the only ones that can be produced
here as examples to support the thesis that although
Faulkner indeed writes a number of long, difficult, com
plicated, and even ungrammatical sentences, a goodly num
ber of them are not as "annoying and distracting" as some
of his critics think that they are. Yet Faulkner has no
definite ideas or set values on the structure of his sen-
! tences, as Sartre does. He employs either the long or the
i
j
! short sentence as he sees fit. Faulkner, unlike Sartre,
j
S does make use of lyricism and lyrical language whenever he
j thinks that such uses will serve his purpose.
I
What are Words?
I
Being cognizant of the dangers of generalization, I |
j shall still say that Faulkner's words are used primarily
not to define and interpret the real world, but to create |
a fresh and original reality. Words are symbols, but
symbols which mean different things to different persons,
depending upon each Individual's degree of familiarity with
each specific word. Not only may the same word mean two
distinctly different things to two persons but it may even
be misunderstood by both; thus communication may be im
possible. :
151
Words as shapes.— Words as symbols assume various
shapes, depending on their length, structure, and sound.
Words may be as easily understood as shapes. When Addie,
talking about Anse, says:
”1 would think about his name until after a while I
could see the word as a shape, a vessel, and I
would watch him liquefy and flow into it like cold
! molasses flowing out of the darkness into the
vessel, until the jar stood full and motionless."
(As I Lav Dying, p. 564)
Or, again:
"I would think how words go straight up in a thin
line, quick and harmless, and how terribly doing
I goes along the earth, clinging to it, so that after
j a while the two lines are too far apart for the
same person to straddle from one to the other.
| . . . (As I Lay Dying, p. 465)
Such picturesque transformation of words into shapes
creates a graphic picture which makes understanding com
plete. The word, instead of being a symbol made up of j
letters, has now become a "shape" and thus it is more j
easily identifiable with the object for which it stands
j than it was as a symbol. j
! i
Words as sounds.— Faulkner seems to believe that at
---------------------------------------------------- I
!
times words are mere sounds and as such they are almost
meaningless. Addie expresses this opinion when she says:
"... because people to whom sin is just a matter of
words, to them salvation 1b just words too" (As I Lay
i
Dying. p. 468). A few pages earlier Addie has gone even
further in catapulting words into the realm of meaningless-
152
ness by saying:
"And I would think then when Cora talked to me, of
how the high dead words in time seemed to lose even
the significance of their dead sound." (As I Lay
Dying, p. 467 )
If one is willing to accept that the characters in
this case reflect Faulkner's own opinion about the useful
ness of words, one will have to agree that Faulkner does
have some reservations regarding such usefulness. With
this qualification, Faulkner may be expressing his partial
i
t
j distruct of words when he places in Addie's mouth the
!
| following:
i "That was when I learned that words are no good;
j that words don't even fit even what they are trying
to say at. When he was born I knew that motherhood
! was invented by someone who had to have a word for
| it because the ones that had the children didn't
care whether there was a word for it or not." (As I
Lay Dying, p. 463)
Similarly, partial distrust of words on the part of
! Faulkner comes from the fact that words can be, and often
!
I !
j are, elusive and tricky. As Addie says again:
I ;
"Then I believe that I would kill Anse. It was
as though he had tricked me, hidden within a word ,
like within a paper screen and struck me in the back
| through it. But then I realized that I had been
tricked by words older than Anse or love, and that
the same word had tricked Anse too, and that my
revenge would be that he would never know I was
taking revenge." (As I Lay Dying, p. 464)
Faulkner makes his characters use words only when abso
lutely necessary. There are many occasions in which the
characters communicate perfectly well without the use of
words. When the Negro preacher in The Sound and The Fury i
153
succeeds In inspiring his congregation with awe, there is
no need for words. He can communicate through feeling,
spirit, and understanding.
And the congregation seemed to watch with its own
eyes while the voice consumed him until he was
nothing and they were nothing and there was not even
a voice but instead their hearts were speaking to
one another in chanting measures beyond the need of
words. (The Sound and The Fury, p. 310)
There are numerous occasions in As I Lay Dying in which
| the characters dispense with words, since they can act
| without their use. In addition, a large number of
I Faulkner's characters, besides being illiterate, are highly
|
| inarticulate, while a few of them are even idiotic. Byron
| Bunch, Christmas, Lena Grove, Simon, Mink Snopes, George
Farr, among otherB, are not particularly articulate people.
Ike Snopes, Donald Saunders, Benjy Compson, Jim Bond, and
' i
; to a large extent, Cash Bundren, are outright idiotic and
seldom have a need to use words, or can seldom use them
! i
I even when they need to do so.
; j
| !
l Coined words.— William Faulkner has made a tremendous ]
effort, especially in his early novels, to fuse the word
with the object and thus produce a new, living word. Such
a living word can identify itself through the object which
it represents and even make itself one with it. Sometimes a
however, such a word may be fused and made one with either
a feeling or an act. The net result of such a procedure
is a production of new words which look and sound peculiar,
154
indeed, but do convey the feelings of the author with a
success of varying degrees. For example, Faulkner uses
the ’ ’ coined" word "womanshenegro" to describe the lack of
| femininity, the shapelessness and baseness of a Negro
j
j prostitute; the word "hookwormrldden" to describe the
| selfish and insincere feelings of the heirs of a diseased
person; the word "diamonsurfaced" to indicate the false,
superficial and artificial behavior of a woman; the words
"pinkwomansmelling" and "womansmelling" to convey the idea
of the inseparability of woman from various sorts of odors
j
and smells, and so forth. A number of Faulkner's coined
! or fused words are, however, rather difficult to make out.
1
1 Such words are: "thwarftacecurled," "Augusttremulous,"
"cinderstrewnpacked," "sootbeakened" and "inwardllghted"
j are certainly baffling, almost undecipherable. Most of
Faulkner's fused words, however, are made simply through
a combination of two otherwise normally accepted words,
| and are easily understood^ A few of such words are:
I
| "moonglearned," "lowgrowing," "cabinshapes," "womenvoices,"
"womansuffering," "patinasmooth,"chromiumtrimmed,"
"supplystore," "brazenhaired," and "middleaged cotton-
buyer."
13Aii the quoted words here have been taken from the
pages of the novel Light in August, the same edition used
for other quotations throughout this study.
l4prom The Sound and The Fury, pp. 12, 18, 197*
155
Southern dialect and colloquial language.— In the
realm of dialect and colloquial language, Faulkner far
outstrips Sartre, both In the extent of use as well as
achievement. Faulkner's novels are filled with all sorts
of dialect and colloquial speech. He Is a master at
recreating southern White as well as Negro dialect.
Faulkner is one of the few southern authors to succeed
brilliantly In the realistic reproduction of southern
speech patterns. Depending upon the character, language
runs the gamut from the rather obscure, almost unintelli- j
!
i
gible speech of the Negro illiterate servants, excellent j
specimens of southern American dialect, to the most cor
rect and refined, although slightly colloquial, speech of
the wealthy upper classes. Simon, the Negro servant to
the Sartoris family in Sartoris, for example, speaks
difficult, yet almost perfect examples of southern Negro
dialect. Here is a sample:
"I kep1 tellin1 you dem new-fangled war notions of j
yo'n wa'n’t gwine ter work on dis place," he said
angrily. "And you better thank de good Lawd fer ■
makin1 you' haid hard ez hit is. You go'n get dat
mare, and save dat nigger freedom talk fer townfolks:
dey mought stomach it. Whut us niggers want ter be
free fer, anyhow? Ain't we got ez many white folks
now ez we kin suppo't?" (Sartoris. p. 83)
And, again, here is the discussion of two Negroes, father
and son, when they find Bayard's car smashed in the river.
"Dey wouldn't let you in heaven, wid likker on yo'
breaf and no hat, feller," another said.
"Ef de Lawd don't take no better keer of me dan
156
He done of dat hat, I don't wanter go dar, noways,1 1
the first rejoined.
"Mnuranmrran, the second agreed, "when us come down
dat 'ere las' hill, dis yere cla'inet almos' blowed
clean outen my han', let 'lone my hat."
"And when us jumped over dat 'ere lawg er whutever
i it waz back dar," the third one added, "I thought fer
a minute dis whole auto'bile done blowed outen my
han', let 'lone my hat.1 1
"And when us Jumped over dat 'ere lawg er whutever
It waz back dar," the third one added, "I thought fer
a minute dis whole auto'bile done blowed outen my
han'." (Sartoris, p. 150)
Or a quite similar passage from Light in August.
| "Dey wouldn't dare to kill a Hightower. Dey wouldn't
| dare. Dey got 'im hid somewhar, trying to sweat outen
| him whar me and him hid Mistis' coffee pot and de gole
water. . . . Not dat he ain't fool enough to done it.
| ... He just ain’t got emough sense to know a Yankee
to hit at wid a shovel if he wuz to see um . . . Here
I I is. You got emough wood in de box ter cook supper
j wid?" (Light in August, p. 451)
Or the rather colloquial passage from The Sound and The
Fury:
I
I
"Old woman and me Bettin fore de fire dat night
| sind she say 'Louis, whut you gwine do ef dat flood
! git out dis fur?' and I say 'Dat's a fack. I reckon
j I had better clean dat lantun up.1 So I cleant hit
dat night."
"That flood was way up in Pennsylvania," I said.
"it couldn't even have got down this far."
"Dat's whut you says?" Louis said. Watter kin get
des ez high in wet in Jefferson ez hit kin in Pennsyl- |
vaney, I reckon. Hit's de folks dat says de high
watter can't git dis fur dat comes floatin out on de
ridge-pole, too."
Did you and Martha get out that night?"
"We done Jest that. I cleant dat lantun and me and
her sot de balance of de night on top o dat knoll back
de graveyard. En ef I'd a knowed of ainy one higher,
we'd a been on hit instead." (The Sound and the Fury,
p. 133)
These are only a few examples of the sort of speech which
abounds in Faulkner's novels, especially in Sartoris,
Light in August. and The Sound and The Fury. Such lan
guage compares most successfully with, and even surpasses
in beauty and verisimilitude, the Negro Jim's speech in
Huckleberry Finn. Such masterly use and eloquent examples
of the southern American dialect lend verisimilitude to the
novels of Faulkner and make the characters appear to be
real people.
Curses. Imprecations and anathemaB.— The illiteracy,
1
the rural background and the low social environment of most
of the characters, as explained earlier show their influaioe
not only in the substandard and colloquial language used,
but also in the number and repetition of violent scenes,
curses, oaths, vulgarisms, imprecations and all sorts of
execrations uttered by almost every character, with the
exception of a few southern belles of the upper classes,
- ■ i
in every novel of Faulkner. Vulgarisms of all kinds such
as "white bastards," "damn son of a bitch," "'bitches,' j
'sons of bitches,'" "you nigger bastard!" "Goddamn bastardj
clodhopper bastard you, son of a bitch you and him too," S
"he has been f - ing you too," "bitchery and abomination! j
Abomination and bitchery!" and "yellowbellied son of a
bitch," are commonplace and often repeated in Light in
August. In The Hamlet such vulgarisms vie in beauty and
effectiveness with the ones quoted above. See, for example,
how from the simple, innocent, and rather commonplace
"God damn it," which is repeated dozens of times, one
_ _ 158
passes through the more hitter ones such as, "Hell and
damnation," "Git on home, you damn whore 11 1 and, "you
black son of a bitch," (which again is repeated literally
dozens of times). As I Lay Dying contains a large number
of commonplace vulgarisms such as "goddamn you," (repeated
profusely) "You goddamn lying son of a bitch," Son of a
bitch," (also repeated in the plural!); yet, this book is
interspersed with a number of novel, uncommon, entertaining
almost fascinating curses, apparently of southern origin,
such as "Get the goddamn stuff out of sight ... you
pusselgutted bastard. You sweet son of a bitch," and
"goddamn your thick-nosed soul to hell." The Sound and The
Fury appears to be the least infected, with only a few
cliche curses such as "son of a bitch" and "damn you"
1 present.
In conclusion, it can be said that Faulkner seems to
believe that words, depending on their shape or sonority, I
’ convey feeling or may be unimportant in exact eommunica-
j
tion, while Sartre believes that they convey a feeling of
i
action. Although Faulkner loves to coin new words or to |
fuse them with the object or idea which they attempt to ex-!
i
press and uses them extensively in his novels, Sartre re- |
mains largely unmoved by such language innovations. He
prefers to use the matter of fact, objective, cold words
already known because they can communicate effectively and
•unerringly. Thus, Sartre seeks the power, dynamism, and
meaning in words rather than their beauty, sonority, or
melodiousness. Words for Faulkner are not as much a means
of defining, or interpreting the real world or even of
communicating. The feelings, and the eyes and senses can
perhaps do that. Words are symbols and shapes and sounds
and— nothing. Words can be anything the individual chooses
them to be--even nothing, if that is the individual's
choice.
i
It Is also evident that while Faulkner makes ample
use of the lyrical passage, Sartre almost never uses It.
While Faulkner is carried away by poetical feelings and
; nature descriptions, Sartre ignores both poetry and nat-
| ure.
i
Sartre makes extensive, if not exclusive, use of the
i short, choppy sentence. He believes that such type of
j sentence can best describe and fit in the real, tough,
l
| Indifferent, and meaningless world in which his distraught
characters move. Faulkner uses both the short as well as |
i
the long sentence. Although Faulkner's short sentences
resemble in quality those of Sartre, his long sentences
are usually complicated, very difficult, and, at times,
lacking in syntax.
Both Faulkner and Sartre make extensive use of col
loquial, dialect language, and vulgarisms of all sorts.
Faulkner, however, makes much more use of dialect and
colloquial language than Sartre does. He also uses
160
vulgarisms much more extensively than does Sartre.
Faulkner’s characters speak the southern American dialect
prevalent in their social or racial group. Thus, the
American Negro speaks a different language than that of
the southern aristocrat, or the farmer-tenant, or the
worker. At times, although seldom, this dialect is some
what difficult to follow. Sartre's use of colloquial and
vulgar words although very obvious seems, however, to have
I suffered somewhat in translation. A careful examination of
both the French original and the English translation indi
cates that although the original is, on certain occasions,
| more standard than the translator has made it appear to be,
on the whole the translations are accurate and represent
ative of the spirit in which the original was written.
j
|
|
i
CHAPTER IV
OTHER STYLISTIC DEVICES
There are a number of other devices— if I may call
them such— which enrich the styles of the two authors
under discussion, and place their novels in more or less
a distinct category of their own. Not that such stylistic
devices are exclusively used by our authors but used they
are, and in such a manner as to leave upon the novels a
peculiarly individualistic trait— the trait of their own
special creator. This chapter will deal with such stylis
tic devices as contrasts, repetition, leitmotif, underlined
I or italicized passages, as well as other minor stylistic
peculiarities such as extensive use of dashes, parentheses,
I and a few other special characteristics. Not only will
their use be ascertained and discussed, but also their
purpose, effect, and function.
To begin with, I should like to state that both
authors make extensive use of these many individual stylis
tic devices. Thus, the end product, that of Faulkner per
haps more so than that of Sartre, is peculiarly and partic
ularly identifiable with its author and scarcely anyone
else. I
162
Sartre's U3e of Contraats
Sartre makes a prodigious use of contrasts in an ob
vious attempt— which, by the way, is extremely successful—
not only to heighten the effect of his writings but, spe
cifically, to focus the reader's attention on a particular
situation by placing it in its proper perspective. The
outcome of such focusing is a sort of dramatization of the
specific situation through the realization on the part of
the reader of the situation's placement in relation to
time, place, and conditions v I s - I l- v I s other possible situa
tions .
! ■ j
i In Troubled Sleep, for instance, the war has broken
■ up a family. The father is in New York, desperately in
|search of a Job while his wife and their little son are in
i
|Prance fleeing in desperation before the invading Nazis.
I
I
The husband, although discomfited by the heat, is safe In
a free country where the war is scarcely a reality. He
feels absolutely comfortable and safe as he wanders In the |
i
streets of New York where "The Negroes were smiling, the
young woman was smiling, the driver was smiling ... on
the posters, on the magazine covers, all America was smll-
!
ing. Gomez thought of Ramon and began to smile" (Troubled
Sleep, p. 12). This elation Is contrasted with (on the
same page and within a few lines) the suffering of Sarah,
his wife, who, especially because of her Jewish extraction
163
has more reasons to flee from the German Invasion than the
average Frenchman.
"Ten o'clock," said Ritchie; we shanft be more than
five minutes late."
Ten oclock [in New York]; three o'clock in France.
Livid, hopeless, an afternoon lay hidden behind his
colonial morning.
