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Time And Identity In The Novels Of William Faulkner

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Time And Identity In The Novels Of William Faulkner

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Content This dissertation h as been
microfilmed exactly as received 69-5066
POLEK, Fran Janies, 1929-
TIME AND IDENTITY IN THE NOVELS OF
WILLIAM FAULKNER.
U n iversity of Southern C alifornia, Ph.D ., 1968
Language and L iterature, modern
University Microfilms, Inc., Ann Arbor, Michigan
C opyright (c) by
FRAN JAMES PO L E K
TIM E A ND IDENTITY IN THE NOVELS O F WILLIAM FAULKNER
by
Fran James Polek
A D is s e r t a t io n P resen ted to th e
FACULTY O F TH E G R A D U A TE SC H O O L
UNIVERSITY O F SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In P a r t ia l F u lfillm e n t o f th e
Requirem ents fo r th e Degree
DO C TO R O F PHILOSOPHY
(E n g lish )
August 1968
UNIVERSITY O F S O U T H E R N CALIFO RNIA
TH E G RA D U A T E S C H O O L
U N IV E R S IT Y PARK
LO S A N G EL ES . CA LIFO R N IA 9 0 0 0 7
This dissertation, written by
..................... ER A N JA M E S ..P O L E K ....................
under the direction of his..... 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
D ate Au.gu.sL.~L9.6-8................................
DISSERTATION COMMITTEE
Chairmk
For J a n e t, J e n n ife r and Frank
i i
TABLE O F CONTENTS
C h a p te r Page
I . THE RELEVANCE O F T IM E ................................................. . I
I I . TH E BEGINNINGS AND SARTORIS.............................. 12
I I I . TH E SOUND AND TH E FURY ......................... 36
IV. AS I LAY D Y IN G .......................................................... 90
V. LIGHT IN AUGUST.......................................................... 141
V I. ABSALOM . ABSALOM ! ..................................................... 198
V II. TIME AND IDENTITY: A GENERAL APPRAISAL . . . 241
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY .......................................................................... 261
i i i
CHAPTER I
TH E RELEVANCE O F TIM E
Time, as a prim ary f a c t o r in e s t a b lis h in g human id e n
t i t y , has concerned man s in c e he f i r s t became aware th a t
th e r e were m ovements, ch an ges, in h e r e n t in h is own p h y s ic a l
n a tu re and in h is e x te r n a l environ m en t. In h is own n a tu re ,
he n o tic e d an a g in g p r o c e ss c u lm in a tin g in p h y s ic a l d ea th ;
in h is e x te r n a l environm ent he p e r c e iv e d a rhythm, an
a p p a re n tly c ir c u la r movement. Ihe r is i n g and s e t t in g o f
th e sun, th e p h ases o f th e moon, th e c y c le o f th e se a so n s,
a l l r e f le c t e d a movement c o n c eiv ed and o rg a n ized by unknown
f o r c e s . Man, a s a b e in g p o s s e s s in g b oth memory and a n t i c i
p a tio n , has a d ju ste d t o th e s e n a tu r a l movem ents, b oth i n
te r n a l and e x te r n a l, in v a r ie d w ays. These movements, or
tim e e v e n ts , seem v i t a l to man in s tr u c tu r in g p e r so n a l
i d e n t i t y . His e a r ly a ttem p ts t o s tr u c tu r e i d e n t it y in tim e
w ere perhaps c o r r e la te d t o an aw areness o f s im u lta n e ity
r a th e r than s u c c e s s io n :
1
2
P r im itiv e man*s i n t u it i o n o f tim e was dom inated by h is
se n se o f rhythm r a th e r than by th e id e a o f c o n tin u a l
s u c c e s s io n . There was no e x p l i c i t s e n s e o f tim e i t s e l f
but o n ly o f c e r t a in tem poral a s s o c ia t io n s w hich d iv id e
tim e in t o in t e r v a ls s im ila r t o b ars in m u sic. Even w ith
th e r i s e o f c i v i l i z a t i o n , i t appears th a t prim ary impor
ta n ce was a tta ch ed t o s im u lta n e ity r a th e r than t o s u c c e s
s io n . 1
As J u liu s T. F raser p o in ts o u t, th e aw areness o f tim e has
c o n s ta n tly a f f e c t e d b e l i e f s about f r e e w i l l , c r e a tio n , and
im m o rta lity *
T his d ia lo g u e spans th e com p lete ten u r e o f W estern
th o u g h t. I t has been fo llo w in g in broad term s, th e d i v i
s io n b etw een , on th e one hand, d is b e lie v in g in th e r e a l i t y
o f tim e and su p p o rtin g a d e te r m in is t ic and e s s e n t i a l l y
s t a t i c u n iv e r se w ith em phasis on e x te n s io n a l p r o p e r tie s
o f th e w orld , and, on th e o th e r hand, b e lie v in g in tim e
a s an i n t r i n s i c fe a tu r e o f th e u n iv e r s e , w ith con com itan t
endorsem ent o f th e co n cep t o f f r e e w i l l and o f a dynamic
u n iv e r s e . Y et, th e q u e s tio n m ost in tim a te ly a f f e c t in g
th e in d iv id u a l i s n o t so much w hether tr u ly new th in g s do
or do n o t come in to b e in g , b u t w heth er t r u ly e x is t in g
th in g s , m ain ly p e o p le , do or do n o t go out o f b e in g , as
i t w ere, through d e a th . A cts o f c r e a tio n a re hard to
o b ser v e, w h ile a c ts o f a n n ih ila t io n a re a l l to o ap p aren t.
In so fa r as d eath i s our m ost p ow erfu l rem inder o f f i n i t e -
n e s s , and f i n i t e n e s s o f our con cern w ith tim e, I th in k
th a t no s c h o o l or manner o f thou ght in c lu d in g th e p h i
losop h y o f s c ie n c e can hope t o come to g r ip s w ith th e
problem o f tim e w ith o u t o f f e r in g a s a t i s f a c t o r y a n a ly s is
o f th e r e la t io n o f tim e t o d e a th .^
*G. J. Whitrow, The N atu ral P h ilosop h y o f Time (London,
1 9 6 1 ), p . 55.
^The V o ices o f Time (New York, 1 9 6 6 ), p. 589.
F r a s e r 's f i n a l comment co n cern in g d eath i s o f p a r t ic u
la r im portance, b eca u se a c u lt u r a lly a ccep ted d e f i n i t io n o f
d eath c a r r ie s w ith i t a d e f i n i t io n o f l i f e . A s im ila r con
c lu s io n was reached by S. G. F. Brandon, who s a id ,
. . . — in o th e r w ords, th e know ledge o f b ir th and death
in v e s t s th e l i f e o f each in d iv id u a l w ith a tem poral s i g
n if ic a n c e th a t i s b a s ic , and i t u lt im a t e ly a f f e c t s th e
e v a lu a tio n o f a l l e x p e r ie n c e .
An a ccep ted d e f i n i t io n o f human l i f e , or l i f e - r a t i o n a l e ,
seem s n e c e ssa r y to s tr u c tu r e in d iv id u a l c h a r a c te r . I t i s
t h i s stu d y —th e r e la t io n s h ip o f tim e to th e developm ent o f
human c h a r a c t e r - -th a t i s c e n tr a l to an u n d erstan d in g o f th e
m ajor c h a r a c te r s in W illiam F a u lk n er 's n o v e ls .
Faulkner i s n o t a p h y s ic is t , m ath em atician , or a s tr o n
omer; he d oes n ot attem p t t o d is c u s s tim e as an a b s tr a c t
or c o n c r e te e n t i t y as have su ch men fo r c e n tu r ie s . His
in t e r e s t i s p e r so n a l r a th e r than g e n e r a l; h is concern i s
th e a e s t h e t ic c o n s tr u c tio n o f in d iv id u a ls in h i s n o v e ls .
He has d is c u s s e d t h i s con cern :
I th in k th a t th e w r ite r i s to o busy tr y in g to c r e a te
fle s h -a n d -b lo o d p eo p le th a t w i l l stan d up and c a s t a
shadow to have tim e to be c o n sc io u s o f a l l th e sym bolism
th a t he may put in to what he d oes or what p e o p le read
^"Time and th e D estin y o f Man," The V o ices o f Time.
p . 143.
4
in to i t . That i f he had th e tim e t o —th a t i s , i f one
in d iv id u a l co u ld w r ite th e a u th e n tic , c r e d ib le , f l e s h -
and -blood c h a r a c te r and a t th e same tim e d e liv e r th e
m essage, maybe he w ould, b u t I don ’ t b e lie v e any w r ite r
i s ca p a b le o f d oin g b o th , th a t h e ’ s g o t to ch oose one o f
th e tw o: e it h e r he i s d e liv e r in g a m essage or h e ’ s tr y in g
to c r e a te fle s h -a n d -b lo o d , l i v i n g , s u f f e r in g , a n g u ish in g
human b e in g s . And as any man works out o f h is p a s t,
s in c e any m an--no man i s h im s e lf, h e ’ s th e sum o f h is
p a s t, and, in a way, i f you a c ce p t th e term , o f h is
fu tu r e to o .^
As a w r ite r em in en tly concerned w ith th e p r e se n t c o n d i
t io n o f man, he i s , to be su r e , a product o f human thought
con cern in g tim e throughout th e c e n t u r ie s . The id e a s o f
A r is t o t le , A u g u stin e, Newton, Locke, B erk eley , Hume, Kant,
and B ergson, among o th e r s , w ere a v a ila b le to F aulkn er, n o t
on ly in t h e ir o r ig in a l sta te m e n ts, but in c o u n tle s s p ara
p h rases and m o d if ic a tio n s . I t i s n o t known w hether he
a c tu a lly read t h e ir w orks, b u t F aulkn er, as a tw e n tie th -
cen tu ry w r ite r , was m ost probab ly in flu e n c e d by c e r ta in o f
th e ir c o n c e p ts . H is a e s t h e t ic i n s ig h t s , how ever, a r e p e r
so n a l, a p p lic a b le in h is own way t o h is own w orks. I t i s
d i f f i c u l t to d e fin e w ith c e r t a in t y h is a t t it u d e toward tim e
and i t s r e la t io n t o id e n t it y ; a t b e s t , th e c r i t i c can
4
W illiam F aulkner, F aulkner in th e U n iv e r s ity , ed .
F red erick L. Gwynn and Joseph L. B lo tn e r (New York, 1 9 6 5 ),
pp. 4 7 -4 8 .
5
exam ine th e a e s t h e t ic fo rm u la tio n o f c h a r a c te r , and make
c e r t a in s a l i e n t o b s e r v a tio n s . Perhaps W alter J . S l a t o f f ’ s
o b se r v a tio n s r e f l e c t th e g e n e r a l view s o f many c r i t i c s who
have stu d ie d t h i s f a c e t o f F aulkner*s work:
At one tim e I f e l t th a t one cou ld tr a c e in F au lk n er’ s
works and p u b lic sta te m en ts a f a i r l y c o n s is t e n t m y s tic a l
v i s i o n v e r y much in accord w ith B ergson’s p h ilo so p h y
. . . a v i s i o n in th e la r g e s t se n se o f th e e la n v i t a l .
th e l i f e fo r e s i t s e l f , enduring in tim e. . . . I have
come to f e e l , how ever, t h a t, a lth o u g h one can make a c a se
fo r th e e x is t e n c e o f such a v i s i o n in th e w orks, i t i s
to o in te r m itte n t and p a r t ia l, and to o o ft e n c o n tr a d ic te d ,
to be se e n as a n y th in g more than one o f th e main id e a s
and themes th a t l i e in lo o s e su sp en sio n w ith one an oth er.
In a ra re d is c u s s io n o f tim e, Faulkner has s a id ,
And in man, in man’s b eh a v io r tod ay i s n in e te e n
f i f t y - - t w o thousand and f i f t y se v en , i f we j u s t had a
m achine th a t co u ld p r o je c t ahead and ca p tu re th a t , th a t
m achine cou ld i s o l a t e and fr e e z e a p ic tu r e , an im age, o f
what man w i l l be d oin g in 2057, j u s t as th e m achine
m ight ca p tu re and f i x th e l ig h t ra y s showing what he was
doin g in B.C. 28. That i s , t h a t ’ s th e m y s t ic a l b e l i e f
th a t th e r e i s no su ch th in g a s w as. That tim e i s , and
i f t h e r e 's no such th in g as w as, th en th e r e i s no such
th in g as w i l l b e . That tim e i s a fix e d c o n d itio n , tim e
i s in a way th e sum o f th e combined i n t e ll i g e n c e s o f a l l
men who b r e a th e a t th a t moment. (Gwynn and B lo tn e r ,
p. 139)
This b e l i e f seem s embodied in many o f h is w orks. Faulkner,
liv in g as a human b e in g , w ith th e enormous c o m p le x itie s and
paradoxes in h er en t in th e human c o n d itio n , w r ite s h o n e s tly
Quest fo r F a ilu r e (Ith a c a , New York, 1 9 6 0 ), p, 248.
a s a human b e in g . His work, th e r e fo r e , does n o t alw ays
r e f l e c t a p a r t ic u la r ly c o n s is t e n t id e o lo g ic a l v iew o f man,
nor a s i m p l i s t i c summation o f what man " is" or "should be";
r a th e r , h is works s u g g e s t th e v a s t , perhaps u n lim ite d ,
range o f human th ou gh t and a c tio n . H is m ajor c h a r a c te r s
a re in v o lv e d in what Hans M eyerhoff c a l l s "the c o n s c io u s
n e ss o f tim e " :
The q u e s tio n , what i s man, th e r e fo r e in v a r ia b ly r e f e r s
to th e q u e s tio n o f what i s tim e . Hie q u e st fo r a c l a r i
f i c a t i o n o f th e s e l f le a d s to a rec h e rc h e du temps perdu.
And th e more s e r io u s ly human b e in g s become engaged in
t h i s q u e s t, th e more th e y become p reoccu p ied and con
cern ed w ith th e c o n sc io u sn e ss o f tim e and i t s m eaning fo r
human l i f e .
F au lk n er’ s con cern w ith tim e, th en , i s a co n cern r e f l e c t i n g
th e p o s it io n o f tw e n tie th -c e n tu r y man. In h is work, we
fin d c e r t a in c h a r a c te r s u n ab le or u n w illin g t o a c c e p t th e
t r a d it io n a l J u d a ic -C h r istia n d e f i n i t i o n o f man. T heir
i d e n t it y , th e r e f o r e , becomes a prime problem , and t h e ir
e f f o r t s t o e s t a b lis h m eaning and ord er in t h e ir l i v e s
in e v it a b ly in v o lv e tim e.
F a u lk n er's c h a r a c te r s r e f l e c t a common p a s s io n to be
" s u c c e ssfu l" human b e in g s . T h eir d e f i n i t i o n o f " s u c c e ss,"
^Time in L ite r a tu r e (B erk eley , 1 9 5 5 ), p. 2 .
how ever, seem s q u ite in d iv id u a l, and i s s t r i k i n g l y c o r r e
la te d in th e n o v e ls w ith t h e ir r e c o g n it io n and a ccep ta n ce
o f p a r tic u la r c o g n it iv e tim e p a tte r n s .
A lthough th e c h a r a c te r s e x h ib it an ex trem ely w ide
range o f a t t i t u d e s , i t i s p o s s ib le to d iv id e them in to two
b a s ic g r o u p s: th o s e who a c c e p t a n a tu r a l, c ir c u la r c o g n i
t i v e tim e p a tte r n and th o s e who a c c e p t a m ech an ical or
lin e a r c o g n it iv e p a tte r n .^
Those c h a r a c te r s , such as D ils e y in The Sound and th e
Fury, and Lena in L ight in A ugust, who c o n s tr u c t t h e ir
i d e n t i t i e s around a n a tu r a l p a tte r n , or a form o f th e
n a tu r a l c o g n it iv e p a tte r n , sh a re c e r ta in c o n c e p ts . Time i s
c ir c u la r in th e se n se o f i t s b a s ic r e la t io n s h ip to n a tu r a l
rhythm s: d a y s, m onths, s e a s o n s , y e a r s , and ep o ch s. I h e ir
i d e n t it y , in p a r t, i s str u c tu r e d by t h e ir b e l i e f th a t a l l
tim e (p a st through memory and fu tu r e through a n t ic ip a t io n ) ,
i s c o n ta in e d in "now." Time has n o t ’’robbed" man o f
^Many c r i t i c s and s c h o la r s in r e se a r c h on tim e have
used th e term s n a tu r a l and m ech a n ica l or term s s im ila r in
in t e n t . H yatt H. Waggoner, W illiam Van O'Conner, F red erick
Hoffman, and Jean Paul S a r tr e , among o t h e r s , have d e a lt
in t e n s iv e ly w ith tim e and F aulkn er, b u t I am p a r t ic u la r ly
in d eb ted t o Olga W . V ic k e r y 's s tim u la tin g d is c u s s io n in
The N ovels o f W illiam F aulkner: A C r i t i c a l I n te r p r e ta tio n
(Baton Rouge, 1 9 6 5 ).
s u s ta in in g v a lu e s in th e p a s t, and th e fu tu r e does n o t p o r
tend th e d is in t e g r a t io n or ’’doom" o f man. P ast and fu tu r e ,
through memory and a n t ic ip a t io n , can be changed, shaped,
a lte r e d by man f o r h is own ad van tage. G. J . Whitrow su g
g e s t s th a t "Memory i s th e means by w hich th e record o f our
v a n ish ed p a st s u r v iv e s 'w ith in ' u s , and t h i s i s th e b a s is
o f our c o n sc io u sn e ss o f s e l f - i d e n t i t y " (p . 1 1 1 ). The
c h a r a c te r s who a c ce p t th e p r o p o s itio n th a t a l l tim e i s c o n
ta in e d in "now," can o ft e n "see" th e fu tu r e in some form
b e fo r e th e fu tu r e becomes p r e s e n t. A b so lu te v a lu e s , which
g iv e some e f f e c t i v e m eaning to human l i f e , rem ain c o n sta n t
w ith in th e c ir c u la r p a tte r n o f tim e . Man, b ecau se o f
memory and a n t ic ip a t io n , has f r e e w i l l ; he assum es r esp o n
s i b i l i t y f o r h is a c ts and h as a m oral c o n s c ie n c e . Hie
c ir c u la r v i s i o n o f tim e p r o v id e s c e r t a in F aulkner ch a r a c
t e r s w ith a se n se o f t h e ir common hum anity, and a f a i t h in
im m o rta lity . And, f i n a l l y , tim e i s an a l l y , a llo w in g a
v i s i o n o f man b oth en n o b lin g and en d u rin g.
H iose c h a r a c te r s , such as Q uentin in Hie Sound and th e
Furv. and Thomas Sutpen in Absalom. Absalom ?. who a c c e p t
a form o f th e m ech a n ica l or lin e a r c o g n it iv e p a tte r n a ls o
sh are a number o f c o n c e p ts . Time i s lin e a r in th e se n se
o f a s t r a ig h t l i n e from an ir r e t r ie v a b ly l o s t p a st to an
a l l to o o fte n i ll u s o r y fu tu r e ; man’s id e n t it y i s str u c tu r e d
on ly by h is e x is t e n c e in "now." Man seems h e lp le s s in
tim e; he cannot change, tr y as he m igh t, p a st or fu tu r e ;
no e f f e c t i v e a c tio n seems p o s s ib le . W ylie Sypher h ss d i s
cu ssed t h i s ty p e o f c h a r a c te r a s one who " f e e ls c h ea ted ,
as i f he w ere liv i n g by d e f a u lt , s in c e h is a c ts are a l l
in flu e n c e d by circu m sta n ces o v er w hich he has no c o n tr o l
g
w h a tev er." A b so lu te e f f e c t i v e human v a lu e s have been l o s t
in tim e b eca u se th e p a st where th ey r e s id e cannot be r e
c la im ed . As man f e e l s v ic tim iz e d by tim e, he i s un ab le to
assume r e s p o n s ib i li t y fo r p a s t, p r e s e n t, or fu tu r e . The
lin e a r v i s i o n o f tim e, ev id en ced by p reo ccu p a tio n w ith
m ech an ical tim e sym bols such as c lo c k s and c a le n d a r s,
ca u ses th e lo s s o f a se n s e o f common hum anity and th e r e
j e c t i o n o f a p o s s ib le im m o r ta lity . And, f i n a l l y , tim e i s
an enemy, d e str o y in g man’ s v a lu e s , and m oving him i n e v i
ta b ly toward some f i n a l d is in t e g r a t io n and "doom."