Three o'clock in France.
"A fine mess I" said the man.
He sat there as though turned to stone. Sarah
saw the sweat trickling down the back of his neck.
Her ears were filled with the din of automobile
horns.
"Nor more gas!" (Troubled Sleep, pp. 12-13)
Thus, Sarah is stuck on the road and indications are
!
| that the Germans will finally catch up with her. Sarah's
desperate efforts to flee, with their attendant suffering,
heartache, and misery, are greatly intensified by the con
genial, relaxed, and safe atmosphere in which her husband
moves freely.
Contrast in moods occurs later on as the condition of
the husband becomes even better and more secure through
his success in securing an easy, comfortable, adequately j
paying job, while that of his wife and their son deterior-
!
ates materially. Sarah and the boy Pablo, having been left
all alone in the middle of the highway by the unscrupulous
cab driver, decide to walk the remaining twenty-four miles
while the husband-father rejoices over a one-hundred-
dollar advance from his new employer.
i
She changed her suit case to her left hand and
bent down. -
"Put your arms around my neck" she said. . . .
164
He was heavy . . . with each breath she took,
It was as though tongues of fire were licking her
lungs; a sharp, half-Imaginary pain gnawed at her
shoulder; a weariness that was neither generous
nor willingly incurred set her heart thumping -
the weariness of a mother and of a Jewess, her
weariness, her destiny. Hope died in her. . . .
"He was pretty swell, you know," said Ritchie;
he bought us lunch, and he's given you a hundred
dollars' advance."
"True," said Gomez. . . .
"You ought to be pretty pleased with life," said
Ritchie expansively. (Troubled Sleep, pp. 24-25)
Thus, by contrasting the obvious success and indisputable
security of Gomez with Sarah's desperate, almost hopeless
! fight for life, the horrible nightmare of suffering and
desperation in the struggle for life assumes its full and
ominous proportions.
Similarly, the most important thing in the lives of
Maud and Pierre is love, while, at the same time, momentous
decisions which will affect the fate not only of the couple
mentioned but the whole world are made. Maud and Pierre
may be fully engrossed in their love but what they don't
! know is that they may be neither free to love each other
as they plan to do nor able to control their own exist
ences. If war comes in the morning (as it, indeed, comes)
the two lovers may never see each other again.
Sartre paints his meaningful contrasts with such
rapidity that he does not even give the reader a breathing
spell. With this abruptness he wants to show the rapidity
with which the impending war advances upon Europe.
165
"Do you love me?"
"Yes I love you."
"You don't say it very nicely!"
He bent over and kissed her.
The old gentleman looked very angry, he glared at
them, contracting his heavy eyebrows. "A memorandum!
Are these the only concessions!" Horace Wilson nodded,
and thought: "Why does he pretend?" Didn't Chamber-
lain know there would be a memorandum? Hadn't anything
been decided the day before? Hadn't they agreed on
the whole performance when the two of them were left
alone, except for the shyster of an interpreter, Dr.
Schmitt?
"Put your arms round your little Maud. She's got
the blues this evening."
He clasped her in his arms, and she began to talk
in a sort of a girlish whimper. (The Reprieve, p. 5^)
The same rapidity of an advancing war is also ex
pressed in a similar contrast later on. Only this time,
instead of two lovers we have two sick people: the one
comforting and encouraging the other who, apparently, is
beyond hope of recovery.
He reached out a hand and groped over the fur. The
young body recoiled but Charles found a hand and took
it. The hand resisted, he drew it close to him and
squeezed it. A sick person. And there he was, hard
and dry, a free man; he would look after her.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Well, read it," said Chamberlain impatiently.
Lord Halifax took Masaryk's message and began
to read. (The Reprieve, p. 253)
Life is filled with contrasts. The characters contrast
each other. Among many others, Daniel is Mathieu's foil
throughout Les Chemins de la Llberte. Sartre shows this
by the use of successive contrasts in the lives of these
two individuals. While Daniel's courage fails him when
he tries to castrate himself, Mathleu is able to carry out
his decision to steal Lola's money:
166
As he [Daniel] emerged into the street, a thought sud
denly came upon him and brought him up short: he had
shaved that morning before going out, and he had left
his razor on the mantelpiece, wide open.
As he opened the door, Mathieu released the muffled
tinkle of a bell. "I didn't notice it this morning"
he thought. ... He walked sedately up to the key
board. Room 21. The key was hanging from a nail.
(The Age of Reason, p. 301)
And later again, after Mathieu has stolen the money,
Daniel feels compunctions for his own inability to act.
"Good evening, madam."
"Evening," she mumbled.
He [Mathieu] went out, feeling the weight of the
woman's look upon his back, and he wanted to laugh.
Dead the beast, dead the poison. He walks with
long stides feeling rather weak in the legs. He
[Dainel] is afraid, his mouth is dry. (The Age of
Reason. p. 303)
Or, when Mathieu's contemplated failure in life is con
trasted by a gay song:
Mathieu still looking at the bottle, he was still
thinking of the fellow of the day before and felt his
heart contract with genuine anguish; but at that mo
ment a decorous young man appeared on the platform and
chanted through a megaphone:
"Oh, yes, he threw a winner -
Did Emile."
Here was that bottle revolving ceremoniously between j
those pallid fingers, and here were all those people s
stewing in their juice without making any fuss at all. j
(The Age of Reason, p. 190)
And so on with the use of contrasts. There are as
many as twelve similar major contrasts in Troubled Sleep
alone. The two probably most characteristic ones have
been mentioned above; others contrast the life of a homo
sexual and his hopes and aspirations with the miserable
life of the soldiers at the front, the false security of
167
relatives of soldiers behind the lines with the grim reali
ty of the true situation, thoughts for flight with determi
nation to fight it out and relative safety with Imminent
danger.
Thus Sartre makes profuse use of the contrast in
order that he may intensify and heighten the dramatic ef
fect of any given particular situation. He succeeds in
focusing attention on particular events and achieves thus
a fully matured sort of realism with naturalistic elements.
But it is not only a heightening of effect and an in-
j
tensification of a situation which Sartre achieves through
! his use of contrasts. By placing two antithetical situa-
!
j tions side by side, he, in effect, succeeds in showing the
incongruity, chaos, and even irony (not to mention the ab-
J
| surdity) of an only apparently unified, orderly, and mean
ingful world. Mankind, according to Sartre, is a mosaic
of antitheses, incongruities, ambiguities, and meaningless
ness. It is hopeless for the individual to try to make
i
sense out of such chaotic, antithetical, and ironical j
situations. It is, then, feelings of hopelessness of
deriving a meaning out of existent and obvious incongru
ities of life that Sartre wants to express with his series
of contrasts.
Faulkner's Use of Contrasts
Faulkner also makes use of contrasts rather exten-
168
sively; however, his contrasts are of a different literary
type than those of Sartre. Faulkner's contrasts fall
mainly into three categories: first, dramatic; second,
stylistic; and third, character contrast.
Let me explain each of these contrasts briefly.
There is a beautiful as well as pronounced and dramatic
contrast in Sanctuary. While the executioners prepare to
hang Popeye for a murder which he did not commit, Temple I
i
l Drake, who is, perhaps, equally guilty, enjoys freedom, j
respectability, plus the relaxation that a trip to Europe j
can provide.
Popeye began to jerk his neck forward in little
jerks. "Psssst!" he said, the sound cutting sharp
into the drone of the minister's voice; "psssssttl"
The sheriff looked at him; he quit jerking his neck
and stood rigid as though he had an egg balanced on
his head. "Fix my hair, Jack," he said. "Sure,"
I the sheriff said. I'll fix it for you"; springing
the trap. j
It had been a gray day, a gray summer, a gray year. j
! On the street men wore overcoats and in the Luxembourg j
| Gardens as Temple and her father passed the women sat j
| knitting in shawls and even the men playing croquet
played in coats and capes, and in the sad gloom of the
chestnut trees the dry click of balls, the random shouts |
of children, had that quality of autumn, gallant and j
evanescent and forlorn, fSanctuary, p. 178)
i
This "double standard" by which society treats its
members is possible because of economic, racial, and soc
ial distinctions. The dramatic effect of this contrast j
lies, mostly, in its hard realism.
The other type of contrast which is extensively used
I
by Faulkner is one of style rather than of subject matter
169
or point of view. This contrast is an inevitable outcome
of Faulkner's use of prose and dramatic form in the same
novel. The impact of the change from narration to play
form (in many cases on the same page) produces a direct
effect upon the reader. See, for instance, the following
example from Requiem for a Nun:
But not for a little while yet; for a little while yet
the sparrows and pigeons: garrulous myriad and inde
pendent the one, the other uxorious and interminable,
! at once frantic and tranquil— until the lock strikes
j again which even after a hundred years, they still seem
j unable to get used to, bursting in one swirling ex
plosion out of the belfry as though, the hour, instead
j of merely adding one puny Infinitesimal more to the
| long weary Increment since Genesis, had shattered the
j virgin pristine air with the first loud dingdong of
time and doom.
i
i
| Secne One
1
J Courtroom. 5:30 p.m. November thirteenth.
I The curtain is down. As the lights begin to go up:
MAN'S VOICE
j (behind the curtain)
1
I
Let the prisoner stand.
i The curtain rises, symbolising the rising of the
! prisoner in the dock, and revealing a section of
the courtroom. (Requiem for a Nun, pp. 204-205)
But this "stylistic" contrast is dealt with more exten
sively in another part of this study; therefore, I shall
desist from discussing it further her.
What, perhaps, Faulkner likes most in regard to con
trasts is the careful use of character contrasts, or what
is called in literary language "foils." Faulkner's novels
170
abound in such character contrasts or foils. An excellent
example of character contrast is the one presented between
Harry Wilboume and the doctor who comes to treat the dying
Charlotte, after Harry's awkward attempt to abort the child
has, apparently, failed. The doctor stands for all that
respectful society demands of an individual such as, pro
priety, respectability, responsibility, et cetera, while
Wilbourne is the man who has rebelled exactly against these
I mores and ethics of society. When the two meet the con-
I
trast becomes a formidable one:
j "Wait," he said; "wait." The other paused; they stood
j facing one another, leaning a little into the dark wind
filled with the wild dry sound of the palms.
"I offered to pay you," the other said. "Isn't five
enough? And if it isn't will you give me the name of
someone who will come for that and let me use your tele
phone?"
"Wait," the doctor said. So Cofer was right, he
thought. You are not married. Only why did you have
; to tell me so? He didn't say that, of course, he said,
y r You haven' t . . . You are not . . . What are you?"
The other, taller, leaned in the hard wind, looking
down at the doctor with that impatience, that seething
restraint . . . "What am I what?" he said. "I'm trying
to be a painter. Is that what you mean?"
"A painter? But there is no building, no boom, no
development here any more. That died nine years ago.
s You mean, you came here without any offer of work, any
| sort of contract at all?"
"I paint pictures," the other said. "At least, I
think I do— Well? Am I to use your phone or not?" j
"You paint pictures," the doctor said; he spoke I
in that tone of quiet amazement which thirty minutes |
later and then tomorrow and tomorrow would vacillate
among outrage and anger and despair: "Well. She's
probably still bleeding. Come along." (The Wild
Palms. pp. 16-17)
These formidable contrasts may also Indicate the under
lying powerful and obvious contrasts in southern life,
171
I.e., the freeman and the slave, white and black, obedience
to the law and yet prevalent flaunting of it, and even cold
winters and insufferably hot summers.
Sartre's Use of Repetition
| Sartre makes ample use of repetition in his novels.
Usually, there is a phrase which is repeated two or three
times on one page. Occasionally, intead of a phrase there
is a word. Sometimes a certain phrase is repeated through
out one novel, or it is even carried on to the following
i
| novel. This occurrence, however, ceases to be mere repe
tition and becomes a sort of leitmotif and will be treated
as such later on in this study.
i
The Use of Repetition for Emphasis
I Sartre uses his repetition mainly in order to empha
size a point. For example, when Mathieu is both extremely
j i
; surprised and deeply disappointed to learn that Marcelle
had been secretly seeing Daniel while being his mistress,
! the phrase "Marcelle used to tell me everything" (The Age i
|
of Reason, pp. 266-269) is used thrice by Mathieu simply
to emphasize his shock at the discovery. When Daniel,
utterly disgusted with himself over his repeated loathsome
acts of homosexuality, contemplates castrating himself,
the expressions "Dead the beast, dead the poison," "’ The
i
flame runs along the fuse," and "My hand will do it all" j
172
(The Age of Reason, pp. 301-305) are repeated several times
in the course of three pages. Such repetition emphasizes
not only Daniel's utter disgust with himself but also the
advanced stage and seriousness of his disease. When
Mathieu wants to underline the fact that it is the soldier,
the private, who bears the brand of the battle and does the
real fighting in contrast to the relative security in which
the higher echelon officers shroud themselves, he repeats
the sentence "Generals die in their beds" (The Reprieve*
Ip. 280) at least six times. And again, in order to under
score the general anti-war sentiment prevailing in Prance
just before World War II, the phrase "Down with the war"
(The Reprieve, pp. 285, 357, 358, 367, 372, etc.) is re
peated at least half a dozen times.
When Roquentin realizes the difference between himself
and the "masses," through their respective differences in
the Interpretation of the symbolism of the word "Sunday,"
he repeats the word "Sunday" (Nausea, p. 58) five times
within half a page in order to emphasize this enormous dif
ference .
There are other numerous expressions which are re
peated for generally the same reasons as explained hereto
fore throughout Sartre's novels. These expressions are
usually fraught with meanings which bear directly upon
either the general tone of the novel, or the particular
mood, or philosophical outlook of the characters involved:
Here are a few expressions which are repeated often: 173
"Where do you want me to get?" "in the way," (Nausea, pp.
70-71, 171, 172); "They're rabbits," "Poor little devil;"
"Drink up! drink up!" (Troubled Sleep, pp. 75, 98, 392);
"peace," "Serenade Portugaise;" "they've refused it;" "My
eyes are here;" (The Reprieve, pp. 25, 63, 241, 314); "I've
got time to walk a bit" (The Age of Reason, p. 139)*
Such is Sartre's use of repetition which is powerfully,
superbly, and amply used throughout his novels in order
strongly to emphasize a point, a condition, or a predomi
nant feeling. Sartre's repetition is one which works upon
I the feelings not the Intellect, and the sentiments not the
l
!
I logic of the reader and thus brings about the desired ef-
j
| feet. Sartre believes In psychology and knows how to use
It.
A Pattern of Leitmotif
Sartre goes far beyond the mere use of repetition In
I
j his novels. He makes plentiful use of what can appropri
ately be called leitmotif. The leitmotif, a repetition |
I
fraught with meaning and symbolism, Is used by Sartre to
convey certain ideas, conditions, and underlying feelings
which are best expressed by this rather uncommon stylistic
device. In Sartre's novels, a word or phrase, whatever
the occasion might be, often symbolizes an Internal
condition, mood, philosophic conviction, situation, or j
attitude of the character Involved. Mathieu, for example,
174
expresses his fears that, because of his inability to
"engage" in life, he has been a failure. This feeling of
his failure is superbly and meaningfully revealed by his
phrase, "je suis un type foutu," which runs not only
through one but all three novels making up Les Chemins
de la Liberte.^ This feeling, which waxes into a fright
ening innuendo as the trilogy advances, comes to its cli
max in Troubled Sleep when Mathieu finally "engages," and
fights heroically against the invading Germans.
i
; Mathieu has another pet phrase which he uses through-
| out at least two novels. This phrase, "pour rien,"2
j
j which he uses recurringly and lovingly, becomes a lietmotdf
equalling in meaning and expressiveness the previously \
mentioned phrase, "je suis un type foutu." Mathieu uses
the phrase "pour rien" as at the time he deserts Marcelle
j in her pregnancy "il avait abandonne Marcelle enciente, j
i |
! pour rien," or when he feels that sad desire which he
i j
describes as "ce desir triste et resigne qui n'etait
Mother instances of the use of this phrase in L1Age
de Raison are "je suis un type foutu," "il savait fort
bien qu'il etalt foutu," p. 175; "de jouer an type foutu
avec accompagnement de musique? Pourtant, pensa-t-il,
c’est bien vrai que je suis foutu," p. l8l; "ce type est
foutu," p. 195; "si je mourais aujourd'hui, pensa
brusquement Mathieu, personne ne saurait jamais si
j'etais foutu ... p. 217-
^For additional instances where the leitmotif phrase
"pour rien" is used see: L'Age de RaiBon, pp. 120, 216,
313. This phrase is also repeated throughout The
Reprieve.