F aulkner, in a l l p r o b a b ilit y , d id n o t c o n s c io u s ly
c o n s tr u c t th e b a s ic b if u r c a t io n o u tlin e d above. But in
^Loss o f th e S e lf (New York, 1 9 6 2 ), p. 10.
10
r e p r e se n tin g th e human c o n d itio n as he p e r c e iv e s i t , he i s
in e v it a b ly drawn in to an in t e n s iv e c o n s id e r a tio n o f th e
in d iv id u a l's placem ent in , and a t t it u d e tow ard, tim e.
The e n t ir e canon o f h is work, h is sh o r t s t o r i e s as
w e ll as h is n o v e ls , e x h ib it s a g e n e r ic con cern w ith t h i s
9
is s u e . In t h i s r e s p e c t , he i s fo llo w in g in th e t r a d it io n
o f T. S. E l io t , James J o y ce, V ir g in ia W oolf, and Thomas
W olfe. The t o t a l i t y o f h i s work, t o be su r e , sh ou ld be con
sid e r e d in any f i n a l e v a lu a tio n o f h is a t t it u d e toward tim e
in r e la t io n t o id e n t it y and them e, b u t t h i s p a r tic u la r
stu d y fo c u se s on th o s e n o v e ls , w r itte n w ith in th e span o f
one ex trem ely p r o d u ctiv e d ecad e, w hich seem to e x em p lify
b e s t h is tec h n iq u e o f c h a r a c te r developm ent through , in
p a r t, th e fo rm u la tio n o f v a r io u s c o g n it iv e tim e p a tte r n s .
F ive works have been s e le c t e d fo r a n a l y s i s : S a r to r is
(1 9 2 9 ), in w hich l i e s th e g e n e s is o f th e Yoknapatawpha
saga; The Sound and th e Fury (1 9 2 9 ), th e work F aulkner c o n
sid e r e d h is m ost " g a lla n t f a i l u r e " ; ^ As I Lav Dying (1930),
9
Note p a r t ic u la r ly "Dry S ep tem b er," a p ic tu r e o f
F a u lk n er's "W asteland," and "Was," an a e s t h e t ic a n a ly s is o f
th e r e la t io n s h ip o f p a st to p r e s e n t, and what was to what
i s .
^ W illia m F aulkner, F aulkner a t Nagano, ed . Robert A.
J e l l i f f e (Tokyo, 19 5 6 ), p . 162.
11
L igh t in August (1 9 3 2 ), and Absalom. Absalom! (1 9 3 6 ).
These f i v e n o v e ls (w ith th e p o s s ib le e x c e p tio n o f
S a r t o r is ) . are c o n sid er ed by m ost c r i t i c s to be r e p r e s e n ta
t i v e o f F au lk n er’s m ost p ow erfu l and e f f e c t i v e work; view ed
to g e th e r , w ith in th e scop e o f t h is a n a ly s is , th ey form a
c o h e s iv e p ic tu r e o f th e c h a r a c te r s and m ajor e v e n ts in
Yoknspatawpha County, and F a u lk n er's achievem ent in i n
v e s t ig a t in g th e c o r r e la t io n betw een tim e and id e n t it y .
CHAPTER I I
THE BEGINNINGS AND SARTORIS
In S a r t o r is , f i r s t p u b lish e d in 1929 when Faulkner was
th ir ty -tw o y ea rs o ld , th e sa g a o f Yoknapatawpha County
b e g in s . The cou n ty i s im agin ary, but s tr o n g ly su g g e s ts
F a u lk n er's home cou n ty o f I a f a y e t t e in n orth ern M is s is s ip p i,
F a u lk n er's home from 1902 t o th e tim e o f h is d eath in 1962.
In Yoknapatawpha, and p a r t ic u la r ly in J e ffe r s o n , th e com ity
s e a t (Oxford in I a f a y e t t e C ou nty), th e m ajor n o v e ls fin d
t h e ir s e t t i n g , c h a r a c te r s , and a c t io n . I t i s h ere th a t
F aulkner, c r e a tin g c h a r a c te r s , m a n ip u la tin g and sh ap in g
e v e n ts , c r e a te s in th e span o f a d eca d e, th e f i v e n o v e ls
upon w hich h is m ajor r e p u ta tio n r e s t s .
F aulkn er, d u rin g h is boyhood and a d o le s c e n c e , heard
many t a l e s w hich c o n t in u a lly su g g e ste d th e g lo r y and honor
o f a tim e p a st a s compared w ith a r e l a t i v e l y calm and un
e v e n tfu l p r e s e n t. His g r e a t-g r a n d fa th e r , W illiam C uthbert
F alk ner (th e "u" was in s e r te d in th e name in 1 9 2 4 ), was
12
a famous, t o some n o to r io u s, lo c a l f ig u r e , who k i l l e d two
men and was a c q u itte d tw ic e b ecau se o f s e l f - d e f e n s e p le a s .
During th e C iv il War (a p erio d o f utm ost in t e r e s t to
W illiam Faulkner b ecau se i t draws a tim e l i n e betw een th e
an teb ellu m p e r io d and R e c o n str u c tio n ), W illiam Cuthbert
F alkner became a C olon el in a Southern regim en t and saw a
g r e a t d e a l o f a c tio n . His men, how ever, became d is e n
chanted w ith h is le a d e r sh ip (perh aps, su g g e s ts th e leg en d ,
b ecau se o f h is e x c e s s iv e d a r in g ), and removed him as
C o lo n el. He retu rn ed to M is s is s ip p i and formed a sm a ll
group t o c o n tin u e th e f ig h t a g a in s t th e N orthern s o ld ie r s
in and around L a fa y e tte County.
A fte r th e War, th e C o lo n e l's e n e r g e tic a c t i v i t i e s co n
tin u e d . He p u b lish ed s e v e r a l n o v e ls , one o f them th e
h ig h ly s u c c e s s f u l The White Rose o f Memphis in 1880, and
b u i l t a s ix t y - m ile r a ilr o a d from Oxford to T en n essee. He
was a c t iv e p o l i t i c a l l y , and was e le c t e d t o th e s t a t e l e g i s
la tu r e . He d ie d in 1889, sh o t by R ichard J. Thurmond, a
b u sin e ss and p o l i t i c a l a s s o c ia t e . His e x p l o i t s , to an
e x te n t ro m a n ticized by su cceed in g fa m ily g e n e r a tio n s , a re
found throughout F au lk n er’s work.
W illiam Cuthbert F alkner had th r e e so n s, two o f whom
14
d ie d du rin g th e C iv il War. The rem aining so n , John W .
Thompson F alk n er, th e n o v e lis t * s g r a n d fa th e r , became a
law yer and p r a c tic e d in O xford, M is s is s ip p i, m ost o f h is
l i f e . He fa th e r e d th r e e c h ild r e n , one o f whom, Murry
F alk n er, became th e fa th e r o f th e n o v e list.^ "
W illiam Faulkner grew up am idst mem ories o f th e South
ern p a s t, p a r t ic u la r ly th e r o m a n ticize d a cco u n ts o f th e
e x p lo it s o f h is own fa m ily . E a rly , he lea rn ed o f th e
"glory" o f th e an teb ellu m p e r io d and th e courageou s but
doomed f ig h t e r s f o r th e South in th e "War Between th e
S ta te s ." He was probably in flu e n c e d a g r e a t d e a l by h is
nurse-mammy, C a ro lin e Barr (1 8 4 0 -1 9 4 0 ), who appears in a
number o f h is s t o r i e s , p a r t ic u la r ly a s D ils e y in The Sound
and th e Fury. His s c h o o lin g was r a th e r e r r a t ic ; he d id n o t
r e c e iv e a h ig h sc h o o l d ip lom a. He w as, how ever, an a v id
read er and an in te n t l i s t e n e r ( h is " t a l l t a le s " form an
im portant p a rt o f h is t o t a l w ork), and a p p a re n tly d ecid ed
^The broad g e n e a lo g ic a l o u t lin e and im portant fa m ily
e v e n ts g iv e n by th e Faulkner fa m ily seem g e n e r a lly a c c u r a te ,
b u t many o f th e occu rren ces must b e view ed w ith some sk ep t .-
cism . W illiam F aulkner, how ever, grew up h e a r in g th e s e
t a l e s , and h is n o v e ls , b e g in n in g w ith S a r t o r is . d e a l i n
t e n s iv e ly w ith th e s e c h a r a c te r s and e v e n ts , r e a l and ima
g in e d .
15
to become a w r ite r r a th e r e a r ly in l i f e . During World
War I , he serv ed fo r a tim e w ith th e Royal Canadian A ir
Force ( a f t e r b ein g turned down by th e U nited S ta te s Army
b eca u se o f h is sh o r t s t a t u r e ) , b u t he was n ot in v o lv e d in
com bat. A fte r th e War, he a tten d ed th e U n iv e r sity o f
M is s is s ip p i a s a s p e c ia l s tu d e n t. He d id n o t r e c e iv e a
d e g r ee , but d id m eet, d u rin g th e s e b e g in n in g y e a r s, two men
who w ere t o launch h is l i t e r a r y c a r e e r : R i i l S ton e, a w e l l-
ed ucated and r e l a t i v e l y w e a lth y r e s id e n t o f O xford; and
la t e r , Sherwood Anderson, who h e lp e d Faulkner p u b lish h is
f i r s t n o v e l, S o ld ie r ’ s Pay.
A lthough S a r to r is b e g in s th e m ajor p erio d o f F aulkner’s
w r itin g c a r e e r , h is i n t e r e s t in tim e and i t s r e l a t io n to
c h a r a c te r fo rm u la tio n i s n o ted in e a r l i e r w orks. In
S o ld ie r ’ s Pay (1 9 2 6 ), a r a th e r fla w ed and im it a t iv e n o v e l,
Faulkner f i r s t d e s c r ib e s th e county s e a t , "C harlestow n”
( la t e r t o be J e ffe r s o n in Yoknapatawpha C ounty), in a way
s u g g e s tiv e o f th e c o n tr a s t betw een an e a r l i e r a c t iv e tim e
and a som nolent p r e s e n t :
t
C harlestow n, l i k e num berless o th e r towns through out th e
so u th , had been b u i l t around a c i r c l e o f te th e r e d h o r se s
and m u les. In th e m id d le o f th e sq u are was th e c o u r t
h o u se— a sim p le u t i l i t a r i a n e d i f i c e o f b r ic k and s ix t e e n
b e a u t if u l Io n ic columns s ta in e d w ith g e n e r a tio n s o f
c a s u a l to b a c co . Elms surrounded th e co u rth o u se and
16
b en eath th e s e t r e e s , on sc a rr ed and carved wood benches
and c h a ir s th e c i t y f a t h e r s , p r o g e n ito r s o f s o l i d laws
and s o l i d c i t i z e n s who b e lie v e d in Tom Watson and fea r ed
o n ly God and d rou th , in b la c k s t r in g t i e s or th e faded
brushed gray and bronze m ea n in g less m edals o f th e Con
fe d e r a te S ta te s o f Am erica, no lo n g e r h avin g to make any
p r e te n se toward la b o r , s le p t or w h it t le d away th e lon g
drowsy days w h ile t h e i r ju n io r s o f a l l a g e s, n o t y e t o ld
enough to fr a n k ly slum ber in p u b lic , p layed ch eck ers or
chewed to b a cco and ta lk e d . A law yer, a drug c le r k and
two n o n d e sc r ip ts to s s e d ir o n d is k s back and f o r th betw een
two h o le s in th e ground. And above a l l brooked e a r ly
A p r il sw e e tly pregnant w ith noon.^
Donald Mahon, th e d yin g r e tu r n in g s o ld ie r in th e n o v e l,
knows ”. . . Time as o n ly som ething w hich was ta k in g from
him a w orld he d id n o t p a r t ic u la r ly mind lo sin g " (p . 1 5 0 );
p r e sen t tim e, in th e n o v e l, i s se en c o n ta in in g elem en ts o f
p a st t im e :
Monotonous wagons drawn by lo n g -e a r e d b e a s t s craw led
p a s t . N egroes humped w ith s le e p , p o r ten to u s upon each
wagon and in th e wagon bed i t s e l f s a t o th e r N egroes upon
c h a ir s ; a pagan c a ta fa lq u e under th e a fte r n o o n . R ig id ,
as though carved in E gypt, te n thousand y e a rs a g o . Slow
d u st r is in g v e i l e d t h e ir p a s s in g , l i k e Time; th e n eck s
o f m ules lim b er as rubber h o se swayed t h e i r heads from
s id e to s id e , lo o k in g behin d them a lw a y s. But th e m ules
w ere a s le e p a l s o . (pp. 1 4 8 -1 4 9 )
Such im agery in d ic a t e s th a t S o ld ie r ’ s Pay, d e s p it e i t s
fla w s , may h o ld an im portant key to an u n d ersta n d in g o f
F a u lk n er's l a t e r , more e x p l i c i t u se o f tim e c o n c e p ts .
2 (London, 1 9 5 7 ), pp. 10 7 -1 0 8 .
17
H yatt H. Waggoner s e e s in t h i s e a r ly work a foresh adow in g
o f l a t e r th em es:
S o ld ie r 's Pay f i r s t s t a t e s th e m ajor them es and e x h ib it s
th e m ajor te n s io n s o f F a u lk n er's g r e a t e s t work. The
young a u th o r 's in t r u s iv e comments are o f t e n as p ro p h etic
as h is s u c c e s s f u l en d in g. Man se en as a c r e a tu r e d r iv e n ,
com p elled , y e t somehow f r e e t o ch o o se , t r a d it io n se e n as
empty* y e t c r y in g ou t fo r r e d e f in it io n , th e f e e l in g o f
m e a n in g le ssn e ss and th e se a rc h fo r m ean in g-“a l l are su g
g e s te d in S o ld ie r 's Pay.-*
M osquitoes (1 9 2 7 ), a somewhat am ateu rish attem p t on
F a u lk n er's p a rt to comment on th e a im le ss l i v e s o f " so
p h is t ic a t e s " in th e New O rleans a r e a , a ls o s u g g e s ts th e
c o n n e c tio n or fu s in g o f a l l tim e in to a r ig i d and m o tio n
l e s s p r e s e n t. The y a ch t N ausikaa i s se e n in e a r ly m orning:
This m orning waked in a q u ie t fa th o m less m is t . I t was
upon th e w orld o f w ater u n s tir r e d ; soon th e f i r s t f a in t
wind o f m orning would t h in i t away, b u t i t was now about
th e Nausikaa t im e le s s ly ; th e y ach t was a th ic k je w e l
sw addled in s o f t gray w ool, w h ile in th e w ool somewhere
dawn was l i k e a suspended b r e a th . The f i r s t m orning o f
Time m ight w e ll be beyond t h i s m is t, and trum pets p r e
lim in a r y to a g o ld en f lo u r is h ; and h e ld in su sp e n sio n in
i t m ight be heard y e t th e v o ic e s o f th e Far Gods on th e
f i r s t m orning sa y in g , i t i s w e ll: l e t th e r e be l i g h t .
A sh o r t d is ta n c e away, a shadow, a rumor, a more p a lp a b le
th in n e s s : t h i s was th e sh o r e . The w ater fa d in g out o f
th e m ist became as a dark m eta l in w hich th e N ausikaa was
r i g i d l y f ix e d , and th e y a ch t was m o tio n le s s , sw addled in
m is t l i k e a f a t je w e l.^
^W illiam F aulkner ( L o u is v ille , Kentucky, 1 9 5 9 ), p. 8.
^(New York, [ n . d . ] ) , p. 135.
18
Time, as som ething "suspended" and " rig id " in th e
minds o f many o f h is c h a r a c te r s , in flu e n c e s t h e ir se n se o f
p e r so n a l id e n t i t y . P eter Sw iggart su g g e s ts th a t any i n d i
v id u a l a c tio n i s " s t e r i l e " :
Like i t s p r e d e c e sso r , M osquitoes e x p r e ss e s a d ir e c t
condem nation o f a w orld in w hich in d iv id u a l a c tio n i s
s t e r i l e and w ith o u t con seq u en ce. . . . F au lk n er’ s a t t i
tude may be d e sc r ib e d a s an in v e r te d rom an ticism , w ith
a c o n c e n tr a tio n upon th e la c k o f harmony betw een th e
in d iv id u a l and h i s n a tu r a l w o rld .^
A lthough b oth S o ld ie r ’s Pay and M osquitoes a re im
p e r fe c t works o f a r t , th e y su g g e s t th a t F aulkner d id n o t
p a r t ic u la r ly "invent" v a r io u s tim e s tr u c tu r e s to embody h is
in t e n t ; r a th e r , he m atured as a man and w r ite r in a p h y s i
c a l and i n t e l l e c t u a l environm ent w hich stim u la te d such
s tr u c tu r e s . Olga W . V ick ery d is c u s s e s th e lin k w hich th e s e
e a r l ie r n o v e ls p ro v id e:
To r e c o g n iz e th a t F aulkner i s a lr e a d y concerned w ith tim e
as th e so u rc e o f m o tiv es and w ith s it u a t io n s w hich a re
r e v e a le d r a th e r than d ev elo p ed i s to a v o id th e danger o f
s e e in g him as s h i f t i n g su d d en ly from pure im ita tiv e n e s s
in S o ld ie r ’ s Pay and M osquitoes to pure o r i g i n a l i t y in
The Sound and th e Furv and As I Lav D ying. (p. 78)
The c o n tr a s t betw een p a s t and p r e se n t was a l l to o
apparent t o F aulkn er. f t iy s ic a lly , th e r u in s o f th e a n te
bellu m c u ltu r e and what th e c u lt u r e r e p r e se n te d w ere n oted
~ * The Art o f F au lk n er’s N ovels (A u stin , 1 9 6 2 ), p. 33
19
throughout th e South. Many fo rm erly m a g n ific e n t o ld
p la n ta tio n homes were now u n p a in ted , w e a th e r-b ea te n , ram
s h a c k le . The once e x q u is it e ly trimmed lawns and c a r e f u lly
a tten d ed shrubbery were now unkempt and unshaped. The
i n t e l l e c t u a l environm ent e x h ib ite d an eq u a l c o n t r a s t , as
F aulkner p o in ts ou t e a r ly in S o ld ie r * s Pay and M osq u itoes♦
Man, once v i t a l — l iv i n g a m ea n in g fu l l i f e in an e n e r g e tic
and expanding c u lt u r e —was now q u ie s c e n t and seem in g ly
d ev o id o f co g en t m o tiv a tio n . A d r e a m -lik e atm osphere o f
in a c tio n pervaded m inds, as th e odor o f verb en a and hon ey
su c k le pervaded th e a i r . The o v e r - a l l q u a lit y was one o f
extrem e s t i l l n e s s —s u g g e s t iv e , p erh ap s, o f a liv i n g d e a th .
I t i s t h i s atm osphere, and th e stu d y o f th e c h a r a c te r s
who attem p t to c o n s tr u c t a m ea n in g fu l e x is t e n c e in tim e,
th a t i s f i r s t f u l l y e x p r essed in S a r t o r is . The s e t t in g i s
Yoknapatawpha County, F aulkn er*s home co u n ty , and th e
county to be employed in F aulkner*s o th e r m ajor n o v e ls .