175
desir de rien," or even when he feels that his life has
been given to him "pour rein" and so forth. The words
seem to express his philosophical conviction of a meaning-
| less existence in an equally meaningless universe. Ex
istence does not have an absolute or a priori meaning; it
acquires the meaning which the specific individual involved
decides to give, as, conversely, it remains meaningless if
no subjective meaning is given to it. Mathieu, the Mathieu
f
| of The Age of Reason as well as of The Reprieve, philo-
| sophically believes in and lives such a meaningless exist-
ence--hence his special use of the leitmotif phrase "pour
j rien."
i
1 Another phrase that strongly resembles a leitmotif
O
is the phrase' "c’est la guerre"J which is extensively used
; in The Reprieve in order to underline (among other repul
sive situations) the horror, destruction, and terror which
the war will bring about. The phrase, in this instance,
! is not the pet phrase of a single character but a common
i
| one, used by a variety of characters so that effects of
3por specific instances where the leitmotif phrase
"c’est la guerre" is used see: Le Sursls. pp. 73* 289, 24l,
393; see for example p. 98:
"’C’est la guerre," dit-il. La dame souplra sans
repondre; Mathieu regards les joues brillantes et polies du
monsieur, sa veste de tweed, sa chemise & rayures violettes
et il pensa: "C-’est la guerre."
C'est la guerre. Quelque chose qui ne tenait plus & j
lui que par un fil se detacha, se tassa et retomba en
arriere. C'etait sa vie; elle etait morte. Morte."
176
war upon the various segments of population might be
strongly and unmistakably brought out. Thus "c'est la
guerre" runs throughout the pages of The Reprieve and
spreads like wild fire bringing with it its full connota-
tive pregnancy of horror, terror and destruction.
Faulkner's Use of Repetition
There are two types of repetition to be found in
Faulkner's novels. One is effective repetition but the
other one is the monotonous and tiring sort which has been j
the subject of much criticism. The effective type of j
i
i repetition which is similar to that used by Sartre is the
i t
! repetition of phrases and sentences well calculated to
i
| create emphasis or bring out a specific attribute of a
character. Faulkner's novels abound in such repetition
! even more than Sartre's. |
I
Repetition for Emphasis j
I
Thus, in order to point up the similarity between the
] t
dead woman and a fish and to show that death is just such j
a finality as the cleaning of the fish (which is an lr-
i
revocable act signifying the fish's death), Anse repeats j
|
to Vardaman the order, "you clean that fish" (As I Lay
Dying. p. 358), a number of times. Kate's repetition of
the phrases, "She ought to taken those cakes," and "they
turned out real well" (As I Lay Dying, p. 3^1), half a
i
dozen times within two pages emphasizes her undue preoc- j
cupation with worldly and trivial things and thus helps
to magnify the reality of Addle's death. The almost con
tinuous repetition by Anse of "It's fixing to rain" (As I
Lay Dying, p. 360), just as his wife lives through her last
few moments of life, becomes an ominous refrain which ac
companies and seems even to precipitate Addle's death.
The mental repetition of "New Hope 3 Miles (As I Lay Dying,
p. 422) tends to Indicate that the burial place of Addie
has finally been reached--which has been the objective of
the family for six difficult and tiresome days.
When Byron Bunch intimates to Hightower that people
have come to doubt that he is a preacher of authority and
godliness, the sentence "Hightower has not moved" (Light
in August, p. 82) is repeated to show the deep effect which
| such realization has had on Hightower. When Mink Snopes,
i
j after having killed Houston, is faced with the murder
I
! weapon, which he had considered well hidden at the bottom
i
i of the river, his extreme surprise and loss for words is
i
j emphasized and deepened by the frequent repetition of the
unfinished sentence "I have no gun. Where-- . . . Where
did you— " (The Hamlet, pp. 267-268). The ungrammatical j
sentence "Ain't war hell?" (Soldiers' Pay, p. 9)» is
often repeated in reference to Donald Mahon in order to
magnify find intensify Mahon's pitiful condition due to
such a war. In order to show the deep effect which j
Donald's death had upon his bereaved father, and how it j
-178 ~
changed his outlook on life, the rector repeats the sen
tence: "This was Donald, my son. He is dead" (Soldiers'
Pay, p. 256).
i
Vardanian's character comes out clearer because of his
i
I
I repetition of certain expressions, especially It don't
i
bother me none" (As I Lay Dying, p. 492), which is repeated
by him almost a dozen times. Cash's condition (after hi3
sickness) is brought out by Cash's repetition of "1 feel
I fine. I'm obliged to you" (As I Lay Dying, p. 496), since
one knows that this is a stereotype phrase of Cash's and
does not in any way indicate the true state of his sick-
j ness. Dewey Dell's repetition of "I got the money" (As I
Lay Dying, p. 519) indicates her extreme eagerness to I
abort her illigltimate child. Lena Grove's exclamation
! "I$y, my. A body does get around" (Light in August, p. 480),
j repeated throughout the novel, serves to Illuminate Lena's
!
I character and show her superficiality of purpose as well
I ;
j as her lack of understanding and sensitiveness. The pecul-;
iar sentence "Caddy smelled like trees" (The Sound and the
Fury, p. 62), repeated often throughout this novel, serves
to Identify Caddy with nature and earth, and the fecundity
and the natural and sexual freedom which refuses to recog
nize social laws. And rightly, Caddy lives the life of
sexual and social immorality and prostitution.
Every one of Faulkner's novels contains its share of
repetition. Sanctuary and Requiem for a Nun, along with
179
other novels previously mentioned, are especially notable
for this. (See, for example, Sanctuary and Requiem for a
Nun. ppv 38* ^7, 151* 1^9* 173* and 175-) The Unvanquished,
The Wild Palms, and The Old Man carry their respective and
respectable shares.
There are numerous other examples of phrases, senten
ces, and expressions which are repeated throughout
| Faulkner’s novels, mainly for the purposes explained above.
! The examples quoted, however, should suffice for our pur- j
i !
| pose lest additional quotations may unduly burden this j
j
study.
1 i
) |
i The Monotonous Repetition of Words !
j ' |
! The unwelcome aspect of Faulkner's repetition ap
pears in his use of both common and uncommon as well as
curse words. Such repetition shows a weakness of word
choice, diction, or variety on the part of Faulkner, and
i
| it is not only monotonous, but at times actually bother- ;
some to the reader. The repetition of such words as
''kaleidoscopic," "outrageous," "myriad," "profound," !
!
"impalpable," "pristine," "abrogate," "bovine," "indomi
table," "cajole," "forensic," "unctuous,” and such vulgar
isms as "goddamn," "son of a bitch," "damn you," "you
bastard," and others, has a tendency to affront the
aesthetic sensibilities of some readers. A few of
Faulkner's critics, such as Conrad Aiken, have unerringly |
180
and almost gleefully pointed out this weakness in Faulkner's
novels. But although a weakness it is, one tends to place
it in perspective, for many of his novels are truly great,
j Therefore, I believe that any further discussion or delin
eation of it is unnecessary.
| Italicized Passages
t
i
i The novels of both authors under discussion abound in
j italicized passages, paragraphs, sentences, and single
|
| words. There is not one novel by these authors which does j
i
i not contain a number of such italicized passages. At tiniest
i
| the authors italicize whole pages, while more frequently
I
| one paragraph or a mere sentence.
! The functions of such Italicized passages are many.
i
i
f
■ At times they are used to mark the inner thoughts of a j
I
< l
i character; at other times the author uses them to express |
| I
! his own opinions; or, on still other occasions, the author j
; i
expresses what the character himself is not articulate
i
enough to express. Although these three functions seem to |
|
be the most prevalent ones, there are a few minor functions,,
which will be discussed in their appropriate places.
But the use of the italicized passages is intimately
related to the point of view, or how the story is told.
Especially with the longer passages, the point of view
shifts as the italics are being used. Generally speaking,
both authors use a variety of points of view, with Sartre
i8i
more frequently than Faulkner using what is known as the
omniscient point of view.
The Function of Italicized
Passages in Faulkner's Novels
Faulkner's novels are filled with italicized senten
ces and paragraphs of various lengths. Probably no other j
American author has made such extensive use of underlining
as Faulkner. Absalom, Absalom! for example, contains, at
; one point, thirty-eight continuous pages in italics, run-
j
ning from one single word to seven pages. The Sound and
the Fury contains more than 148 italicized passages, most
of them of paragraph length, while Light in August has
|
i
more than seventy. All other novels of Faulkner have in
them similar italicized passages in various quantities and
of various lengths which perform a variety of functions.
The most important function seems to be based on
Faulkner's need to express the inner and hidden thoughts
I
of his character to the reader directly, without communi
cating them at the same time to the other characters in j
#
i
the novel. Such italicized passages are functionally the j
equivalent of what are commonly called "asides" in the
theatre. Another function of the italicized passages is
to voice what the character would have said had he been
articulate enough and thus able to communicate his speci
fic feeling; while still another one is to give the author
an opportunity to express himself with the least obtrusion,
182
disruption, or offense possible. Yet another very import
ant function is that of permitting the author to switch
from the present to the past and vice versa, as is the
case, predominantly, in The Sound and the Fury.
j
Expression of the inner thoughts of characters.— A
vast majority of the italicized passages are used to express
the inner thoughts of characters, in other words, what the
character thinks but does not actually say. The criminal
in The Old Man. for example, talks much less than one would
i
expect, either because he has been accustomed to silence
after many years of imprisonment, or, perhaps, because he
t
| is naturally reticent. But he finds himself all alone for
so many long periods of time that talking aloud would not
be a safe thing to dol When, for example, he has to fight
i
' the flooded river he has to think and act. 1 1 It's another I
levee, he thought quietly. That's what we look like from j
there. That's what I'm standing on looks like from there, j
He was prodded from the rear; a guard's voice . . ." (The
Wild Palms and The Old Man. p. 165). In As I Lay Dying,
the reader encounters Tull's inner thoughts which are not
spoken by the character but written in italics by the
author:
"Twenty-eight foot, four and a half inches, about,"
Cash says. I move over beside him.
"A fellow can sho slip quick on wet planks," Quick I
says.
"It's too bad," I say. "But you couldn't a holp it."
"It's them dura women," he says. "I made it to bal-
183
ance with her. I made it to her measure and weight."
If it takes wet boards for folk3 to fall. it's fixing
to be lots of falling before this spell is done.
1 1 You couldn't have holp it," I say.
I don't mind the folks falling. It's the cotton and
com I mind.
Who is that man can do that? Where is the colour of
his eve3?
Ay. The Lord made it to grow. It's Hisn to wash up
if He sees it fitten so.
"You couldn’t have holp It," I say.
"It's them durn women," he says.
In the house the women begin to sing. (As I Lay
Dying, pp. 402-403)
| Or, in Absalom, Absalom1. for instance, when Quentin's
thoughts are also written in italics since they are not
spoken:
!
It's because she wants it told, he thought, so that
people whom she will never see and whose names she will
never hear and who have never heard her name nor seen
her face will read it and know at last why God let us
lose the War: that only through the blood of our men
and the tears of our women could He stay this demon and
efface his name and lineage from the earth. Then al
most immediately he decided that neither was this the
reason why she had sent the note.^-
and again:
"Yessum," Quentin said. Only she don't mean that, he
j thought. It's because she wants it told. It was still
I early then” He had yet In his pocket the note which he
| had received by the hand of a small negro boy just be-
\ fore noon, . . . (Absalom, Absalom1 p. 10)
The same function is evident, and even more clearly
so, in the following quotation:
"I am not asking that." Byron does not look up.
He can feel the other watching him. He thinks He knows
that is not what I mean, too. He knows. He just said
^William Faulkner, Absalom. Absalom! (New York, 1936),
p. 11.
184
that. I know what he Is thinking. I reckon I expected
It. I reckon It Is not any reason for him to think
different from other folks, even about me. UI reckon
you ought to know that." Perhaps he does know It. But
Byron does not look up to see. (Light In August, pp.
283-284)
j In all the above examples, there is evidence of shift
in point of view. This occurs when the conversation be
tween the characters (direct speech) Is interrupted and
the author takes us inside the thoughts of one of these
characters. Thus Faulkner takes a look inside the con
vict's, Cash's and Quentin's minds and reports their'
i
j thoughts and feelings. This freedom on the part of the
| author to go wherever he wishes and to peer inside the
j
| minds and hearts of his various characters demonstrates
that he makes use of the omniscient point of view; how-
; ever, as It has been noted earlier, Faulkner uses the
j
i omniscient point of view sparingly.
! Italics used to indicate what the character would '
j - — . I ■ - - ■ ■ . . . . I . . . I . - ! I- I I I - . 1 ,
have said if he were sufficiently articulate.— In other
j :
| cases, italics are used to express what the character
i \
! ;
thinks and would like to say but cannot because he is
i
I
either idiotic, or not sufficiently articulate. Of such
character are Lena Grove's thoughts, which she could not
!
express In an articulate fashion.
Thinking, although I have not been quite a month
on the road I am already in Mississippi, further from
home than I have ever been before. I am now further
from Doane's Mill than I have been since I was twelve
years ollT (Light in August, p. 1)
_ _ _
There are many passages in The Sound and the Fury
in which the idiotic Benjy's thoughts are written in ital
ics, because, although he can think, react, and feel rather
!
i strongly, he cannot talk in an articulate manner.
Italics used to mark transition from present to
past time.— In The Sound and the Fury the italicized para
graphs are used to indicate a switch from the present to
i the past (in most cases from 1928 to 1899). Because of j
the specific structural nature of the book (the time se
quence is broken up and then pieced together again, but in
disjointed order), the interchange between regular face
! letters and italics is most frequent, almost regular, and
i
either type of letter can indicate either past or present
in various chapters. See, for example, how in the early
pages of the book the italics represent the present while
the regular letters stand for the past.
"Come on." Caddy said. "Frony and T. P. dont
have to mind me. But the rest of us do. You better
J carry him, Versh. It’s getting dark."
j Versh took me up and we went on around the kitchen. j
When we looked around the comer we could see the
lights coming up the drive. T. P. went back to the
cellar door and opened it. |
You know what's down there. T. P. said. Soda water, j
I seen Mr. Jason come up with both hands full of them. i
Wait here a minute.
T. P. went and looked in the kitchen door. Dilsev
said, What are you peeping in here for. Where's Benjy.
He out here. T. P. said.
Go on and watch him, Dllsey said. Keep him out the
house now.
Yessum, T: P. said. Is they started yet. i
You go on and keep that boy out of sight, Dilsey saldj
I got all I can tend to.
I 186
A snake crawled out from under the house. Jason
said he wasn't afraid of snakes and Caddy said he was
but she wasn't and Versh said they both were and Caddy
said to be quiet, like father said.
You alnt got to start bellering now. T. P. said.
You want some this sassprillutT (The Sound and the Fury. I
p V ~ 5 6 j |
j There are no regular or specific instances in which j
| each type of printing represents either the past or the
| present, but both are twisted around from time to time like
1
!
| brass wire.
I
1
I
I The omniscient point of view and shifting focus of j
j !
i narration.— Following are a few examples of the use of the
I limited omniscient point of view as evidence of the auth-
j
! or's freedom to explain, articulate, and comment on the
characters' thoughts, wishes and feelings. However, as j
| viewed from the over-all vantage point of the novel, these j
■ 5 >
| examples reveal Faulkner's shifting focus of narration. i
I For example, Faulkner uses italicized passages in Light in |
| ' j
! August to describe the character and feelings of Byron
Bunch:
Byron was not conscious of this. He did not care j
now, though a week ago it would have been different. :
Then he would not have stood here, where any man could j
look at him and perhaps recognise him: Byron Bunch,
I that weeded another man's laidby crop, without any j
5ln the limited omniscient point of view the author
. . . tells us what this character sees or hears, and what
he thinks and feels; he possibly interprets the charact- j
er's thoughts and behavior; he knows everything about this j
character— more than the character knows about himself."
Stor^ and Structure, Lawrence Perrine, (New York, 1959)#
I 187
halvers. The fellow that took care of another roan's
whore while the other fellow was busy making a thous
and dollars. And got nothing for it. Byron Bunch
that protected her good name when the woman that owned 1
the good name and the man she had given It to had both
thrown it away! I ! . fLight In August, p. 394) j
j i
j In another case he uses italics in order to show what j
! j
! other people were saying about Christmas although Christ- j
i
mas himself "perhaps could not hear the voices. ..." j
j
Bitching up as sweet a little setup as I could have j
wanted !