Many c h a r a c te r s su g g e s t members o f th e F aulkner c la n from
th e an teb ellu m p e r io d t o th e y ea rs o f th e tw e n tie th c e n
tu r y . I t i s in t h i s n o v e l th a t F aulkner f i r s t r e c o g n iz e s
what i s to b e th e m ajor so u rc e o f h i s c r e a t iv e d r iv e . He
i s a t home b oth w ith h is c h a r a c te r s and t h e ir environm ent;
20
he b e g in s to "see" c h a r a c te r and a c tio n , and fo llo w c r e
a tio n and movement w ith h is pen. Ir v in g Howe has d is c u s s e d
Faulkner * s w o r ld :
Though n e ith e r s o c i a l photography nor h i s t o r i c a l r e c o r d ,
th e Yoknapatawpha c h r o n ic le i s in tim a t e ly r e la t e d to
th e m ilie u from w hich i t i s d e r iv e d ; i t i s an a p p ro p ri
a tio n from a communal memory, some g r e a t s t o r e o f h a l f
fo r g o tte n le g e n d s, o f which F aulkner i s th e l a s t ,
g r ie v in g r e c o r d e r . . . . He h as l i t t l e need t o c o n s tr u c t,
he need s o n ly to c a l l upon what i s a lre a d y w a itin g fo r
him . ®
In Faulkner a t Nagano, comments made in Japan, F aulk
n er r e v e a ls h is c o n sta n t con cern w ith "sim ply t e l l i n g a
s to r y about human b e in g s" ( i t a l i c s m in e ):
. . . th e w r ite r h as im agined a s to r y o f human b ein g s
th a t was so m oving, so im portant t o him , th a t he w ants
to make a reco rd o f i t fo r h is own s a t i s f a c t i o n o r ,
perhaps, fo r o th e r s t o read , th a t s to r y i s a v e r y o ld
s t o r y , i t ' s th e s to r y o f human b e iu g s in c o n f l i c t w ith
t h e ir n a tu r e , t h e ir c h a r a c te r , t h e ir s o u ls , w ith o th e r s ,
or w ith t h e ir environ m en t. H e's n o t r e a l l y w r itin g
about h is environ m en t, h e 's sim p ly t e l l i n g a s to r y about
human b e in g s . . . « The n o v e l is t i s t a lk in g about p e o p le ,
about man in c o n f l i c t w ith h im s e lf, h is f e llo w s , or h is
environm ent. (pp. 1 5 6 -1 5 7 )
On an oth er o c c a sio n , sp eak in g t o stu d e n ts a t th e U n iv e r s ity
o f V ir g in ia , he i s more s p e c i f i c reg a r d in g th e prim acy o f
c h a r a c t e r :
^W illiam F au lk n er: A C r i t i c a l Study (New York, 1 9 6 2 ),
p . 31.
21
Once th e s e p e o p le come to l i f e , th ey b e g in —th e y ta k e
o f f and so th e w r ite r i s g o in g a t a dead run behind them
tr y in g to put down what th e y say and do in tim e . W ell,
h e ' s —w e ll, in th a t s e n s e , h e 's an in stru m en t. They
have tak en ch arge o f th e s t o r y . They t e l l i t from th en
on. The w r ite r has j u s t g o t t o keep up w ith them and
put i t down, and t o g iv e i t some ord er, t o fo llo w th e
r u le s o f co m p o sitio n , b u t I th in k he h im s e lf n ever knows
j u s t what th ey m ight do or sa y n e x t. I t ' s g o t t o f i t in
w ith h is co n cep t o f what i s tr u e b e fo r e he w i l l put i t
down. (Gwynn and B lo tn e r , p. 120; i t a l i c s m in e .)
Faulkner d id "put down" what th e c h a r a c te r s sa y and do, and
th e c h a r a c te r s are o f t e n m odeled on h is fa m ily and a n c e s
t o r s .
S a r to r is b e g in s th e S a r to r is (or F au lk n er) fa m ily
saga; fo u r g e n e r a tio n s a r e in v o lv e d , b u t th e prim ary i n t e r
e s t (th e f i c t i v e p r e s e n t) l i e s in th e im m ediate p o st World
War I p erio d and th e f r u i t l e s s e f f o r t s o f young Bayard to
e s t a b lis h a m ea n in g fu l i d e n t i t y . Hie a c tu a l f i c t i v e e v e n ts
r e la te d by Faulkner r e q u ir e about a y e a r . During t h i s
tim e, young Bayard, p reo ccu p ied w ith th e p a s t, r e tu r n s from
th e war. He f e e l s g u i l t y over th e d eath o f h is tw in (John)
in an a ir p la n e c ra sh in F rance d u rin g th e war, and th e
d ea th o f o ld Bayard in an au tom ob ile a c c id e n t (a lth o u g h
h e a r t f a i lu r e i s th e im m ediate c a u s e ), in December, 1919.
He m arries N a r cissa Benbow in th e l a t t e r p a rt o f 1919,
hop ing to fin d m eaning in th e p r e se n t tim e , b u t he f i n a l l y
22
k i l l s h im s e lf by i n t e n t io n a lly f ly in g an u n sa fe a i r c r a f t
on June 11, 1920.
Four m ajor c h a r a c te r s in th e n o v e l—o ld Bayard, M iss
Jenny Du Pre (th e s i s t e r o f C o lo n el John S a r to r is , o ld
B ayard's f a t h e r ) , young Bayard, and N a r c iss a — form th e
n u cle u s c f a e s t h e t ic i n t e r e s t . Each o f th e fo u r has an
id e a o f tim e, b o th as an e x te r n a l c h r o n o lo g ic a l r e a l i t y and
an in t e r n a l p s y c h o lo g ic a l phenomenon, th a t a f f e c t s h is
s e n s e o f i d e n t i t y .
The n o v e l b e g in s w ith th e fu s io n o f p a st and p r e s e n t.
Old man F a l l s , a contem porary o f C o lo n el John S a r t o r is ,
w alks from th e Poor Farm o u ts id e J e ffe r s o n to o ld B ayard's
o f f i c e in th e sm a ll J e ffe r s o n bank:
As u s u a l, o ld man F a lls had brought John S a r to r is in to
th e room w ith him . . . f e t c h in g , l i k e an odor, l i k e th e
c le a n d u sty s m e ll o f h is faded o v e r a lls , th e s p i r i t o f
th e dead man in t o th a t room where th e dead m an's son s a t
and th e two o f them, pauper and banker, would s i t fo r a
h a lf an hour in th e company o f him who had p a ssed beyond
death and th en r e tu r n e d . Freed as he was o f tim e and
f l e s h , he was a fa r more p a lp a b le p r e sen ce than e it h e r o f
th e two o ld men . . . cem ented by a common d e a fn e ss t o a
dead p erio d and so drawn th in by th e slo w a tte n u a tio n o f
days; ev en now . . . John S a r to r is seemed to loom s t i l l
in th e room, above and about h is so n , w ith h is bearded
h aw klike fa c e , so th a t as o ld Bayard s a t w ith h is c r o ss e d
f e e t propped a g a in s t th e co rn er o f th e c o ld h e a r th , h o ld
in g th e p ip e in h is hand, i t seemed to him th a t he co u ld
hear h is f a t h e r 's b r e a th in g ev en , as though th a t o th e r
were so much more p a lp a b le than mere t r a n s ie n t ly
23
a r tic u la t e d c la y as to even p e n e tr a te in t o th e u tte rm o st
c it a d e l o f s i l e n c e in w hich h is son liv e d .^
The two g e n e r a tio n s a re fu sed in tim e, but th e r e l a t i v e
e f f e c t iv e n e s s o f a c tio n in tim e i s c le a r l y in d ic a te d by
F aulkn er. I t i s C o lo n el John who by h is p a s t e x p lo it s and
h is m y ste rio u s p resen ce in th e room, dom inates th e s c e n e .
Old Bayard, in str o n g c o n tr a s t to "him who had p assed
beyond d eath and th en r e tu r n e d ," l i v e s w ith in an " u tterm ost
c i t a d e l o f s i l e n c e ." This atm osphere o f s i l e n c e , so o fte n
n oted in F aulkner*s work, i s g e n e r a lly a lig n e d w ith i n e f
f e c t i v e a c tio n , or t o t a l l y m ea n in g less a c t i v i t y .
The a n c e s t r a l S a r to r is home i s d e sc r ib e d in s im ila r
f a s h io n :
The h ou se was s i l e n t , r ic h ly d e s o la t e o f m otion or any
sound. . . . The sta ir w a y w ith i t s w h ite s p in d le s and
red c a r p e t mounted in a t a l l sle n d e r cu rv e in t o upper
gloom . From th e c e n te r o f th e c e i l i n g hung a c h a n d e lie r
o f c r y s t a l prism s and sh a d e s, f i t t e d o r ig i n a l l y fo r
c a n d le s but s in c e w ired f o r e l e c t r i c i t y . To th e r ig h t
o f th e e n tr a n c e , b e s id e f o ld in g doors r o ll e d back upon a
dim room em anating an atm osphere o f solem n and seldom
v io la t e d s t a t e l i n e s s and known as th e p a r lo r , sto o d a
t a l l m irror f i l l e d w ith grave o b s c u r ity l i k e a s t i l l p o o l
o f ev en in g w a te r . (p. 5 )
The h o u se, l i k e o ld B ayard's o f f i c e , s u g g e s ts a c o n d i
t io n o f i n a c t i v i t y , and rem ains a c o n sta n t sym bol, n o t o n ly
^S a r to r is (London, 1 9 6 4 ), p . 1.
24
o f th e p r e se n t " s ile n c e " and what t h i s c o n n o te s, b u t o f a
p a st w hich was e x c it in g , v ib r a n t, perhaps g lo r io u s . The
m irro r, " f i l l e d w ith g rave o b s c u r it y ," b e g in s a p a tte r n o f
im agery c o n tin u ed throughout F au lk n er’ s m ajor n o v e ls .
M irrors, to th e p r e se n t g e n e r a tio n in th e w orks, do n o t
r e f l e c t a l i f e o f c le a r purpose; r a th e r , th ey c o n s ta n tly
show a d i s t o r t i o n , an o b s c u r ity , a flaw ed or m isshapen
im age. Old Bayard seem s u n a b le to comprehend f u l l y th a t
tim e has e la p s e d , th a t h is fa m ily i s l i v i n g , i f a t a l l ,
o n ly as sh ad es o f p a st f ig u r e s , p a st a c t io n s . He ponders
over th e name " S a r to r is ," what i t has m eant, and th e p r id e
a s s o c ia te d w ith i t :
Old Bayard s a t fo r a lon g tim e, r eg a rd in g th e sta r k
d is s o lv in g a p o th e o s is o f h is name. S a r to r is e s had
d e r id ed Time, b u t Time was n o t v i n d i c t i v e , b e in g lo n g e r
than S a r t o r is e s . And p rob ab ly unaware o f them . But i t
was a good g e s tu r e anyway.
"In th e n in e te e n th c e n tu r y ," John S a r to r is s a id ,
"gen ealogy i s poppycock. P a r t ic u la r ly in A m erica, where
o n ly what man ta k e s and k eep s has any s ig n if ic a n c e and
where a l l o f us have a common a n c e str y and th e o n ly house
from w hich we can c la im d e sc e n t w ith any a ssu ra n ce i s
th e Old B a ile y . Yet th e man who p r o fe s s e s t o c a re
n o th in g about h is fo r e b e a r s i s o n ly a l i t t l e l e s s v a in
than th e man who b a se s a l l h is a c tio n on b lo o d p r e ce d e n t.
And I reckon a S a r to r is can have a l i t t l e v a n ity and
poppycock, i f he w ants i t . " (p . 6 8 )
Old Bayard e x i s t s , as i t w ere, in th e som nolent p r e se n t
betw een a c h e r ish e d p a s t and a p e s s im is t ic fu tu r e . Somehow,
25
lik e young Bayard, he c a r r ie s th e S a r to r is " c u r se " --th e
i n a b i l i t y to c o n s tr u c t a p r e se n t to match th e id e a liz e d
m a jesty o f th e p a s t. Movement, perhaps th e u ltim a te
c o r o lla r y to an aw areness o f tim e, i s seen in sym b olic co n
t r a s t to la ck o f movement, or a f i n a l s t i l l n e s s . Both o ld
and young Bayard attem p t r a th e r v i o le n t l y t o "move" in s i g
n if ic a n c e , but t h e ir movements, l i k e th e movements o f so
many c h a r a c te r s in F a u lk n er’s work, are absurd and l i f e
l e s s . D ari, in As I Lay Dying, i l l u s t r a t e s t h i s a sp e c t o f
F au lk n er’ s i n t e n t :
How do our l i v e s r a v e l out in to th e n o-w in d, n o-sou n d ,
th e weary g e s tu r e s w e a r ily r e c a p it u la n t : ech oes o f o ld
com pulsions w ith no-hand on n o - s t r in g s : in su n se t we f a l l
in t o fu r io u s a t t i t u d e s , dead g e s tu r e s o f d o lls .®
The q u est fo r s i g n if i c a n t movement, or meaning in tim e ,
ends d is a s t r o u s ly fo r o ld Bayard. He r id e s w ith young
Bayard in a new Ford a u to m o b ile; th e car p lu n ges o f f th e
road b ecau se o f e x c e s s iv e sp eed :
An in t e r v a l u t t e r l y w ith o u t sound, in w hich a l l s e n s a
t io n o f m otion was l o s t . Then scrub ced a r b u r st c r a c k
l in g about them and w hipping branches o f i t exp lod ed on
th e r a d ia to r and sla p p ed v i c i o u s l y a t them as th ey lea n ed
w ith braced f e e t , and th e ca r slew ed in a lo n g bou n ce.
. . . "G randfather?" Bayard s a id sh a r p ly . S t i l l o ld
Bayard d id n ’ t move, even when h is grandson flu n g th e
c ig a r e t t e away and shook him ro u g h ly . (pp. 2 2 5 -2 2 6 )
* * (London, 1 9 6 2 ), p. 4 9 1 .
26
Thus, w ith th e i n e v i t a b i l i t y o f c l a s s i c a l tr a g e d y , o ld
Bayard c e a se s h is l i f e . His death i s ty p ic a l--p e r h a p s
"proper” i s th e a p p r o p r ia te term fo r a S a r t o r i s - - i n th a t i t
fo llo w s a r e c k le s s and fo o lh a r d y attem pt t o fin d some form
o f l i f e - r a t i o n a l e . Young Bayard i s soon t o m eet p r e c is e ly
th e same kin d o f r e c k le s s d ea th .
Old Bayard i s t y p i c a l o f th o se c h a r a c te r s in Faulkner
who fin d i t im p o ss ib le t o a c c e p t a n a tu r a l c o g n it iv e tim e
p a tte r n . He th in k s o f tim e as m ech an ical and lin e a r ; he
fin d s th e p r e se n t d ev o id o f s i g n if i c a n t m eaning b e c a u se th e
p a st and i t s "glory" a re ir r e t r ie v a b ly l o s t . He surrounds
h im se lf w ith m a n ife s ta tio n s o f t h i s l o s t p a s t : th e h ou se
i t s e l f , guns, m ed a ls, flags--m em ory upon m em ory--but he i s
un able to r e c la im th e p a s t . T his i s h is tra g ed y and, in
th e F aulkn erian s e n s e , h i s g lo r y . He r e j e c t s th e p r e se n t,
and w ith i t , h is own l i f e . Time i s h is enemy and prom ises
n o th in g . Old Bayard’ s p h y s ic a l d ea th was preced ed many
yea rs by h is i n t e l l e c t u a l d ea th : h is r e f u s a l to a c c e p t th e
con cep t th a t p a st and fu tu r e , through memory and a n t ic ip a
tio n , can be changed, sh aped, a lt e r e d by man t o m an's ad
v a n ta g e . His f i n a l a ttem p ts t o s u s ta in th e o ld t r a d it io n s
f a i l .
27
Young Bayard, back from a "War to End A ll W ars," and
to make th e w orld "Safe fo r Dem ocracy," m atches th e atmo
sp h ere in th e n o v e l o f a " liv e " p a s t superim posed on a
"dead" p r e s e n t. L ike F red erick in Hemingway*s A F a rew ell
to Arms, and Jake in The Sun A lso R is e s , he fin d s th e p r e s
e n t t o t a l l y b e r e f t o f ta n g ib le v a lu e s . When f i r s t seen in
th e n o v e l, som etim e b e fo r e th e au tom ob ile a c c id e n t, young
Bayard "emerges" as a " t a l l shape" as o ld Bayard s i t s w ith
" h is dead c ig a r " on th e veran d a. Young Bayard*s e y e -
s o c k e ts a re "cavernous shadows"; he i s in a v i o le n t mood,
s t i l l b rood in g o v er th e d eath o f h is tw in :
"I t r ie d t o keep him from g o in g up th e r e on th a t god
dam l i t t l e p op gu n ," he s a id a t l a s t w ith b roodin g sa v a g e
n e s s . Then he moved a g a in and o ld Bayard low ered h is
f e e t , but h is grandson o n ly dragged a c h a ir v i o l e n t l y up
b e s id e him and flu n g h im s e lf in t o i t . His m otions were
abrupt a l s o , l i k e h is g r a n d fa th e r *s b u t c o n tr o lle d and
flo w in g fo r a l l t h e ir v io le n c e . (p . 3 2 )
H is mood s u g g e s ts a p r eo ccu p a tio n and g u i l t a s s o c ia t e d w ith
th e p a s t, r a th e r th a n a ccep ta n ce o f th e p r e s e n t. This mood
o f d e sp a ir i s e f f e c t i v e l y d is c u s s e d by H yatt H. Waggoner:
The im m ediate rea so n fo r Bayard*s d e sp a ir in th e f i r s t
tw o -th ir d s o f th e book seem s to b e g r i e f fo r h is b ro th er
John, k i l l e d in an a e r i a l d o g fig h t w hich Bayard w itn e ss e d
and t r ie d but was un ab le t o p r e v e n t. But Bayard s e e s
Joh n 's d ea th as a p a r tic u la r m a n ife s ta tio n o f th e g e n e r a l
doom. He g r ie v e s n o t j u s t f o r John but fo r th e S ar
t o r i s e s and f o r man. His v io le n c e i s h is way o f fo r c in g
ou t o f c o n s c io u s n e s s what he can n ot a llo w h im s e lf to
th in k a b o u t, (p. 2 1 )
28
Bayard s u s ta in s t h i s mood th rou gh ou t th e n o v e l to h is
v i o le n t d e a th . But b e fo r e h is d e a th , a p h y s ic a l d eath p o s
s i b l e t o a v o id , h e , l i k e h is g r a n d fa th e r , attem p ts m eaning
f u l a c tio n in tim e. During h is f i r s t months home in
M is s is s ip p i, he w anders, b o th p h y s ic a lly and m e n ta lly , in
a r a th e r a im le ss fa s h io n . He i s u n ab le to c o n s tr u c t a
v ia b le fu tu r e in tim e . In h i s im m ediate p a s t, he s e e s h is
a c tio n s in a m ea n in g less war d u rin g w hich tim e h is w if e ,
C a r o lin e, had d ied back home in M is s is s ip p i. The tow n s
p e o p le are aware th a t th e S a r to r is e s a re somehow marked,
s p e c i a l, a "funny fa m ily " :
" lo ts o f uniform s y e t , " Horace rem arked. " A ll be home
by June. Have th e S a r to r is b oys come home yet?"
"John i s d ead ," h is s i s t e r answ ered. "Didn’ t you
know?"
"No," he answered q u ic k ly , w ith s w if t co n cern . "Poor
o ld Bayard. R otten lu c k th e y h ave. Funny fa m ily .
Always g o in g to wars and alw ays g e t t in g k i l l e d . And
young Bayard’s w if e d ie d , you w rote m e."
"Yes. But h e ’ s h e r e . He’ s g o t a r a c in g au tom ob ile
and he spends a l l h is tim e t e a r in g around th e co u n try in
i t . W e are e x p e c tin g e v er y day to h ear h e ’ s k i l l e d him
s e l f in i t . " ( S a r to r is . p. 123)
Young Bayard i s a ttem p tin g through m otion to e r a d ic a te
th e memory o f what i s t o him th e unchanging tra g e d y o f a
tim e l o s t . H ie sc e n e in th e n o v e l s e r v e s as an ap t a e s
t h e t i c foresh adow in g o f th e f a i l u r e o f o ld and young Bayard
t o su cceed in t h e ir q u e st fo r i d e n t it y in tim e .
29
Miss Jenny, a w is e o b serv er o f th e c o n tin u in g tra g ed y
o f th e i n a b i l i t y o f th e S a r to r is e s to a c c e p t p r e se n t tim e,
comments p e r c e p tiv e ly on th e s i t u a t i o n as young Bayard
seems in th e months b e fo r e h is d ea th , t o a c c e p t, a t l e a s t
p a r t i a ll y , th e r e a l i t y around him:
N e v e r th e le s s , young Bayard improved in h is w ays.
W ithout b e in g aware o f th e p r o g r e ss o f i t h e had become
submerged in a monotony o f d a y s, had been sn ared by a
rhythm o f a c t i v i t i e s r ep ea ted and rep ea ted u n t i l h is
m u scles grew s o fa m ilia r w ith them as t o g e t h is body
through th e days w ith o u t a s s is t a n c e from him a t a l l . He
had been so n e a t ly tr ic k e d by e a r th , th a t a n c ie n t
D e lila h , th a t he was n o t aware t h a t h is lo c k s w ere sh orn ,
was n o t aware th a t M iss Jenny and o ld Bayard w ere wonder
in g how lon g i t would be b e fo r e th ey grew ou t a g a in .