He ought to stay away from bitches j
He cant help himself. He was bom too close to one
Is he really a nigger? He dont look like one j
i That's what he told Bobbie one night. But I guess
j she still dont know any more about what he is than he j
does. These country bastards are liable to be anything J
(Light in August, p. 205) j
j i
I Or a similar quotation, again, showing what people were j
I i
j saying about Christmas while he was lying on the floor j
I i
! beaten up, quite probably unconscious. |
i I
j
We'll find out. We'll see if his blood is black.
Lying peaceful and still Joe watched the stranger lean
I down and lift his head from the floor and strike him a-
I gain In the face, this time with a short slashing blow. I
After a moment he licked his lip a little, somewhat as
| a child might lick a cooking spoon. He watched the
I stranger's hand go back. But It did not fall. j
! That's enough. Let's get on to Memphis
i Just one more Joe lay quietly and watched the hand,
j Then Max was beside the stranger, stooping too. We'll j
j need a little more blood to tell for sure j
j Sure. He dont need to worry. This One is on the j
house too I
The hand did not fall. Then the blonde woman was 1
there too. She was holding the stranger's lifted arm j
by the wrist. I said that will do (Light in August, I
pp. 205-206) I
j
In other instances the Italics are used to express or
report some imaginary event which could have happened but I
has not, and, therefore, remains a fantasy. Or similarly,
they are used to report imaginary conversations which could
conceivably have taken place but which did not. Such ital-
j lcized passages are too long to quote here. However, for
examples, see The Wild Palms, pp. 112-150.
Sartre 1s Use of Italics j
Sartre makes extensive use of italics in his novels, j
5
:
| The length of the italicized passages varies from a single
word to a lengthy paragraph. The functions of the italics |
are as multiple as they are difficult, at times, to under- i
!
j
! stand. Some italicized lines defy any explanation whatso- j
i
i ever. Yet the predominant number of italicized passages
I
serves two purposes: First, italicized passages express
the inner thoughts and feelings which the characters do not
| care to share with others. When the wealthy Mr. Blr-
i -
! nenschatz is approached by his compatriot Mr. Schalom for
! !
■ a contribution toward the Jewish cause, Sartre finds an
j occasion to express Blmenschatz1 s inner thoughts, which
t !
are never communicated to Schalom, in italics:
He went out, and Mr. Birnenschatz stood motionless, |
standing at the door. He's a hard man, a man of prey,
they have a star and they succeed in every thing they
do. But they are the cause of wars and of death and
pain. They are flame and fire, they do harm, he has
done me harm. I carry him like a sliver of wood beneath
my fingernails, like a smouldering cinder under my eye
lids. like a splinter in my heart. That's what he
thinks of me. (The Reprieve, p . 101)
Sometimes, however, the thoughts of a character are j
189
not as clear as the above quotation shows. Then the ital
ics show the inner thoughts of the character which come
from his subconscious and may have reached the realm of
symbolism. See, for example, the following quotation in
which Philippe has tried to decide whether he ought to
desert or not.
He saw himself in the glass, and he could have sat
looking at himself and listening to the music for an in
finitude of time. At ten o’clock he would get up, take
his reflection in his hands, and rip it off the glass
like a dead skin, or like a speck flicked out of an eye.
Mirrors operated for cataract. . . .
Cataracts of the day.
In mirrors operated for cataract.
Or, alternatively,
The day sinks in cataract in the mirror operated for
cataract.
Or again:
Niagara of the day in cataract in the mirror operated
for cataract.
The words fell into powder, and he clung to the cold
marble, the wind is carrying me away, there was a sticky
taste of alcohol in his throat. THE MARTYR. He looked
at himself in the glass, he was looking at a martyr; he
smiled a salutation at himself. "Ten minutes to ten
minutes to ten, aha!" he thought with satisfaction, I
find time so long. Five minutes gone— an eternity.
Two more motionless eternities, devoid of thought or
pain, passed in contemplating the martyr's handsome, '
emaciated face, and then time will plunge with a roar
into a taxi, into the train, on to Geneva. j
Ataraxla.
Niagara of time.
Niagara of the day.
Tn mirrors operated for cataract.
I'm going off in a taxi.
To Gauburge. to Bibracte.
Whence, indeed, an act! j
Whence cataract.
He laughed, he stopped laughing, he looked round him,
the cafe smelt of railway station, train, and hospital;
he longed to call for help. Seven minutes. (The Re
prieve, pp. 274-275)
Or the more obviously sumbolic sentences, which are
| 190
Italicized: "A voice runs beneath the sun of an older
I
world: Pan is dead" (Troubled Sleep, p. 180), and, "I*d
have dug a little hole for myself” (Troubled Sleep, p. 4l8).
Secondly, Sartre italicizes only one or two words
j i
j simply to emphasize their meaning. When, for instance,
| Mathieu says, "I am cut off from Spain by— by nothing,
| and yet I cannot pass" (The Age of Reason, p. 125), he j
! italicized ' ’ nothing" because he wants to emphasize both the)
! |
| meaning as well as the power of the word "nothing." j
Similarly, when Ivich tells Mathieu, "You've dared to !
I
| touch me again" (The Age of Reason, p. 220), and "again" isj
( i
! |
I italicized, Sartre wants to emphasize the extreme horror j
\ that Ivich feels when she is tbuched by Mathieu repeatedly.!
The same effect is produced when the homosexual Daniel in
contemplating suicide says, "M.v hand will do it all" (The ;
j \
Age of Reason, p. 304), and the words "my hand"are itali- j
i clzed. ;
On still another occasion Sartre Italicizes some sen-
! tences and phrases, the general meaning of which has been !
! repeated in an earlier book; or he italicizes phrases
j ’ |
which are a sort of summary of actions which have taken
I
place in earlier chapters or other books. Such is the
meaning of the italicized part of the sentence, "He took j
l
up a knife from the table. Ivich was bleeding: He drove it j
into the palm of his hand, acting, acting, little gestures j
of trivial destruction that get you nowhere" (Troubled ■
191
Sleep, p. 176). Or "one man dead Is enough for the Helnies
to bum down a whole village" (Troubled Sleep, p. 199)-
Other Styll3tlc Peculiarities
There are various other stylistic peculiarities in j
|
Faulkner's novels which do not exactly fall into any singlej
or specific category. Therefore, I have made use of this !
general title under which I intend to group such stylistic j
i
peculiarities together, not because of uniformity but, j
I )
; 1
I rather, because of convenience.
As has been mentioned elsewhere in this study, j
! i
■ Faulkner's novels abound in parentheses and dashes. j
| Faulkner has added such punctuation marks in a large num- |
; r
j ber of places where standard or formal English writing
| does not require their use. See, for example, the follow
ing quotation: !
| j
An hour later the stiff came slowly upon old logging j
road and so out of the bottom, the forest, and into (or
onto) a cottonfield— a gray and limitless desolation now |
free of turmoil, broken only by a thin line of telephone I
I poles like a wading millipede.(The Old man, pp. 176^177) !
i !
i ;
I Or the following similar passage in which the use of ital- j
ics has been added: j
I
. . . the door until he heard it open then clash
again then looking around and up, at the double-breasted
coat (it was of gray palm beach now), the face above it
freshly shaved but which had not slept either, thinking
(Wilboume), He had so much more to do. I .just had to
wait. He had to get out at a minute's notice and find
someone to stay with the children. Rittenmeyer carried
the suitcase— that one which . . . and now to jail— and
he came and set it beside the cot* (The Wild Palms, p.
138) |
192
I
(I certainly would have liked a better place with
which to start this quotation, but the sentence to which it
is the latter part is almost one page long and contains
more than three hundred words.) In Soldiers1 Pay frequent
; use is made of parentheses and dashes. Note, again, that j
i !
| the use of such marks is not an exclusive feature of this 1
| i
I novel, but such extensive use and presence do disrupt the
| unity and impair the readability of it. The above two
I quotations are only a mere indication of Faulkner's wide-j
| spread use of parentheses, dashes, and italics.
, j
Another rather unique peculiarity of style appears in !
I i
i Requiem for a Nun. It is found in the introductory prose i
! i
I writing of Act Two of this novel-play in which the exposi-!
j tory description of the physical aspects of the town of J
i Jackson takes place. Here is the description. I
• I
: )
and in 1903 the new Capitol was completed— the golden j
dome . . . incapable of being either looked ful or I
evaded, peremptory, irrefragible [sic], and reassuming.
In the.roster of Mississippi names:
Claiborne. Humphries. Dickson. McLaurin. Barksdale.
Lamar. Prentiss. Daves. Sartoris. Compson;
! In the roster of cities: I
! JACKSON. Alt. 294 ft. Pop. (A.D. 1950) 201,092. j
i Railroads: Illinois Central, Yazoo & Mississippi Val-j
ley, Alabama & Vicksburg, Gulf & Ship Island. j
Bus: Tri-State Transit, Vanardo, Thomas, Greyhound, j
Dixie-Greyhound, Teche-Greyhound, Oliver.
Air: Delta, Chicago & Southern.
Transport: Street buses, Taxis.
Accommodations: Hotels, Tourist camps, Rooming hous
es .
Radio: WJDX, WTJS.
Diversions: chronic: S.I.A.A., Basketball Tourna
ment, Music Festival, Junior Auxiliary Follies, May Day
193
Festival, State Tennis Tournament, Red Cross Water
Pageant, State Fair, Junior Auxiliary Style Show, Girl
Scouts Horse Show, Feast of Carols.
Diversions: acute: Religion, Politics, fRequiem
for a Nun, pp. 239-240)
Or the following similar passage from Absalom. AbsalomI
It seems that this demon— his name was Sutoen— fciolonel
Sutpen)— Colonel Sutpen. Who came out of nowhere and
without warning upon the land with a band of strange
niggers and built a plantation— (Tore violently a plan
tation. Miss Rosa Coldfield says)— tore violently. And
married her sister Ellen and begot a son and a daughter
which— (Without gentleness begot. Miss Rosa Coldfield
says)— without gentleness. Which should have been the
jewels of his pride and the shield and comfort of his
old age, only— (Only they destroyed him or something or
he destroyed them or something. And died)--and died!
Without regret. Miss Rosa Coldfield sayB— (Save by her)
Yes, save by her. (And by Quentin Compson) Yes. And
by Quentin Compson. (Absalom. Absalom!, p. 91
SoldierB1 Pay reveals a different stylistic peculiar
ity. On a number of occasions the narrative is either
interrupted by the presence of a small part from an ap
parently imaginary play, written, of course, in play form
(see Soldiers1 Pay, p. 46), or the dialogue itself is
written in play form with the characters themselves per
forming in it (see Soldiers1 Pay, pp. 152; 261-263).
Young Robert Sanders:
I just want to see his scar. . . .
Ciclly:
And now I am not a good woman any more. Oh, well, it
had to be sometime, I guess. ...
George Farr:
Yes! Yes! She was a virgin! But if she won't see me,
it means somebody else. . . .
Margaret Powers:
Can nothing at all move me again?. . . . Nothing to
desire? . . . (Soldiers1 Pay, p. 152)
................... ...' 194” '
Although this peculiarity looks very much like that
of a mixture of prose and play (which I have discussed in
an earlier chapter of this study) it is functionally dif
ferent from that. It serves to dramatize the particular
relations of characters in a given scene. Thus, it hears
upon the style of the novel at least as much as it does on
the plot, and it certainly is very pronounced and quite
obvious.
Prom the foregoing analysis, explanation, and documen
tation it has been established that there is a similarity
in the secondary, although not necessarily less important
stylistic devices of the two authors under discussion.
Both authors make deliberate and rather extensive use j
of contrasts. Sartre uses contrasts in order to heighten, |
i
emphasize, and dramatize a particular situation, event, or I
i
a character. He also uses them for the purposes of bring- j
ing out specific characteristics of certain of his char
acters. Faulkner uses contrasts for dramatic purposes;
he also uses stylistic and character contrasts. While
Sartre's contrasts have a philosophy behind their apparent I
simplicity, and a meaning behind their literary value— as j
i
when he uses contrasts and antitheses to imply incongruity,)
j
absurdity, and even chaoB in our society and world— |
Faulkner's are purely literary.
Similarly, both authors make rather extensive use of
repetition. Faulkner makes use of repetition mainly in
195
order to emphasize a point, condition, or situation.
Sartre's repetition is methodical, careful, and meaning
ful so that it becomes easily identifiable with the
leitmotif. Faulkner, again, uses repetition for approxi
mately the same purposes Sartre does; however, the evidence
of a leitmotif is almost absent in Faulkner's novels. In
stead, Faulkner has developed a repetion of certain words
which, although not quite welcomed by critics and readers
alike, might not be as obnoxious as certain critics want to
believe that it is.
In regard to italicized passages,phrases and words,
it is obvious that both authors make an extensive use of
them in their novels. The functions of such italicized |
passages are quite similar in the novels of both authors. j
Faulkner, although not a user of lesser amounts of itali- j
cized passages than Sartre, seems, all the same, to use
such italicized passages for a larger variety of purposes j
than Sartre does. This, perhaps, can be Justified by the j
I
fact that Faulkner being exclusively a novelist and having j
written a larger number of novels than Saftre, finds more |
!
;uses and functions for his italicized passages merely be-
1 cause of the great variety of situations as well as of i
i !
:characters in his novels. Faulkner's characters, as I |
; have stated in another chapter of this study, encompass !
I
I almost every possibility of existing people; therefore,
!
i Faulkner has many opportunities In which to use the itali-
196
cized passage In connection with his characters and their
situations. Sartre, due to the rather limited number of
his characters, has not. Closely connected with the use of
Italics, is the point of view employed by the author. As
has been demonstrated, Sartre uses predominantly the omnis
cient point of view while Faulkner makes use of it spar
ingly. In addition, Sartre uses italics in order to empha
size the meanings of certain words. There are a few other
stylistic peculiarities, or devices, which both authors use
to enhance the literary merits of their work. Thus,
Faulkner, more than Sartre, does use parentheses, dashes,
capital letters as well as other marks of punctuation. In i
addition, and apparently for dramatic purposes, Faulkner
intermingles prose with drama in one and the same novel—
I
and repeatedly. I
i
i
Thus our authors cannot be called orthodox, at least
stylistically speaking. They do not walk in common;,
i
trodden paths, but they open paths of their own; they do
not follow other stars, although other stars shed their
; I
light upon them and light their paths, but are stars j
themselves.
They are as different from other novelists stylisti-
i ■ i
;cally as they are similar to each other. They are both |
i I
jindividualists, and master writers in an individualistic
sense, and the products of this individualism are ln-
igenuity, inventiveness, and even greatness.
CHAPTER V
PHILOSOPHY
I hasten to explain the term "philosophy" lest the
reader gain a wrong impression or, Justifiably, misunder
stand. The word "philosophy" has been used here for lack
of a better term which could encompass the variety of mat
erial to be presented in this chapter. By "philosophy," I
mean and intend to discuss the following: the dispositions
and temperaments of the authors under discussion, in regard ;
to optimism and pessimism, and the extent to which they
show hopefulness, hopelessness, or despair. The attitudes j
i
i
of the authors toward environment and heredity and the roles
these play in the formation of the individuals' characters
are also examined. The extent of freedom or determinism of |
the individual, preoccupation with the past, the extent of
use of symbolism as well as other similar literary atti
tudes and devices, are also cases under discussion. The
jlndividual' s destiny, his existence, his hopes, his doom !
' |
land his success are additional points. Finally, the inher- ;
i j
lent, psychological bent of individual characters and their
j
self-analysis are discussed in this chapter. All the above-;
197
mentioned ideas are well worth the name of this chapter,
"philosophy," and will he discussed here in varying degrees.
Sartre's Optimism in Regard to Freedom Versus
Faulkner'8 "Psychological" Determinism
Sartre's main characters feel an indomitable, unquench
able, almost pathetic yearning for personal freedom. They
live, hope and spend their time in search of an all-
inclusive, self-determining, and wonderful freedom. There
are many obstacles— a number of them insurmountable, in
deed— in their way to this freedom, but they never seem to
lose either their perspective or their determination. They
go on and on grasping every possible occasion to express
their convictions that they have discovered this freedom
within themselves:
Outside. Everything is outside: the trees on the
quay, the two houses by the bridge that lend a pink |
flush to the darkness, the petrified gallop of Henry
IV above my head— solid objects, all of them. Inside,
nothing, not even a puff of smoke, there is no inside,
there is nothing. Nyself: nothing. I am free, he
said to himself, and his mouth was dry. ...
Halfway across the Pont-Neuf he stopped and began
to laugh: liberty— I sought it far away; it was so
near that I couldn't touch It, that I can't touch it:
It Is, in fact, myself. I am my own freedom. He
had hoped that one day he would be filled with Joy,
transfixed by a lightning-flash. ...
I am nothing; I possess nothing. As Inseparable
from the world as light, and yet exiled, gliding like
light over the surface of stones and water, but noth
ing can ever grasp me or absorb me. Outside the
world, outside the past, outside myself: freedom is
exile, and I am condemned to be free. (The Reprieve,
pp. 362-263)
Now let us examine this hopeful search for freedom, and
199
analyze the meaning of it in as detailed a manner as
possible.
Freedom of Will
To Mathieu, the hero of The Age of Reason, freedom in
connection with his decision to abort Marcelle1s (and his)
child, is freedom of will. During the seven years that
his secret love affair lasted with Marcelle, Mathieu took
for granted that in the eventuality of conception, the
child would have to be prevented from being bom. Marcelle
had agreed to it. When Marcelle informed him one evening
that the "unwanted" had happened, i.e., that she was with
child, Mathieu declared that it would have to be aborted
and proceeded to procure an experienced abortionist and
later on to find the money with which to pay him. He did
not think that what he proposed to do with the unborn
child was morally wrong although society considered it to
be so. But Mathieu disregarded the mores of society. He
felt absolutely free viB-k-vis a Creator, and acted ac
cording to the dictates of his own convictions which made
up his own moral laws.
Mathieu feels free because he is absolutely convinced
i that there is not an a priori Good, and that man can do
nothing about it. In that sense, he feels that he is
free, he is bound to be free, or even better, condemned
to be free, or that he "is" freedom. Mathieu explains
200
this concept of freedom of will to Marcelle quite lucidly
when she tells him that he wants to be free— a desire that
to her is the same as to "want to be nothing,"
"To be nothing?" repeated Mathieu slowly. 'Mfo,
it isn't. Listen. I-I recognize no allegiance
except to myself."
"Yes— you want to be free. Absolutely free.
It's your vice."
"It's not a vice," said Mathieu. "It's--what
else can a man do?" (The Age of Reason, p. 14)
And later on he further explains: "It's not a vice. It's
how I'm made." (The Age of Reason, p. 15)- Thus, man
owes no allegiance to any Creator. He is free versus Him.
He is freedom— or he is made to be freedom. Actually all
men are made to be freedom. The difference is that some
realize it while some don't.
This freedom of Mathieu vis-k-vis God is not a play-
S
thing. It means that Mathieu has to be absolutely respon- j
slble for his actions, that he has to invent his own moral j
laws, and that he can depend on no one either for advice
or reprimand. His "self" is in full responsibility for
his existence. As Mathieu puts it: "If I didn't try to
assume responsibility for my own existence,it would seem
utterly absurd to go on existing" (The Age of Reason,
p. 15). It is thus that this freedom of will becomes a
;
dreadful thing— a dreadful freedom. This dread comes from j
the Inexorable fact that man is alone in the universe, and j
i
as a consequence iss also lonely.
Man, thus being alone in the universe, having or not
'' " 201"
having created himself but being his own freedom all the
same* does not depend on anyone but his own self. It is
thus that Mathieu can boldly and proudly declare: "I
shall achieve my salvation!" (The Age of Reason.p. 63).
Thus, freedom of will consists of absolute independence
even when it comes to man’s ultimate aim in life--or life
which is ultimate, since man is because he wills and he is
his own beginning: "I am because I will; I am my own be
ginning" (The Age of Reason, p. 63). Thus Mathieu con
templates when he is in one of his philosophical moods.
Freedom and commitment.--Freedom is not an abstract
idea for the pure existentialist— or, at least, it should
not be. Mathieu finds himself in a void, a "wash out";
i.e., he is caught, although temporarily, and in only cer- j
|
tain aspects of his life, in a sort of an abstract, non-
commital freedom. It takes the forceful Brunet to remind
Mathieu that the expression of his freedom is to be found !
i
in his actions; that, also, it is through actions or com
mitment in life that man has to realize his freedom. The
individual that is freedom should act— or that freedom
!
1
itself should act. As Brunet explains to Mathieu in his i
i I
1 i
To understand fully Sartre’s concept of man being hisj
1 own freedom, one would have first to know the meaning whichj
! Sartre attaches to the word "being," which means object,
;things, the ln-itself, and how that differs from "exist
ence— which is man’s existence, consciousness, the for-
itself. For, according to Sartre, the individual, and the
world for that matter, are made up of two substances, being:
202
vain effort to induce him to join the Communist party:
And now it's done. You are free. But what's the use
of that freedom, if not to join us? . . . You live
in a void, you have cut your bourgeois connections,
you have no tie with the proletariat, you're adrift
and existence. Being, according to Sartre, is thus equal
to being-in-itself, which is the non-conscious being, or
that which it is, or the phenomenon; while "man's being" is
the being-for-itself, i.e., the consciousness— or nothing
ness which is surrounded by being.
Now, man is his freedom because of the basic postulate
in Sartre's existential philosophy, i.e.. that existence
precedes essence. As Sartre explains, "What do we mean by
saying that existence precedes essence? We mean that man
first of all exists, encounters himself, surges up in the
world— and defines himself afterwards. If man as the
existentialist sees him is not definable, it is because to
begin with he is nothing. He will not be anything until
later, and then he will be what he makes of himself. Thus,j
there is not human nature, because there is no God to have j
a conception of it. Man simply is. Not that he is simply j
what he conceives himself to be, but he is what he wills,
and as he conceives himself after already existing— as he
will to be after that leap toward existence. Man is
nothing else but that which he makes of himself. That is
the first principle of existentialism." (Jean-Paul Sartre,|
Existentialism is a Humanism, reprinted in Walter Kaufmann,i
Existentialism from Dostoevsky to Sartre. Meridian Books j
(New York, 195^), pp. 290-291•) Thus, if man exists with- J
out an a priori essence then he was not "made"; much less j
was he made for a specific reason or for the express pur
pose of being something; therefore, man has no pre-estab
lished nature. Now, if existence is the nihllation of the
in-itself by the for-itself, freedom— since it is not a
quality added to or possessed by existence— Is existence j
itself. "Under these conditions," Sartre writes, "freedom j
can be nothing other than this nihllation"and freedom is a
man's being, because being equals nothingness. "Man is
free because he is not himself but presence to himself.
The being which is what it is cannot be free. Freedom is
precisely the nothingness which is made-to-be at the heart
of man and which forces human-reality to make itself
instead of to be . . . for human reality, to be is to !
choose oneself; nothing comes to it either from the outside
or from within which it can receive or accept." (For a i
complete discussion of Sartre's concept of freedom see
Jean-Paul Sartre's Being and Nothingness (New York, 1956),
especially pp. 430-510.J
203
you're an abstraction, a man who is not there. (The Age
of Reason, pp. 152-153)
But Brunet is subjective and biased, so that what he says
in effect is: why not use your freedom to join us? But
in joining, which involves a commitment, Mathieu would
have to compromise his freedom. Brunet knows that this is
the case, but he is indifferent to freedom if it cannot be
used for a specific purpose. He tells this, in effect, to
Mathieu when he prompts him:
You renounced everything in order to be free. . . .
Take one step further, renounce your own freedom;
and everything shall be rendered to you. (The Age of
Reason. p. 153)
Mathieu, at times, is not certain of what he is supposed
to do with this freedom that he is, as when he ponders:
My freedom? It's a burden to me; for years past I
have been free, and to no purpose. I simply long to
exchange it for a good sound certainty. (The Age of
Reason. p. 157)
Yet Mathieu refuses to join because of lack of reasons for
doing so, because Brunet has been unable to persuade him
to "use" his freedom by Joining the Communist party.
Mathieu recognizes the fact that he will have to commit
himself, showing his freedom by acting. Thus he fully
realizes that his freedom cannot be an absolute freedom
but only a relative and a limited one. Mathieu has content
plated this often and found it to be so. Absolute freedom
is unattainable because one ceases to be free even as he
begins speculating about freedom:
204
As for freedom, there was no sense in speculating on
its nature, because in that caBe one was then no longer
free; (The Age of Reason, p. 179)
much more so when one commits himself. Since life is a
continuous series of commitments for the extentialist,
Mathieu discovers at the end of The Age of Reason that he
has remained alone and lonely. "Alone but no freer than
before" (The Age of Reason, p. 397). And although no
deity, or individual, or even society has interfered with
his freedom, he feels that his freedom has been extremely
limited Just because of his commitment in life— his actions
in life: "No one has interfered with my freedom: my life
has drained it dry" (The Age of Reason, p. 397).
Yet, the fact remains .for the existentialist Mathieu
that he has been free to choose, and to commit himself as
he pleased.
The Individual's freedom and society.— The question
is, of course, whether or not Mathieu's decision to abort
Marcelle's child is a criminal one. The answer, according
to Mathieu, is a negative one. Mathieu insists that he
does not want to kill a child but Just to prevent it from
being born. This, he asserts, is not a crime. But
neither is this enough to be a convincing answer, nor does
Mathieu believe that it is. For what matters is who de
termines that a particular act is a criminal one. It is
society, of course. Crime is what makes it to be— or
what the particular organized society makes it for the
205
individual. There exist neither absolute values, nor an
a priori Mind who has established human or social values;
in that sense the abortion, as an act, is a crime only in
the books of society— not of the individual. For it is
the individual who creates values; thus, Mathieu, in agree
ment with Marcelle, decides an abortion: that is what they
want. In this sense, is abortion a crime?
Yet Mathieu lives in an organized society and just
because of this he is not free, or, to be more exact, his
freedom is extremely curtailed. Society curtails his free
dom for many reasons: First of all, in his secret love
affairs with Marcelle he has created an obligation to her
and the children that may be born. Second, he needs money
as a means of action within society, and he cannot get it.
Third, he needs the help of other men on whom his freedom
does depend. For these reasons society has limited
Mathieu's freedom considerably— although Mathieu might
like to consider himself to be free. There are moments
when Mathieu realizes this, and exclaims:
"my freedom is a myth. A myth--Brunet was right—
and my life is built up from below with mechanical
precision." (The Age of Reason, p. 282)
But if Mathieu is free and if it is society that cur
tails his freedom almost unbearably, the means of retain
ing his freedom is obvious: a break with society. But
breaking with society entails breaking society's rules,
206
laws and moral order. If he does all these things, he can
then be free. He can be free by abandoning the pregnant
Marcelle; he can be free by stealing the money he needs and
does not have and by using It to effect the desired abor
tion. And Mathieu does exactly that. He remains free by
breaking the law and order of society. He steals the money
needed for the abortion and, in turn, he abandons Marcelle.
But what a freedoml Freedom at what price! Even
Mathieu, himself, realizes this kind of freedom Is fright
ful , criminal, and inexplicable. It comes out of his
actions but it is a fearful freedom:
Suddenly, it seemed to him that he could see his
freedom. It was out of reach, as cruel, youthful
and capricious as the quality of charm: ih measured
terms it bade him throw Marcelle over. Only for an
instant; he caught but a glimpse of this inexplicable
freedom that wore the aspect of a crime; indeed, it
frightened him. and it was so remote. (The Age of
Reason. p. 283)
But this awful-looklng freedom, although remote and appar
ently out of reach, came close to the heart of Mathieu and
possessed him until he freely embraced It forever and be
came one with it--until he found himself In it.
When Nazi Germany declared war on France, the French
Mathieu had a few moments to ponder his position in rela
tion to the new situation which had arisen. He thus made
a retrospective effort to discover whether he had been free
or not and what such freedom meant:
And he thought: They have rid me of my life. It
was a sorry, ineffectual life, Marcelle, Ivich,
207
Daniel— a squalid life, though that doesn’t matter
now, since it is dead. As of this morning, when
they began to plaster those white notices on the
walls, all lives are ineffectual, all lives are
dead. If I had done what I wanted, if I had once,
only once, succeeded in being free— well, that
would have in my case been a mean delusion, since
I should merely have exercised my freedom in this
false peace; there was no sense in all that effort,
in those feelings of remorse. (The Reprieve, p. 87)
Thus, freedom for Mathieu, in this case, would have
been the individual1s free action within society, and,
Indeed, quite probably, against it. For if that individ
ual is free who does what he wants, it is obvious that he
may want to do something that is either unacceptable or
even harmful to organized society.
But even this does not solve the problem, or answer
the question of freedom. For the individual does not make
up society and yet he is subject to it--to the extent that
his freedom is limited by the existence of a society and
the necessary part which the individual plays in it. In
this specific case, Mathieu believes that the society to
which he belongs by the determined fact of his birth,
attended by its geographic, ethnic and social limitations,
had created a false peace; therefore, any exercise of
freedom on his part would have been a delusion since it
would have to be based on false premises of peace; hence,
even if the individual had acted freely or asserted its
freedom, things could not have changed after such an exer
cise or assertion. Thus, because of the existence of an
208
organized and all-powerful society, freedom of the individ
ual living in it is unattainable.
The individual and responsibility.— Yet this resigna
tion of Mathieu is rather temporary. Like a true existen
tialist, he first seriously questions the ambiguity of the
situation in which he finds himself, thus showing the im
portance of the individual in a world that exists and acts
without the Individual's consent.
"How can it possibly matter what we decide or what we
don't decide?" he said. "Who is asking us for our
opinion? Do you realize the jam we're in?" (Troubled
Sleep, p. 59)
Such serious pondering over the fact that the individ
ual can have a say in the world which surrounds him that
he can govern his own life, and that he can be free in an
ethical society, is, finally, given the true existentialist
answer. Such an answer is quite bold if not truly origi
nal. It lies in the assertion which is made and derived
from the individual's own unquestionable belief that he
absolutely sees the light of truth when he says:
Everything is asking us for our opinion. Every
thing! We are encircled by questions: The whole
thing's a farce. Questions are asked of us as
though we were men, as though somebody wanted to
make us believe we still are men. But no. No.
No. What a farce, this shadow of a question put by
the shadow of a war to a handful of make-believe
men! (Troubled Sleep, p. 59)
On the basis of such shocking discovery the true
existentialist self awakes. His awakening is neither
209
quiet nor dream-like, but rebellious. The individual
asserts himself through a violent revolt and wants to re
place the old, worn-out values, ideas and concepts that
have stood for years on end and passed for truths, with the
new existential concept of the freedom of man and the con
sequent assumption of personal responsibility for any acts
in which the individual is involved through his own free
choice. It is in this spirit that Mathieu says:
. . . life has got to go on. Day after day we have
got to gather in the rotten fruit of defeat, to work
out in a world that has gone to pieces that fatal
choice I have Just refused to make. But,good God!
I didn't choose this war, nor this defeat; by what
phony trick must I assume responsibility for them?
(Troubled Sleep, p. 59)
Thus, the existentialist wants to assume full respon
sibility for his own actions— actions done deliberately
through absolutely free choice, not actions and behavior
forced upon him by others. By the same token, the existen
tialist is loath to pass to someone else responsibility for
his own actions, misbehavior, or weaknesses, even though
someone else offers to accept the burden.
It might well be that Ivich is illustrating this same
idea of freedom and responsibility on a different plane
when she confesses to her brother, Boris, that she cannot
go on living with her in-laws any longer. Her explanation
is that in accepting her in-laws' financial support while
she does not feel any affection for them, she has lost her
own freedom. She wants to get away from it all— from such
210
a pretense— a pretense which makes her other than she
actually Is, mainly through her subservience which, al
though freely given is not accepted In good faith and in
freedom. It Is thus that Ivich has decided to shake off
a sham— although this sham makes her financially very com
fortable— and to ask for her brother's help:
"Boris," Ivich said with sudden passion, "I Just
can't go on living with these people."
"Do they treat you badly?"
"On the contrary, they keep me wrapped up in
cotton wool: I'm their son's wife, and all that.
But I loathe them, I loathe Georges, I loathe the
servants. . . ."
"Lola is a singer, she drinks and she's lovely
to look at. . . .Oh, Boris!" she cried. "They're
so ugly! If you leave me with them, I shall kill
myself. No, I shall not kill myself, which is much
worse. If you only realized how old and evil I
feel sometimes!" (Troubled Sleep, p. 7o)
It is thus that Ivich wants to refuse acceptance of fur
ther help from her in-laws because she can do nothing in
return for the money and affection poured by them upon her.