"He needs a w if e ," was Miss Jenny’ s th o u g h t; "then maybe
h e ’ l l s t a y sh ea r ed . A young p erson to worry w ith him ,"
sh e s a id to h e r s e l f ; "Bayard’s to o o ld , and I ’v e g o t to o
much to do to worry w ith th e lon g d e v i l." (p . 151)
The f i r s t p a rt o f th e paragraph s u g g e s ts th a t young
Bayard, in c e r t a in s e n s e s , i s a c c e p tin g th e n a tu r a l, c ir c u
la r v iew o f tim e , and i s a d ju s tin g t o th e w orld around him.
Yet i t i s th e enemy tim e , from h is p o in t o f v ie w , th a t has
robbed th e young Samson o f h is lo c k s . M iss Jenny wonders
"how lon g i t w ould b e b e fo r e th e y grew out a g a in ," and
th in k s th a t perhaps a w if e w i l l e n a b le young Bayard to
" stay sh ea r ed ."
Young Bayard d oes marry a g i r l w ith th e sym b olic name
o f N a r c issa , y e t p a r a d o x ic a lly , i t i s n o t N a r c issa but th e
30
S a r to r is e s (o b sesse d w ith th e m se lv e s) who o fte n fin d i t
im p o ssib le t o a c ce p t a p r e se n t w hich i s in co m p a tib le w ith
th e r e a l or g l o r i f i e d p a s t. From th e f i r s t days o f t h e ir
m arriage, th e r e i s an aura o f doom about th e c o u p le :
But when he was s t i l l sh e would tou ch him and speak h is
name in th e dark b e s id e him, and tu rn t o him warm and
s o f t w ith s le e p . And th e y would l i e s o , h o ld in g t o one
a n o th er in th e darkn ess and tem porary abeyance o f h is
d e sp a ir and th e i s o l a t i o n o f th a t doom he cou ld n ot
e sc a p e , (p . 214)
M elvin Backman d is c u s s e s Bayard’ s r a th e r d e sp er a te attem pt
t o l i v e :
M an ifest o f th e w i l l to l i v e a re h is farm ing o f th e land
and h is m arriage t o N a r c issa . But th e v io le n c e o f h is
d e sp a ir c u t him o f f from th e q u ie t so b e r rhythms o f
t i l l i n g th e s o i l , and th e c o ld n e s s o f h is h e a r t doomed
th e m arriage from th e, s t a r t . H is in c a p a c ity to lo v e
seem s bound up w ith th e le s s e n in g o f h i s w i l l t o l i v e
and r e p r e se n ts a c r u c ia l a lie n a t io n from hum anity.^
Bayard cannot esca p e h is name and what t h a t name r e p r e se n ts
in p a s t a c t i v i t y . His e f f o r t s a r e in v a in ; th ey in e v ita b ly
r e s u lt in th e same f r u i t l e s s r i g i d i t y :
A lm ost d a ily , d e s p ite M iss Jenny’ s s t r i c t u r e s and com
mands and th e gra v e p r o te s t s in N a r c issa * s e y e s , Bayard
went fo r th w ith a shotgun and th e two d o g s, to r e tu r n
j u s t b e fo r e dark, w et t o th e s k in . And c o ld ; h is l i p s
would be c h i l l on h ers and h is ey es b le a k and h au nted,
and in th e y e llo w f i r e l i g h t o f t h e ir room sh e would c lin g
q
F a u lk n er's S ick H eroes: Bayard S a r to r is and Q uentin
Comps o n ," Modem F ic t io n S tu d ie s . I I (Autumn 1956), 9 7 .
31
t o him, or l i e c r y in g q u ie t ly in th e darkn ess b e s id e h is
r i g i d body, w ith a g h o st betw een them . ( S a r to r is .
p . 220)
The "ghost" i s th e c o g n it iv e tim e p a tte r n assumed by
young Bayard, a tim e p a tte r n t o t a l l y in o p p o s itio n t o th e
co n cep t o f liv in g in "now." M iss Jenny, r e c o g n iz in g t h is
f i n a l f a c t , remarks on th e S a r to r is b lo o d l in e :
"He g o es alon g fo r th e same r ea so n th a t boy h im s e lf d o e s.
S a r t o r is . I t ’s in th e b lo o d . S avages, ev ery one o f ’ em.
No e a r th ly u se to anybody." T ogether th e y gazed in to
th e le a p in g fla m es, Miss Jen n y’s hand s t i l l ly in g on
N a r c is s a ’ s head. " I ’m so r r y I g o t you in t o t h i s ."
(p . 22 0 )
A fte r o ld Bayard’ s d ea th , f o r w hich young Bayard f e e l s
r e s p o n s ib le , he le a v e s M is s is s ip p i and h is w if e , and em
barks on a r e c k le s s s e r i e s o f a d v en tu res w e ll c a lc u la t e d ,
su b c o n s c io u s ly a t l e a s t , t o cu lm in a te in d e a th . He d e c id e s
to f l y a t e s t a ir c r a f t alth o u g h ev ery o n e around him a d v is e s
him h is d e c is io n i s fo o lh a r d y . He d ie s as th e p la n e d i s
in t e g r a t e s in a ir ; th e same day, N a r c is s a , back in M is s is
s i p p i , b ea rs him a so n . His d ea th has been view ed by
F re d e rick Hoffman as "a g e s tu r e o f a b erra n t h ero ism " :
Both th e in t e n s it y o f Bayard’ s c o u r tin g o f v io le n c e and
th e s tr e n g th o f fa m ily and t r a d i t io n a re f a l s e . S a r to r is
somehow s t r ik e s th e b a la n ce b etw een t h e ir k in d s o f f a l s e
hood. Faulkner o f te n p r e se n ts t h i s f ig u r e o f th e p a st
p u sh in g a g a in s t th e p r e s e n t, th e agony o f th e p r e sen t
tr y in g t o a d ju st to th e p a s t . Bayard S a r to r is g o es to
h is d ea th in a g e s tu r e o f a b erra n t h ero ism , as Q uentin
32
Compson was to commit s u ic id e t o p r o te c t a " leg en d ”
e n t ir e ly a b s tr a c te d from f a c t o f any kind.-*-®
His d eath in th e a ir has been preceded s y m b o lic a lly by
h is "death" on e a rth ; he i s a S a r to r is , and as a S a r to r is ,
he has a v i s i o n o f m ech an ical lin e a r tim e in w hich a p a st
o f m ean in gfu l a c t i v i t y , o f e x c ite m e n t, ex p a n sio n and g lo r y ,
i s ir r e t r ie v a b ly g on e. Time has " k ille d " th e p a s t, and
w ith i t any v a lu e s th a t produce a v a lid , p u r p o se fu l, p r e s
en t e x is t e n c e . In h is s t r a ig h t l i n e v i s i o n , young Bayard
s e e s th e p r e se n t as r ig id ; he i s in c a p a b le o f e s t a b lis h in g
a p e r so n a l i d e n t i t y a t once s u s ta in in g and p ro m isin g . The
fu tu r e , from t h i s p o in t o f v ie w , appears even l e s s m eaning
f u l than th e p r e s e n t. The co n cep t th a t i t i s perhaps p o s
s i b l e t o s tr u c tu r e an e x is t e n c e in "now" b ased on know ledge
th a t th e p a s t and fu tu r e a r e b o th c o n ta in e d in "now" and
can be shaped by th e in d iv id u a l i s u t t e r l y fo r e ig n to
Bayard. His tem poral p o in t o f v iew i s s o l i t a r y and r i g i d ,
as are h is l i f e and d e a th .
N a r c issa changes th e s o n 's name from John t o Benbow
in a p a th e t ic attem p t t o circu m ven t th e n e t o f doom w hich
has enmeshed th e S a r to r is c la n :
10W illiam F aulkner (New York, 19 6 1 ), p . 47
33
"He i s n ' t John. H e's Benbow S a r t o r is ."
"And do you th in k t h a t ' l l do any good?" M iss Jenny
demanded. "Do you th in k you can change any one o f 'em
w ith a name?"
"Do you t h i n k ," M iss Jenny r e p e a te d , " th at b eca u se h is
name i s Benbow, h e ' l l b e any l e s s a S a r to r is and a
sc o u n d r el and a fo o l? " (S a r to r is . p. 28 1 )
Miss Jenny i s c o r r e c t : th e same p a tte r n e x h ib ite d in
S a r t o r is —th e v a in and f r u i t l e s s attem p t t o b r in g p a st
v a lu e s t o th e p r e se n t tim e s i t u a t i o n — i s r ep ea ted many
tim es in F a u lk n er 's work. M iss Jenny, a S a r to r is h e r s e l f ,
has th e m a tu r ity and wisdom t o s e e what i s happening t o th e
fa m ily , b u t i s a ls o p o w erless to a l t e r th e s i t u a t i o n .
Throughout th e n o v e l, sh e sp eak s fo r F aulkner in pronounc
in g th e i n a b i l i t y o f members o f h er fa m ily t o a d ju st s u c
c e s s f u l l y t o th e p r e se n t "game" o f l i f e . Y et, in her
w ords, th e r e i s a c e r t a in a d m ira tio n , a s e n s e o f p r id e ,
th a t th e s e men— f o o l i s h l y co u ra g eo u s— fin d th e m se lv e s
t o t a l l y u n ab le t o compromise and a c c e p t a tim e th a t i s to
them d evoid o f m eaning. They a re u n s u c c e s s fu l in a c c e p tin g
a c o g n it iv e tim e p a tte r n th a t len d s su b sta n c e and s tr u c tu r e
to t h e ir l i v e s , b u t t h e ir f a ilu r e has a c e r t a in t r a g ic
grandeur, a fa d in g , y e t s t i l l p e r c e p tib le , v i s i o n o f what
"should be" b u t somehow "cannot b e ." Even though M iss Jenny
34
s e e s t h i s , sh e to o f a l l s under th e s p e l l th a t perm eates th e
atm osphere as d oes th e odor o f ja sm in e . At th e end o f th e
n o v e l, sh e s i t s w ith N a r c issa in th e p a r lo r o f th e a n c e s
t r a l home, l is t e n in g t o h er a t th e p ian o p la y in g a p la in
t i v e tune s u g g e s tiv e o f th e S a r to r is e s and t h e ir " lila c
dream":
The m usic went on in th e dusk s o f t l y ; th e dusk was
p eop led w ith g h o s ts o f glam orous and o ld d is a s tr o u s
th in g s . And i f th ey were j u s t glam orous enough, th e r e
was su re to b e a S a r to r is in them, and th en th e y were
su re t o be d is a s t r o u s . Pawns. But th e P la y e r s, and th e
game He p la y s . . . He m ust have a name fo r His pawns,
though. But perhaps S a r to r is i s th e game i t s e l f —a game
outmoded and p la y ed w ith pawns shaped to o l a t e and to
an o ld dead p a tte r n , and o f w hich th e P layer H im self i s
a l i t t l e w e a rie d . For th e r e i s d eath in th e sound o f
i t , and a glam orous f a t a l i t y , l i k e s i l v e r pennons down-
ru sh in g a t s u n s e t, or a d yin g f a l l o f horns a lon g th e
road to Roncevaux. . . .