Freedom and death.— The actuality of death limits
man's existence as much as it limits not man's freedom,
any longer, but freedom itself— since man is freedom, in
the existentialist sense. It is thus that Mathieu says:
"Here and now I have decided that all along death
has been the secret of my life, that I have lived
for the purpose of dying. I die in order to demon
strate the impossibility of living; my eyes will
put an extinguisher upon the earth2 and shut it down
forever." (Troubled Sleep, p. 229)
2The rendition of "mes yeux eteindront le monde
211
The demonstration of the impossibility of living
should be construed as meaning an impossibility of contin
uous existence and a denial of the immortality of the soul.
On the other hand, if death limits and encompasses
freedom itself, or the freedom of the existing individual,
why can't one assume, to say the least, that such freedom-
limiting death cannot, at the same time, be a release of
the individual existence into an absolute freedom--maybe
the freedom of nothingness. If "Hell is the others," why,
then, cannot freedom be obtained when one frees himself
from the others? This is, quite likely, what Brunet has
in mind in this passage:
'Pass me the can, . . Brunet said nothing, but
looked at him, and what he saw was death, the vast
freedom of death. 'Hell,' said the printer, 'why
can't you pass me the can? (Troubled Sleep, p. 417)
Later, the printer decides to jnmp from the train
that is taking him prisoner to Germany. He prefers to be
dead than be a prisoner in Germany. He finally jumps
and makes a run for freedom, but the German guards are
alert and kill him. While the train has momentarily
stopped, Brunet looks on the body pensively.
et le fermeront pour toujours," as "my eyes will put an
extinguisher upon the earth and shut it down forever,"
is not very successful.
" 212
The body lay some twenty yards away, already a mere
object, already free. I'd have dug a little hole
for myself. Brunet noticed that he was still hold
ing the can; he had reached out his hand to the
printer without letting go of it. (Troubled Sleep,
pp. 418-419)
Now, one might object to this kind of freedom in
death, as being not freedom of the existent but, what it
exactly says, freedom in death, thus not freedom at all,
but death! Conventionally speaking, such an observation
cannot be otherwise than correct!
Some Reservations— Determinism.
Despair, and Hopelessness
It is such undaunted hope and Incessant search for
freedom on the part of Sartre's characters that has
prompted Claude-Edmonde Magny to remark:
Que devient exactement ce probleme de la liberte,
k une epoque ob la theorie des reflexes condi-
tlonnes est venue rendre caducs tous les arguments
traditionnels pour ou contre 1'existence d'un
determinisme "psychologlque" et ou, d'autre part,
le roman (Celui de Proust ou de D. H. Larence,
pour ne rien dire de Faulkner nl de John Dos Passos)
semble pouvoir se passer triomphalement de la
notion, victorienne ou louis-philipparde, de "charac
ters” romanesques b la manibre de Balzac, de
Meredith ou de Thackeray?3
Yet there still remains unanswered the question of
the Individual's inability to explain the origin of man.
This complicates his quest for freedom. For the individ
ual never has a chance to prevent his own birth, or to
^Claude-Edmonde Magny. Les Sandales d'Etapedocle
(Bowdry, Switzerland, 1945), p. 106.
213
choose a specific time for Buch birth. Hence man could be
considered, in a way, as predetermined, since the events
that take place during an Individual's life-time, and
which affect his life, could have been avoided had the in
dividual in question been able to choose his birth. Thus,
man is thrown into the universe without having any "say-
so” or choice over this matter and is, to a large extent,
a "slave" to the events that do transpire during his life
time, without being in a position to do much about them,
although he himself is his own freedom. Such, for in
stance, is the case of Mathleu who has to take part in the
second World War although he did not choose this war but
just happened to be bom at a specific time and place and
was of conscription age when the war broke out. This de
terminism is what is meant by Sartre when he makes Mathleu
think:
He looked at his comrades, and his mortal eyes met
the timeless, petrified eyes of history. For the
first time greatnesB had fallen upon their shoulders:
they were the fabulous soldiers of a lost war.
Statuesi I have spent my life reading, yawning, think
ing the bill of my own little problems. I decided
not to choose, only to find that I had already chosen,
that I chose this war, this defeat, that today has
been waiting for me since the beginning of time.
Everything must be done over again, and yet there's
nothing that can be done. The two thoughts inter
penetrated and canceled each other out; only the
unraffled surface of nothingness remained, fTroubled
Sleep. p. 86)
There are other occasions in which characters feel
anything but optimism. Sarah, who flees Paris with her
little son before the German Invasion, Is constantly losing
her human dignity by being degraded In the social scale.
In her case, the Individual has not lost his inner worth
or values, Indeed, and there Is no moral degradation, but,
all the same, loss of dignity and social respectability
through the shattering of the social status quo are de
picted in a hopeless manner.
Thus, the Jewish Sarah, whose husband Is in America,
is first left in the middle of the road by the unscrupulous
bus driver, then she is forced to pay the full fare of her
Intended trip, and later she finds herself walking on the
highway carrying her loaded suitcase in one hand and her
son on the other, abused by the travellers. Then she
thinks:
Angrily she snatched her hand away. He will
exhaust all my strength and I shan't be able to
help anybody. She would end by carrying the child
as the old woman was carrying her bundle; she
would become one of them, fTroubled Sleep, p. 23)
Finally, Sarah loses all hope in the future, her only con
cern being to save her own life as well as that of her
little son; other things don't matter. She succumbs; "Why
walk when hope is dead? Why live?" (Troubled Sleep, p.24)
The painter, the Spaniard Gomez, is another man who
(for various reasons) is deeply disappointed. First, he
is convinced that he is not a great talent and there is
almost nothing he can add to the art of painting. As he
says, in an introspective moment, "After Picasso, I don't
see there's much a painter can do" (Troubled Sleep, p. 26)
Yet, he has been paid to write a critical column and ends
up loathing himself for accepting money to do a job which
he knows that has no real artistic value but is almost
trash. He hates himself and the position that he is in
and he weakly, but pitifully, tries to justify his writing
the column by saying: "I know perfectly well what ought
to be done about it, but somebody else will do it"
(Troubled Sleep, p. 26). Later his pitiful recrimination
of himself becomes an outright and pessimistic acknowledg
ment of his failure. In a time when he had "ceased to
believe in his destiny" (Troubled Sleep, p. 26), he admits
"I'm no longer a painter" (Troubled Sleep, p. 26). And
later on he gives up hope altogether:
"I shall never paint again," he thought with a bitter
pleasure. Here, on this side of the mirror, here
and nowhere else, with himself crushed by the heat
descending from this blazing pavement, Truth had
reared high walls around him, stood blocking every
vista of the horizon; there was nothing in the
whole world but this heat, these stones, nothing at
all save dreams.(Troubled Sleep. p. 33)
And, finally, when he realized that even the man who,
apparently, was interested in intellectual conversation,
the man who liked to "think," was a drunkard, this proved
too much for Gomez and he "rested his head in his hands
. . . stared at the wall . . . and he began to cry
(Troubled Sleep, p. 41). This is the picture of a deeply
disappointed artist who has (vainly) searched for Intel
216
lectual curiosity.
Defeatism and pessimism reign at the concentration
I camps where the French prisoners have been assembled right
after the battle near the front lines. Such defeatism,
| although natural, is never or nowhere lightened by sparks
of hope— even of the most vague type. One of the lowest
points of pessimism, mingled with sarcasm, is reached when
food seems to be the most important thing of the moment
when Brunet says: "You see, . . . there is no point in
getting excited. Defeat and war are unimportant; food's
the important thing" (Troubled Sleep, p. 285).
In the endless talks among the prisoners there is
always an attempt to assess responsibilities for the ap
parent loss of the war. But although the war seems lost,
j
there is no hope of peace either. The prisoners feel that
their condition Is not likely to change and that peace Is
almost certainly a dreamy Impossibility. As a great number
of the prisoners put it, in answering Goldilocks' wishful
thinking when he says:
'On the day peace Is declared. . . .' I'm going to
get so plastered I won't sober up for two weeksJ"
Not for two weeks 1 Not for a month!" came in a
clamor of voices. "We'll be dead to the world then,
by God!" (Troubled Sleep, p. 287)
| Thus, when in search of freedom, Sartre's characters seem
i to be slightly optimistic. Yet, when the search is over
! they come to realize that there exists really no freedom,
| that they have been determined in all their lives, that
217
they have been beaten by the inexorable fact of their
determined death and bound by the surety of that death.
A few of them become disillusioned, lose hope in society
and abandon themselves to the forces and power of society
and nature.
Faulkner's "Psychological1 1 Determinism
Faulkner, although not really a pessimistic author,
portrays quite a few of his characters in a manner similar
to that of Sartre. They, indeed, are not the thinking men
who come to realize their own impotency vls-&-vi3 society
and nature, through self-analysis, introspection and pon
dering, but rather, they seem to have an appointment with
destiny— often ever since they are bom. Faulkner is not
content in telling what happens to his characters but goe3
on to explain why what happened did happen and the conse
quences of it on the character— hence Faulkner's psychol
ogical determinism. Christmas McEachem, and the young
Bayard Sartoris are two outstanding examples of the
"marked" man, both bent on self-destruction and doomed
from their very beginnings.
Indeed, Bayard seems to be pre-eminently the man
bound to self-destruction. He likes to drive fast— until
he is precipitated over a bridge and into a river and has
to spend a few weeks in a cast; and a few weeks later, he
again drives so fast that the speed, together with the
218 ;
i
realization of imminent danger, kills his grandfather; what:
■ is more, Bayard smokes excessively, has a mad love for
j
j hunting, travels haphazardly hut persistently and ends his
life in an airplane crash while testing a "new idea" for an
airplane although he was warned by an experienced pilot,
'Look here, Sartorls . . . let that crate alone.
These birds show up here every week with something
that will revolutionize flying. ... If the C.O.
won't give him a pilot . . . you can gamble it's a
washout!' . . . But Bayard took the helmet and
goggles and went on toward the hanger. (Sartorls,
pp. 364-365)
Bayard was abnormally, even pathetically, attracted
by anything exotic, dangerous, unconventional, mysterious—
deathly. Even the loving heart of a devoted and beautiful ;
girl was not able to distract Bayard from his predetermined
rendezvous with death. Narclssa, who later gave her whole
life to his memory, foresaw clearly this doom to which he
was engulfed by despair:
"Bayard?" she whispered, leaning against him, and he
put his arms around her and stood so, gazing above
her head into the sky. She took his face between her
palms and drew it down, but his lips were cold and
upon them she tasted fatality and doom, and she clung
to him for a time, her head bowed against his chest.
(Sartorls, p. 289)
That is exactly what Bayard is made of: "fatality and
: doom"; he knows it as do all who surround him. He makes
| no effort whatsoever to change himself, no effort to stay
alive and cheat his fate. Thus his doom is not in question
; at any time, but, rather, the question is how this doom
i will evince Itself. Will he meet death in an automobile
219
accident, or by his own hunting gun? Will some Negro slay
him, or will he catch pneumonia as he returns home after
having spent hours under the persistent and penetrating
southern rain. He finally does meet death when the unsafe
airplane disintegrates high up in the air.
This psychological determinism, fatalism, and irrevo
cable and unalterable doom which pervade the life of Mayard
Sartorls can also be said to surround and, Indeed, permeate
Christmas McEachern. Lost from the time of his birth,
having never met his real parents, misused by a religious
bigot and pseudo-Christ!an stepfather, Christmas commits
crime after crime starting with the stealing of a fifty-
cent coin from his savage stepfather and ending up by
cutting the throat of his benefactress, Miss Burden.
Never, even for a moment, has there been a gleam of hope
in Christmas' life. He was born to be violently destroyed
as surely as he was born with Negro blood in his veins.
As Sartre correctly points out referring to Christmas,
I had accepted this big, Godless, divine animal,
lost from birth and bent on self-destruction, moral
even in murder and redeemed— not by or in death,
but in his last moments before death. {Literary
Essays. p. 73)
Yet this bent for self-destruction is neither a merely
acquired habit nor a lazy Inclination. It is much more
than this. It is an inborn curse, a fore-ordained doom,
and a preconceived damnation which Christmas can never
shake off but carries with him, wherever he goes. It
stays embedded under his skin, yes, it reposes in his
blood until it finally annihilates him. Christmas feels
this curse and he knows that it is there. It is his fate,
his own destiny and as such it is inside him and at the
same time above him and renders him absolutely powerless.
He is conscious of his destiny's power over him when he
steals money to give to the prostitute waitress, when he
brings down the chair on the head of McEachern, when he
steals the rest of the money from McEachern's house, when
he breaks into Miss Burden's house and even when he has
cut her throat. He knows that he is doomed to be doing
these things as he knows that
... it was not to make money that he sold the whiskey
but because he was doomed to conceal always something
from the women who surrounded him. (Light in August,
p. 247)
He knows It as he ponders while hiding after Miss Burden's
death:
"I have never broken out of the ring of what I have
already done and cannot ever undo," he thinks quietly,
sitting on the seat, with planted on the dashboard
before him the shoes, the black shoes smelling of
negro: that mark on his ankles the gauge definite
and ineradicable of the black tld^ creeping up his
legs, moving from his feet upward as death moves."
(Light in August, p. 321)
Finally, Christmas, having been as a beast at bay all
his life, meets the discreditable, abject, and base death
that was meant and doomed for him all of his ’borrowed'
time. Shot behind a table in a shack by a self-styled
defender of American freedom, American decency and the
22 X
American way of life!
... firing, almost before he could have seen the
table overturned and standing on its edge across
the comer of the room, and the bright and glitter
ing hands of the man who crouched behind it.
Christmas resting upon the upper edge. Grimm
emptied the automatic's magazine Into the table.
(Light in August. p. 439)
This was the foredoomed end of Christmas. No one
hoped or even thought for a moment that it might have been
much different— least of all Christmas himself.
As Sartorls ends, the reader is overcome by a feeling
of extreme hopelessness and disappointment. Fate, which
was embedded in the nature of the Sartorises, has uncompro
misingly, relentlessly, and unerringly worked out a ruth
less succession of deaths. Colonel John Sartorls had been
shot by his political antagonist. Bayard Sartorls, Sr.
died of a heart attack and then Bayard, Jr. followed him
in death to which he was attracted by a fatalistic inclin
ation to love danger. But this is not all. Even the
faithful Negro servant of the Sartorls family has to be
found with "his grizzled head crushed in by a blunt in
strument anonymously wielded" (Sartorls. p. 370). Thus,
j
i this fatalistic, almost macabre curse which haunts the
I Sartorls home seems to extend to their household servants.
; Its power is such that it makes Miss Jenny exclaim in
I hopeless realization:
Well, that is the last one of 'em," she thought.
But no, he was hardly a Sartorls; he had at least
some shadow of a reason, while the others. . . .
222
"I think," Mias Jenny said, who had not spent a day
in bed since she was forty years old, "'that I'll be
sick for a while." And she did just exactly that.
Went to bed, where she lay propped on pillows in a
frivolous lace cap. . . . fSartorls. p. 370)
There is an amazing similarity between the two
authors under discussion in their pessimistic views on the
role that people, or, "the others," play in the life of an
individual. Faulkner puts the following statement in the
mouth of his irreverent Reverend Saunders, when the latter
talks with Joe Gilllgan:
"Remember, I am an old man, Joe. Too old for bicker
ing or bitterness. We make our own heaven or hell
in this world. Who knows; perhaps when we die we
may not be required to go anywhere nor do anything
at all. That would be heaven!
"Or other people make our heaven and hell for us."
(Soldiers1 Pay, p. 317)
If we may be allowed to refer to Sartre's play Huls Clos,
we find exactly the same thought expressed there. Garcin
says: "Hell is--other people."^ In this case Sartre
seems to be the pessimist in regard to the usefulness of
other people to the individual, renouncing any such use
fulness positively, while Faulkner admits that although
people may be the individual's hell they also can be his
heaven.
Symbolism in Faulkner's Novels
This study has reached a point where some mention
of symbolism must be made. Let us then examine what sort
^Jean-Paul Sartre, No exit and Three Other Plays.
(New York, 1955)> P* ^7*
223
of symbols Faulkner uses, and to what extent he employs
them.
Regarding Faulkner's choice of symbols, Vincent F.
Hopper writes:
Faulkner's choice of symbols will doubtless pre
vent his ever becoming a popular author. His symbols
of Southern degeneracy have alienated him from the
"general reader" of the South and his symbol of the
Negro as enemy of white supremacy disturbs the sensi
bilities of Southern humanitarians. Selection of
symbols from the contemporary scene ... is a brace
expedient for any writer, since it leaves him open
to complete misinterpretation, and their use attests
the vigorous integrity of Faulkner's artistry.
Character by character, scene by scene, his symbolic
fantasies adumbrate one central theme and fit them
selves into the privately created and imaginative
projection of his own image of the universe.5
But let us not over-exaggerate the difficulty of
Faulkner's symbols. All symbols are inherently difficult
for the uninitiated, and Faulkner's are not necessarily
more so. Let us also bear in mind always that Faulkner is
a difficult writer to begin with. His prose is difficult
to understand, as is the structure of his novels. It may
be that the meaning of some of Faulkner's symbols is not
clear— as also what is and what is not a symbol. Hopper
is correct when he says that:
Faulkner's symbols are not always precisely
definitive but their connotations are clear. The
'spirit' is represented by white upper class, and
-Vincent F. Hopper, "Faulkner's Paradise Lost,"
The Virginia Quarterly Review. 23:405-420, Summer 1947,
| p. 417.
male characters, as opposed to the power of the
flesh, which is indicated by Negro, lower class,
and female characters. Here is a possible utiliza
tion of Jung's reference to the Chinese duality of
Yin-Yang in which Yang is the bright, the fiery, the
male, and Yin is the dark, the damp, the female. In
Sanctuary. Benbow explains that 'Nature is she and
Progress is he. ... In Absalom. Absalom1' Faulkner
Is certainly Indebted to Nietzsche's Birth of Tragedy
for the distinction between the Apollonian Illusion
of glorification (Sutpen's dream of magnificence) and
the Dionysian loss of individualism by merging in the
unity of nature. (Virginia Quarterly Review. 23:405-
420, Summer 1947, p. 413)
One of Faulkner's more discussed novels for Its sym
bolism as well as its structural magnificence is Absalom.
Absalom! Malcom Cowley, in his famous introduction to
The Portable Faulkner writes, regarding symbolism in
Absalom, Absalom!:
Then slowly it dawns on you that most of the charac
ters and Incidents have a double meaning; that
besides their place in the story, they also 3erve
as symbols or metaphors with a general application.
Sutpen's great design, the land he stole from the
Indians, the French architect who built his house
with the help of wild Negroes from the Jungle, the
woman of mixed blood whom he married and disowned,
the unacknowledged son who ruined him, the poor
white whom he wronged and who killed him in anger,
the final destruction of the mansion like the down
fall of a social order: all these might belong to
a tragic fable of Southern history . . . the whole
novel might be explained as a connected and logical
allegory.®
Thomas Sutpen stands as the symbol of southern aris
tocracy. His struggle to achieve social recognition and
wealth but failure to do so mainly because of the black
^Malcom Cowley (ed.), The Portable Faulkner (New York
1961), p. 13.
race represents the accumulated struggle of generations of i
southern whites who equally failed to achieve status and
nobility, If not wealth, equivalent to such possessed by
those nobles who remained back in England. The American
Civil War which granted freedom to the Negroes, and the
present Negro awakening for equal rights serve as the coup
de grace to the White Southerners' dreams of supremacy,
nobility, and social recognition.
There are other secondary symbols of interest in the
novel. Perhaps one of the most pronounced is the snow
which unexpectedly appears on the overcoat of Quentin's
roommate at Harvard while the two friends are reconstruct
ing and interpreting Thomas Sutpen's story. This snow on
the Canadian Shreve's overcoat, to which Faulkner makes
frequent allusionst i.e.. "There was snow on Shreve's over
coat sleeve, his ungloved blond square hand red and cold
with cold, vanishing" (Absalom. Absalom1 p. 173) has a
special meaning. Shreve, a Canadian, comes from a cold
northern climate, and thus it is awfully difficult for him
to understand the hot South and its hot-blooded people.
As quentin tells him at one point of their conversation:
"Gettysburg," Quentin said. "You can’t under
stand it. You would have to be bom there."
"Would I then?" Quentin did not answer. "Do
you understand it?"
"I don't know," Quentin said. (Absalom. AbsalomI.
pp. 361-362)
If there is no snow, the temperature is below zero or it
“ “ 226
is awfully cold--a situation which is again contrasted
with the warm, Indeed, hot climate of the South.
There would he no deep breathing to-night. The
window would remain closed above the frozen and
empty quad beyond which the windows in the oppo
site wall were, with two or three exceptions,
already dark; (Absalom, AbsalomI. p. 293)
Or a similar paragraph which opens Chapter IX, the last
one in the novel, reading:
At first, in bed in the dark, it seemed colder
than ever . . . and now the iron and impregnable
dark had become one with the iron and lcelike bed-
clothing lying upon the flesh slacked and thin-
clad for sleeping. (Absalom, Absalom! p. 360)
Thus the Northerner, the Canadian, is much different
from the Southerner and has indeed great difficulties in
understanding the South. Furthermore, Faulkner is saying
that any Northerner, or for that matter, any outsider or
foreigner has great difficulties in understanding the
South— If it is possible for him to understand the South
at all.
There is symbolism in other novels by Faulkner, such
as Light in August. The Sound and the Fury, As I lay Dyings
The Wild Palms and The Old Man. These novels contain
i many symbols which stand for the splendid past, the won
drous achievement, and the eventual degeneration and fall
; of the South and the southern whites; the social ascend-
! ance and stern reality of the Negroes of the South; life
and death; regeneration and sterility; womanhood and
| impotency; fatalism and hope; reality and dream. When
227
• !
: one studies the symbols In Faulkner's novels one becomes
' i
aware that Faulkner Is not a regional writer: he Is univer-;
sal.
Sartre's Limited Use of Symbolism
Sartre, apparently, makes only limited use of symbol-
! ism. Although this study cannot discuss symbolism exten
sively and there may very well be other symbols in Sartre's;
novels, at least two rather obvious cases of symbolism will
be dealt with here. The first case is the lack of movement
on the part of Marcelle. Marcelle never leaves her home,
indeed, her bedroom, for the duration of the novel, The Age^
of Reason, in which she appears. When Daniel tries to per-
; suade her honestly and openly to discuss her pregnancy and ;
; ,
the future of the child with Mathleu, she complains to him:
"Discuss it with him? . . . Where? I never go out" (The
Age of Reason, p. 179). Again, when Mathieu learns from
Daniel that the latter has been seeing Marcelle for quite
some time, and that they have been good friends, Mathieu
says, surprised: "'You're lucky,' he said. 'She never
| goes out. Where did you meet?'" (The Age of Reason,
i p. 258). And, as she confesses after she is married to
Daniel, characteristically: "'Don't sleep enough!' said
| Marcelle yawning and laughing at the same time. 'Indeed,
I feel quite ashamed, I never read a book, I spend all day
I on my bed'" (The Reprieve, p. 132).
Such immobility on the part of Marcelle, however,
is symbolic. Her staying home all the time symbolizes
that the woman is the pivotal center of man's efforts,
that man needs the woman rather than the opposite, and
that he has to go to her. Marcelle spending most of her
time in bed, in her own bedroom, symbolizes also that
women are, by nature, constrained to the role of sex and
of motherhood. She is made for it, she is most happy in
this role and she knows it. This is the symbolism in
Marcelle's apparent and peculiar immobility.
On the other hand, Marcelle's counterpart in the same
novel, Ivich, an otherwise rather normal young girl, has a
peculiar horror when being touched by anyone, especially
by her older, sophisticated teacher, Mathieu. Mathieu has!
only to touch her skin with his finger, or even brush his
shoulder on her back to instantly permeate her existence
with horror. See, for example, what happens when a laborer
happens to "touch" her as she walks alongside the street
with her brother:
At that moment Ivich gave a Jump and uttered a pierc
ing scream, which she promptly stifled by putting her
hand to her mouth. ...
"What's the matter?" asked Boris, with astonishment.
"He touched me," said Ivich with disgust. "The
filthy fellow." (The Age of Reason, p. 253)
Or when Mathieu grasps her by the arm in the midst of a
conversation. "'Ivich!' said Mathleu grasping her arm.
Ivich uttered a cry and shook his hand off. 'Let me go,'
! she said. 'Don't touch me, I won't be touched'" (p. 324).
Or, "Ivich looked at Mathieu with hatred gleaming in her
| eyes. 'You've dared to touch me again,1 she said"
(p. 220). Now, solely as a person, Ivich is peculiar.
; But, if we want to accept the proposed comparison that
Ivich's horror of being touched is the fear and horror ex
perienced by Czechoslovakia during the few months before
i World War II when Hitler threatened to annex it to Germany,
then the character of Ivich becomes one fraught with
7
symbolism.
Faulkner’s Romanticism
There has been much critical discussion and a host
of offhand and casual paragraphs written in critical
essays regarding the romantic aspects of Faulkner's novels.
The question of romanticism in Faulkner's novels Is the
least seriously discussed and the most misunderstood. It
has been easy for critics to dub Faulkner a romantic
author by quoting what is perhaps (next to his famous
statement that Sanctuary was a cheap Idea conceived to
make money), another one of the most casually quoted of
Faulkner's statements; and Malcom Cowley, perhaps the best
7For a detailed analysis of the concept of the exist-
: entlal hero see Wallace Fowlie's article entitled "Exist-
i entialist Hero: a Study of L'Age de Raison" in Yale French
Studies. 1:53-61, Spring-Summer, 1940.
230,
; exponent of Faulkner's writings, quotes it intone of
his articles:
If the voice was silent, he had nothing to write.
"I have an instinct that I had better keep quiet,"
he said in a letter to his publisher. "Perhaps I
shall have a new spirit of vigor if I wait quietly
for it; perhaps not." Faulkner is another author
who has to wait for the spirit and the voice.®
This quotation, in itself, does not in any way prove or per
suade anyone that Faulkner, because he wants to write only
when he feels like writing, is a romantic author. On the
other hand, after a careful reading of his novels, one
cannot wholly say that Faulkner is purely a realist. As
in most cases, the truth has to be found in between the
two absolutes. The question then becomes one of extent
and not of categorization. To what extent, then, is
Faulkner romantic ?
Although it is indeed very difficult to define roman-;
ticlsm to everyone's satisfaction, it is assumed here that
the standard description of romanticism suffices: that is,
romanticism is concerned more with action them character,
more with idealism than realism, more with escapism than
actuality; with adventure, exotic places, daring and
fantastic feats; with the beauties of nature, and natural
phenomena; with love (usually unrequited) and death.
Assuming that the above description of romanticism is!
i
®Malcom Cowley, "William Faulkner Revisited."
Saturday Review of Literature. 28:13~l6, April 14, 19^5.
231
satisfactory, I find It very difficult to agree with
Vincent Hooper who, regarding Faulkner's romanticism,
writes:
Up to the present writing he has remained pure roman
ticist with most of the romanticist's traditional
reactions. He wallows in gloom and despair. He
shakes a Byronlc fist at heaven or laughs sardoni
cally In a Bryonio-early Hemingway manner. His
grotesqueries waver between humor and pathos,
becoming often intentionally bathetic as in epi
sodes in Sanctuary and in the convict's report to
the deputy in Old Man. (After enduring unimaginable
horrors, he says: "Yonder?s your boat, and here's
the woman. But I never did find that bastard on
the cottonhouse!" (The Virginia Quarterly Review.
23:405-420, Summer 1947, p. 420
On the other hand, Bayard Sartorls, the hero of
Sartorls may very well be a romantic character. His
unreasonable, almost pathetic attachment to airplane
testing, his unorthodox hunting visit to the impoverished ,
but free and proud farmers of the hilly country, his psy
chotic love for speed, his courting with danger and his
serenading of ladies, all make him a romantic character.
But for every romantic character in Faulkner's novels
there is a dozen of realistic ones. For one Bayard there
is a Joe Christmas, a Temple Drake and a Thomas Sutpen to
mention only a few important ones. And for every Quentin '
in The Sound and The Fury. Benbow in The Hamlet. Although
it is questionable whether these characters can be prop
erly called romantic), there is a Lucas Beauchamp, a
Popeye, a Lee Qoodwln, a Flem Snopes, a Grimm, and a
Byron Bunch— at least. And if one wants to point to the
' 232;
dare-devil aviators in Pylon one can also mention the whole!
family of the Bundrens (Addle, Anse, Eula, Cash, Jewel,
Vardaman, and Dari) in As I Lay Dying*
Referring once again to the much quoted essay of
Malcom Cowley one discovers another proposed aspect of
Faulkner's romanticism. Malcom Cowley writes:
No other American writer takes such delight in
the weather. He [Faulkner] speaks in various
novels of "the hot still pinewiney silence of the
August afternoon"; and of "the moonless September
dust, the trees along the road not rising soaring
as trees should but squatting like huge fowl"; of
"the tranquil sunset of October mazy with windless
wood-smoke"; of the "slow drizzle of November rain
Just above the ice point"; (The Portable Faulkner.
pp. 19-20)
One could go on to mention other similar examples of
nature-references in Faulkner’s novels. But out of the
eighteen-odd novels and dozens of short stories which
Faulkner has written, all together amounting to literally
thousands of pages, one tends to wonder how much really
this weighs in favor of the argument that Faulkner is a
romantic author.
What seems to be the best and perhaps the most ob
jective evaluation of Faulkner at this time is this:
Faulkner is predominantly and overwhelmingly a realistic
author; however, one may discover romantic traits in his
many novels, particularly the early ones.
Faulkner's Preoccupation with the Past
Faulkner draws much of his subject matter from the
233
era of the Civil War and the immediate years both preceding1
and following it. Many of his novels, and a large number
of his short stories, go back to probe, examine, analyze,
restore, and recreate the South of approximately 1820-1875-
The Unvanauished. Absalom. Absalom I, Sartor is. and The
ffpmiftt are novels dealing with the Civil War years. Many
others of his novels contain a large number of references
to the Civil War. Sanctuary. Go Down. Moses. The Wild
Palms. Light in August, and The Sound and The Fury, al
though placed in post Civil War years, still refer to and
deal with the past. Thus, although one may not correctly
say that Faulkner is strictly preoccupied with the paBt,
he might be telling the truth by saying that with his imag
inary invention, creation, and animation of Yoknapatawpha
County and its people, Faulkner is unmistakably drawn by
the magic of the past.
Jean-Paul Sartre has realized Faulkner'3 great inter
est in and use of the past. He i3 concerned with it and
tries to give an explanation of it in his Baudelaire where
he compares Faulkner's use of the past with that of
Baudelaire's. In Baudelaire Sartre writes:
He [Baudelaire] devalued it [the present] with the
intention of making It less urgent, less present.
He turned the present into a past whose importance
had been diminished so that he could deny its
reality. In that respect he resembles, to some
extent, a writer like Faulkner who has turned away
from the future in the same way and become someone
who despised the present in the interest of the
past. But for Faulkner the past can be seen
; '................234
through the present like a diamond block through a
surface disorder: He makes a frontal attack on the
reality of the present.9
tAbsalom. Absalom1 is, perhaps, the most important novel
coming out of the distant past. The important events in
the novel take place between the years 1827 and 1869. The
main hero of the novel, Thomas Sutpen, was bom as early as
1807, married, the first time, in 1827, moved to Yoknapa-
tawphaCounty in 1833* fought in the American Civil War be
tween 1861-65, and was finally murdered by Wash Jones in
1 1869. Yet the whole story— indeed, the various stories—
and points of view contained in the novel, are related, re
counted, relived, and pieced together in 1910 by two room
mates at Harvard College, Quentin Compson, and his Canadian
friend, Shreve McConnon. Thus the novel is preoccupied
I with the past— a past which is distant, vague and clouded.
The two friends, Quentin and Shreve, tell a story, each one
in his own way, but in doing so they are really interpret
ing the past, since the events they are recounting have
really happened even before either one of them was born.
So the past has to be searched and interpreted— a past
filled with "the inextricable confusion of fact and fiction
... involved in any account of human experience."10
%ean-Paul Sartre, Baudelaire (Norfolk, Connecticut,
1950), p. 171.
10Michael Millgate, William Faulkner (New York, 1961),
P- 56.
235
There are really three "interpreters" of the Sutpen
story: Hr. Compson, father of Quentin; Quentin himself
along with Shreve; and, finally one of the women who were
part of the Sutpen family, Rosa Coldfield, Thomas Sutpen's
sister-in-law. And to make matters even more complicated,
Millgate writes:
The different reflections or interpretations of the
central story* instead of being separated out into
distinct sections, are intimately interwoven within
an extremely complex and carefully-articulated novel
structure. (William Faulkner, p. 56)
The part of the narrators-interpreters becomes really
so complicated that not only the reader has extreme dif
ficulty in trying to keep the threads of the plot intact,
but the past Itself assumes new proportions and meaning.
Hyatt H. Waggoner has observed on this point that "the
past has to be continually reinterpreted; and each re
interpretation becomes a part of the accumulating past;
a part even of the past which it attempts to interpret."11
Thus the whole story centers in the past. The past
is explained, classified, interpreted and illuminated, be
cause therein lies quality, importance, and meaning. As
Sartre writes again: "The glassy, diaphanous quality of
meaning. its Bpectral, unalterable character provide the
clue: Meaning is the past" (Baudelaire. p. 183).
11Hyatt H. Waggoner, William Paulkner: from Jefferson
to the World (University of Kentucky Press, 1959)* P* 155.
236
The present, however, Is the prism through which the :
past can be examined, and the medium through which the past
can have meaning. Faulkner uses his interpreters-narrators!
as such media and prisms, because the present has also its
own importance and meaning.
The Unvanaulshed and The Hamlet deal completely with
the past— the American Civil War era. The meaning and im
portance of this past, however, result from the fact that
they are viewed as present by the present.
Granny in The Unvanauished and Flem Snopes and Will
Varner in The Hamlet are characters irrevocably and un
alterably linked with the American Civil War and the re
construction period in the South. Yet it is through char
acters like these that the present can view the past ade
quately. There are many other Instances which could be
mentioned here further to document and analyze Faulkner's
intense interest in the past. It is assumed, however,
that enough has been said on this subject.
Account of Characters at End of Novel
Faulkner does not give an account of his characters
at the end of each novel. Thus, the well-known, rather
stock last chapter found in each of the novels of the
romanticists, in which each character is accounted for
through a specific yet short description of his present
whereabouts, and general status, is altogether missing
- --- - .....- ... - - - - ......- ... ■ 237 .
from the novels of Faulkner. Lena Grove is seen in a des- ;
perate search for the father of her illegitimate child still;
;unborn as Light in August opens; at the end of the book she|
is seen travelling by asking rides on farmers' wagons criss-
I crossing the South. With her is her secret admirer, Byron
;Bunch. Both are lost behind the dust left by the wagon
travelling a Tennessee road, and no one knows what their end
is going to be; and the author does not drop even a hint.
And how about the unfortunate father Hightower? He realized
that Byron Bunch had been a better Christian than himself,
indeed, but is that enough? Faulkner remains silent about
him. Likewise, although somewhat more definite and settled,
is the future of Jenny Sarton, Narcissa Benbow, and Nar-
cissa's baby boy by the late Bayard Sartoris, at the end
of Sartoris. Many speculations could be raised by the
reader concerning the future of these characters but no
hint or encouragement is given by the author in any dir
ection. Similarly, The Hamlet gives no account of its
characters as the novel closes. Flem Snopes has outwitted
even the subtle and devious Itinerant sewing-machine
^salesman Ratliff, has succeeded in dispossessing the
!
i
peasants Henry Armstid and Bookwright, and has remained
ithe undisputed victor of the unrelenting quiet battle for
wealth. But the book ends there with Snopes returning
Ihome while the dispossessed Ratliff and Bookwright drive
jaway from the hamlet into the bleak and unknown future.
238
Nor is there any account given of any of the other numer
ous characters in The Hamlet.
Similarly, Soldiers' Pay closes without giving any
account of its characters at the end. To be sure, Donald
Mahon is disposed of by death but the most active charac
ters in the novel, Mrs. Margaret Powers (later Mrs. Mahon),
Joe Gilligan, Januarius Jones, Emmy and Cecily Saunders,
are left unaccounted for.
Since Sartre’s trilogy Les Chemins de la Liberte is
still unfinished, one cannot say confidently at this time
whether or not Sartre will give an account of his charac
ters at the end. Judging from the literary style which he
follows, however, and the fact that Nausea ends without
giving an account of Roquentin's subsequent life, one is
strongly tempted to express the opinion that the conclud
ing novel of the trilogy will not give an account of char
acters .
This chapter has dealt with and established that,
first of all, Sartre's characters are possessed by an un
conquerable yearning for personal freedom. This personal
freedom which is one and the same thing as their existence
has only to be realized and lived. One realizes and lives
his freedom through personal commitment in life's various {
aspects and demands. To refuse commitment, one refuses
to be free, or to live one's own freedom--and life. Yet,
at times, this freedom looks as though it does not exist,
239
since life itself--especially the life of a civilized human
being--is beset by limiting situations. This freedom which
Sartre's characters pursue and realize, however, implies
assumption of absolute personal responsibilities on their
part, not only for their own actions but also for their
existence and destinies. Such responsibility they readily
assume, and look to death as the formal triumph of freedom
— the annihilation of the for-itself by the in-itself. At
times, however, the characters are overwhelmed by fear and
despair; yet these feelings are generated by the knowledge
of the finality and inevitability of death and are part of
freedom itself.
To this rather hopeful freedom with which Sartre's
characters are Identified, Faulkner opposes his psycho
logical determinism. Although Faulkner wants to be opti
mistic and positive, a large number of his characters seem
to be hopelessly swayed by social, hereditary, and natural
forces. Bayard Sartoris is bent on self-destruction and
meets with a violent death. So does Joe Christmas who
knows he is doomed because of the mores of the society in
which he lives. A host of other characters in Faulkner's
novels seem abandoned to their own fates and live and suf
fer as though their future successes and failures did not
depend on their free choice but on some unseen and unknown
superior force— environmental and hereditary determinism.
240
In regard to symbolism, Faulkner makes some use of It j
; and Sartre less. Faulkner's symbols are not as difficult
| ;
■ as a few critics want to make them appear. Sartre's sum-
bols are few. While Faulkner chooses his symbols from
nature and Southern aristocracy, Sartre chooses his from
the complicated lives of sophisticated individuals who have;
to live in a highly complex and civilized environment.
Faulkner's novels contain a definite and rather pro
nounced streak of romanticism. Quite a few of Faulkner's j
characters possess a strong feeling for escapism, adven
ture, and a yearning for spectacular achievement. Nature
also figures importantly In Faulkner's novels. However,
Faulkner remains predominantly a realist. Sartre's novels
I are altogether divorced from romanticism. Neither his
characters nor their language betrays anything romantic.
Faulkner seems to have a definite preoccupation with
the past. For Faulkner the past Is extremely Important in
order not only to understand the present but also people
in general. When the past is explained, Interpreted, and
illuminated, the characters and the present are amply
understood. Sartre has not concerned himself with this
question in his novels.
Finally, the fact that neither Faulkner nor Sartre
; gives an account of the characters at the end of novels,
i indicates that both authors follow mainly the realistic-
i naturalistic tendency In this respect and not the romantic.
CHAPTER VI
CONCLUSION
This study has analyzed, isolated, compared, and con
trasted the most important aspects of the literary styles
of Jean-Paul Sartre and William Faulkner. Analyses, com
parisons, and contrasts have been made of characters,
their backgrounds and environments, their ways and habits,
their language, their peculiarities, their hopes, aspira
tions, and disappointments. Then comparisons and contrasts
in regard to special traits possessed by the characters
i
have been made to determine the extent to which the char
acters In the novels of Sartre and Faulkner are similar or
different.
As the title of this study shows and the introduction
affirms, the primary purpose has been one of investigation,
analysis, comparison and contrast of the literary styles of
William Faulkner and Jean-Paul Sartre. Stylistic devices
themselves were analyzed, compared and contrasted. Wher
ever opportunity presented itself, or wherever the import
ance of the function of these literary devices was immed-
: lately and intricately related to the meaning and scope of
I the particular novel involved, an effort was made to relate
i 241
242 j
and interpret such meanings and function. Therefore, the
primary emphasis placed throughout this study has been in-
I
vestlgation and establishment of literary means and tech
niques used by these authors, and not necessarily their
philosophies, expounded or Implicit.
This study has established, above all, that neither
Sartre nor Faulkner can be assigned to a specific literary
school, at least not without a number of qualifications.
Sartre is an existential philosopher; existentialism is
not a literary school, however, but rather a philosophic
one. Thus, Sartre, in expressing his philosophical ideas
regarding man's position in our universe, vis-k-vls a
supreme being and in respect to other people, chose the
novel (among other media) as a vehicle for the populari
zation of these ideas. This study has established that
his novels are written in the vein of realism with a heavy
naturalistic coat. Yet he is not content with this. He
modifies realism to suit his ends. He adds, subtracts,
cuts out and ameliorates.
On the other hand, Faulkner seems to be as much of a
realist as Sartre. Faulkner is a realist not a romantic.
He deals with real people, faced by real problems and seek
ing, for the greater part, realistic answers. But he also
modifies realism by sprinkling it heavily with romanticism
as well as naturalism. Realism is a basic common denomina
tor in the novels of both Sartre and Faulkner. Further
243
more, while the authors meet on common ground in the use
of certain naturalistic techniques, the similarities end
here. For, while Sartre propounds his existential philos
ophy, Faulkner probes into the evils which slavery be
queathed to the southern land. While Sartre is primarily
concerned with the problem of human existence and the in
dividual1 s place in society, Faulkner delineates the col
lective suffering and guilt of the white southerners re
sulting from their introduction and prolongation of slavery
and the rape of the land.
Although a number of Faulkner’s characters are sound
and healthy, a large number of them suffer from serious
physical or mental diseases. Both of these types exist
in society to be sure, but in Faulkner's world the ratio
of normal to abnormal characters seems to be disproportion
ately low. Such abnormal and decadent characters serve
to portray the ultimate fall and failure of the southern
plantation system and the sad consequences of the slave
ownership upon which it was based. This production of
physically and mentally inferior offspring by once-power-
;ful families also signifies the final destruction of an
established order, of law and dignity.
Also, the language which the characters use, al-
!though quite suitable to them, to the rest of us sounds
|more colloquial, idiomatic, and not standard, compared to
i
I the speech normally spoken or written in other parts of
the United States. Yet in his incisive reproduction of the!
i |
speech of characters representing a cross-section of south-!
: i
em American society, Faulkner haB proven to be an indis
putable master of the southern dialect. Furthermore, since!
Sartre's characters more than Faulkner's seem to indulge
in a number of the indelicate and unsavory aspects of
life— including the use of vulgarisms and imprecations—
Sartre appears to be more naturalistic in this respect than
Faulkner. Faulkner seems to experiment with language; he
uses it, abuses it, disregards it, and "coins" new words.
Meaning is not primarily found in single words but in long,
involuted sentences and the feelings and pictures which
they evoke. Sartre, on the other hand, makes use of pre
cise and accurate language; he prefers the short sentence; j
words are chosen for their power to convey action. The
language which the characters speak is representative of
each character's station in life. Faulkner, more than
Sartre, makes use of dialect and colloquial language;
sometimes with both authors the language of the characters
can be vulgar and obscene.
The treatment of sex adds slightly to the list of
differences in the styles of the two authors. For
Sartre's candid use of erotic scenes, which has been the
subject of much discussion in critical essays, brings him
closer to the naturalists, while Faulkner's relative
unwillingness to exploit erotic material, as well as his
descriptions of nature, his sympathetic interest in the
past and his idealization of history move him closer to
the romantics.
A more marked contrast develops between the two
authors when it comes to the use of humor. For Sartre's
closely knit humor, Ironic, subtle and pregnant with mean
ing, stands in contrast with Faulkner's portrayal of the
rather crude humor of the southern frontier. In many In
stances Faulkner's humor points up the ambiguities of life,;
especially man's erroneous beliefs about possession— the
land, other people, anything. At other times, humor is a
means of providing relief from scenes of violence or hor
ror.
But the styles of Sartre and Faulkner are not only
contrastive; they are also in many ways similar. Perhaps
the closest and most harmonious comparison (a negative
one, at thatl) is to be found in the kinds of plots these
authors use— or better, don't use. Although Sartre's
novels are almost, if not altogether, lacking in plot,
many of Faulkner's contain a well-planned plot; still
other Faulknerian novels feature a "new" kind of uncon
ventional plot. This is the plot of segmentation of
normal time sequences and dislocation and rearrangement
of material. This "new" concept of plot, although not
original with Faulkner, is repeatedly used by him mainly
because of hia Intense interest in the meaning, useful-
ness and Importance of the past. It Is through the past
that the present can be seen, Interpreted and placed In
Its proper perspective. Faulkner Is Interested In telling
a story filled with suspense and the unexpected; therefore,
beginning In medias res and otherwise dislocating time
sequences and replacing them in a non-orderly, although
artistic manner, helps in the creation of suspense.
Furthermore, this literary technique is peculiarly suited
to Faulkner's subject matter. It richly and meaningfully
reproduces, in its own manner, the disturbances, disorders,
unpheaval and violence which have afflicted the South.
The dislocated time sequences may also parallel not only
the guilty consciences of the southern whites, but also
the chaotic condition of the southern negroes.
Many other stylistic devices, which are used by
Faulkner consistently, help, each in its own fashion, to
create well-planned plots In many of his novels. Sartre's
novels, on the other hand, are noted for their relative
lack of plot. For Sartre plot is meaningless in a mean
ingless and absurd universe where the individual finds
himself without a priori good. Moreover, Sartre's
primary interest Is not In the tale itself or the enter-
i talnment It may provide, but rather In the elucidation
i
■ and popularization of his existential philosophy. Since
his novels are basically philosophical exercises, plot
| is neither of primary importance or consideration, nor
247
really is It sought after.
In addition, there are many other stylistic devices
which both authors use to varying degrees In order to en
hance the literary quality of their novels. Prominent
among these Is the use of contrasts. But while Sartre
makes primary use of contrasts in order to show through
antitheses, clashes, and lack of consequence, the Incon
gruity, absurdity, chaos, and even meaninglessness of a
disorderly world and a meaningless universe, Faulkner
wants to express primarily incongruities of life, the
dilemma of the South, the predicament of man--especially
southern man. Most successful are his frequent character
contrasts and his contrasts for dramatic purposes. Sartre
also makes use of character contrasts to enhance the
dramatic quality of his novels, and here the styles of the
two authors are again comparable.
Repetition is another stylistic device which both
authors use throughout their novels. They both use
repetition in order to emphasize an idea, a scene, a
condition, or a situation. Yet while Sartre makes, at
times, a methodical and meaningful repetition which
strongly resembles a leitmotif * Faulkner repeats certain
words awkwardly, and in so doing slightly damages the
aesthetic quality of his novels.
Both authors make prodigious use of the Italicized
passage. Faulkner uses this device for a variety of
! reasons such as the expression of the inner thoughts of
! characters, the switch from present to past and vice versa,
i ■ I
and the stating of otherwise inarticulate thoughts. The
use of the italicized passage is closely related to the
point of view and the point of view shifts as italics are
switched on and off. This almost incessant shifting of
point of view, besides enabling the author to present his
material freely, betrays the uneasiness and restlessness
with which southern life and people are beset; such rest- :
lessness is both physical and moral. Sartre uses it in
order to express the inner thoughts of a character but
also and mainly, to emphasize a point. At times, however,
Sartre's italicized passages seem to defy any explanation.
Finally, the two novelists under discussion seem to
differ markedly when one looks at their temperamental dis
positions but less so when one examines their philosoph
ical beliefs. For the taciturn, quiet, little-travelled
Faulkner has little in common with the sophisticated,
cosmopolitan, fiery, and fighting philosopher-social
reformer, Sartre. The former is preoccupied with the
problem of southern man, the South's guilty conscience
regarding slavery, the rape of the land, good and evil;
the latter wants to teach, inform, ameliorate, and alter—
for the betterment of humanity and of the individual.
Both, however, are concerned with the destiny of man,
his freedom and the question of good and .e.vil in a
" ....... ' 249
universal sense.
Faulkner's novels indicate that the creator and sole
owner of Yctknapatawpha County, Mississippi, U. S. A., is
somewhat of a pessimist who believes that man's life is
rather determined by his geographic, social, and economic
environment (despite his Nobel prize acceptance speech
and his novel, A Fable, which are valiant attempts at af
firmation). Sartre, on the other hand, has dedicated his
life to proving that not only is the individual free from
the existence of a supreme being (and of any other exist
ence of a supreme being) and of any other exterior exist
ence, but he is, instead, freedom itself. His optimism
and belief in a free individual are only temporarily
shaken by despair and fear of the inevitability and final
ity of death. It is thus that Sartre stresses the present
because this is what "is" and the individual exists in it,
while Faulkner stresses the past, which proves what people
were and what "was."
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Creator Richards, Lewis Alva (author)

Core Title The Literary Styles Of Jean-Paul Sartre And William Faulkner: An Analysis, Comparison, And Contrast

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Comparative Literature

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag Literature, Modern,OAI-PMH Harvest

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Advisor Hadley, Paul E. (committee chair), Belle, Rene F. (committee member), Malone, David H. (committee member)

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