N a r c issa p layed on as though sh e w ere n o t l i s t e n i n g .
Then sh e tu rn ed h er head and w ith o u t sto p p in g h er hands
sh e sm iled a t M iss Jenny q u ie t ly , a l i t t l e d ream ily, w ith
se r e n e , fond detachm ent. Beyond M iss Jenny*s trim ,
fa d in g head th e maroon c u r ta in s hung m o tio n le s s ; beyond
th e window ev en in g was a w in d le s s l i l a c dream, f o s t e r
dam o f q u ietu d e and p ea ce. (pp. 2 8 1 -2 8 2 )
S a r to r is i s n o t F aulkner*s m ost s u c c e s s f u l n o v e l, but
i t i s c le a r l y a e s t h e t i c a l l y su p e r io r t o S o ld ie r * s Pay or
M osq u itoes. In t h i s n o v e l, he c r e a te s Yoknapatawpha
County, and th e c h a r a c te r s and e v e n ts th a t are t o s u s t a in
him throughout h is c a r e e r . He e s t a b lis h e s a m icrocosm in
w hich tim e i s a m ost v i t a l e le m en t. F aulkner found, in
35
Yoknapatawpha County, b e g in n in g w ith S a r t o r is . a way to
speak not on ly to th e South or th e North, b u t to th e World.
CHAPTER I I I
TH E SOUND A ND THE FURY
Faulkner n ev er f e l t h is n o v e ls w ere "good enough."
Speaking o f The Sound and th e Fury, he r e f l e c t e d h is con
cer n :
And so my p e r so n a l f e e l in g would be a ten d e rn ess fo r th e
one w hich cau sed me th e m ost a n g u ish , j u s t as th e m other
m ight f e e l fo r th e c h ild , and th e one th a t cau sed me th e
m ost an gu ish and i s to me th e f i n e s t f a i lu r e i s The Sound
and th e Fury. T h a t's th e one I f e e l m ost ten d er tow ard.
( J e l l i f f e , p. 103)
Perhaps no n o v e l e v er f u l l y l i v e s as th e auth or i n
te n d s, but c e r t a in ly The Sound and th e Fury i s an a c h ie v e
ment o f c r e a t iv e im a g in a tio n . The e a r l ie r c o g n it iv e tim e
p a tte r n s o f tim e p a st and tim e p r e se n t, th e f u t i l i t y o f
a c tio n in th e contem porary sc e n e , as compared w ith p a st
m ean in gfu l a c tio n , th e mood and atm osphere o f d is in t e g r a
t io n and d ecay, are a l l f u l l y d ev elo p ed in th e n o v e l. The
prom ise, f i r s t n oted in M osquitoes and S o ld ie r 's Pay, p ar
t i a l l y f u l f i l l e d in S a r to r is . c u lm in a tes in The Sound and
th e Fury.
36
37
Hie Sound and th e Fury, a cco rd in g to F aulkner, i s a
sim p le s to r y o f " lo s t in n o c e n c e ,1 1 w r itte n from fo u r q u ite
d iv e r s e p o in ts o f v iew . In a d d itio n , th e r e i s a f i f t h
s e c t io n (an Appendix p u b lish ed in 1946, se v e n te e n years
a f t e r th e f i r s t p u b lic a tio n o f th e n o v e l) .^
F a u lk n er's account o f th e g e n e s is o f Hie Sound and th e
Fury and i t s e v e n tu a l "com pletion" (a lth o u g h r a th e r lo n g ),
b e s t i l l u s t r a t e s h is manner o f u s in g v a r io u s p o in ts o f v iew
to produce a cu m u la tiv e a e s t h e t ic e f f e c t :
That [ The Sound and th e F u ry] began as a sh o r t s to r y ,
i t was a s to r y w ith o u t p lo t , o f some c h ild r e n b ein g s e n t
away from th e house d u rin g th e grandm other's fu n e r a l.
They w ere to o young to be t o ld what was g o in g on and th ey
saw th in g s o h ly in c id e n t a lly t o th e c h ild is h games th e y
w ere p la y in g , which was th e lu g u b rio u s m a tter o f rem oving
th e co rp se from th e h o u se, e t c . , and th en th e id e a str u c k
me to s e e how much I cou ld have g o t out o f th e id e a o f
th e b lin d , s e lf -c e n t e r e d n e s s o f in n o cen ce, t y p if ie d by
c h ild r e n , i f one o f th o se c h ild r e n had been tr u ly in n o
c e n t, th a t i s , an i d i o t . So th e i d i o t was born and th en
I became in te r e s te d in th e r e la t io n s h ip o f th e i d i o t to
Perhaps th e Appendix r e f l e c t s a s tr u c tu r a l w eakness
in th e n o v e l, as i t adds a g r e a t d e a l o f r e le v a n t in form a
t io n . The n o v e l, how ever, as p u b lish e d in 1929, seems
a e s t h e t ic a l ly co m p lete. The A ppendix, b ecau se i t expands
th e Ccmpson fa m ily h is t o r y b oth backward and forward in
tim e, w i l l be in clu d ed in t h is stu d y . A lthough th e Appen
d ix i s n o t in clu d ed in th e C hatto and Windus e d it io n o f
The Sound and th e Fury, i t i s a p a rt o f th e Modem L ibrary
e d it io n o f The Sound and th e Fury/A s I Lay Dying, and fo r
th e sake o f c l a r i t y , th e l a t t e r e d it io n w i l l be c it e d as
p a rt o f th e p a r e n th e tic a l fo o tn o te r e fe r e n c e s .
38
th e w orld he was in but would n ever be a b le to cope w ith
and j u s t where co u ld he g e t th e te n d e r n e ss, th e h e lp ,
to s h ie ld him in h is in n o ce n c e. I mean "innocence" in
th e se n se th a t God had s tr ic k e n him b lin d a t b ir t h , th a t
i s , m in d less a t b ir t h , th e r e was n o th in g he cou ld ev er
do about i t . And so th e c h a r a c te r o f th e s i s t e r began
to em erge, th en th e b r o th e r , who, th a t Jason (who to me
rep re sen ted com p lete e v i l . H e's th e m ost v ic io u s ch a ra c
t e r in my o p in io n I e v er th ou gh t o f ) , th en he appeared.
Then i t need s th e p r o ta g o n is t, someone to t e l l th e s to r y ,
so Q uentin app eared. By th a t tim e I found out I c o u ld n 't
p o s s ib ly t e l l th a t in a sh o r t s t o r y . And so I to ld th e
i d i o t ' s e x p e r ie n c e o f th a t day, and th a t was incom pre
h e n s ib le , even I cou ld n o t have t o ld what was g o in g on
th en , so I had to w r ite a n oth er c h a p te r . Then I d ecid ed
to l e t Q uentin t e l l h is v e r s io n o f th a t same day, or th a t
same o c c a sio n , so he t o ld i t . Then th e r e had t o be th e
c o u n te r p o in t, w hich was th e o th e r b r o th e r , Jason . By
th a t tim e i t was c o m p le te ly c o n fu s in g . I knew i t was n ot
anywhere n ear f in is h e d and th en I had to w r ite an oth er
s e c t io n from th e o u ts id e w ith an o u ts id e r , w hich was th e
w r ite r , to t e l l what happened on th a t p a r t ic u la r day.
And t h a t ' s how th e book grew . None o f them were r ig h t ,
but I had angu ish ed so much th a t I co u ld n o t throw any o f
i t away and s t a r t o v e r , s o I p r in te d i t in th e fo u r s e c
t io n s . That was n o t a d e lib e r a t e to u r de fo r c e a t a l l ,
th e book j u s t grew th a t way. I was s t i l l tr y in g to t e l l
one s to r y which moved me v ery much and each tim e I
f a i l e d , but I had put so much an gu ish in t o i t th a t I
c o u ld n 't throw i t away, l i k e th e m other th a t had fo u r
bad c h ild r e n , th a t sh e would have been b e t t e r o f f i f th ey
had a l l been e lim in a te d , but sh e c o u ld n 't r e lin q u is h any
o f them. And t h a t ' s th e rea so n I have th e m ost te n d e r
n e ss fo r th a t book, b eca u se i t f a i l e d fo u r tim e s.
( J e l l i f f e , pp. 1 0 3 -1 0 5 )
The n o v e l may have " fa ile d fo u r tim es" in F a u lk n er 's
v iew , but i t s s tr u c tu r e i s n o t fo r m le ss or red und ant.
R ather, th e n o v e l p r o v id e s fo u r s u s ta in e d p o in ts o f v iew to
r e c o n s tr u c t what i s , in F a u lk n er 's w ords, "a s to r y o f Caddy,
39
th e l i t t l e g i r l who muddied her draw ers and was clim b in g up
to look in th e window where h er grandm other la y dead"
(Gwyim and B lo tn e r , p. 1 7 ). The r e s t o f th e book, he su g -
2
g e s t s , i s an attem p t t o e x p la in th e "why" o f h er clim b :
. . . th ey were th r e e b o y s, one was a g i r l , and th e g i r l
was th e o n ly one b rave enough t o clim b th a t t r e e to look
in th e fo rb id d en window to s e e what was g o in g on. And
t h a t ' s what th e book—and i t took th e r e s t o f th e fo u r
hundred pages to e x p la in why sh e was brave enough to
clim b th e t r e e to lo o k in th e window. I t was an im age,
a p ic tu r e to me, a v ery moving one, w hich was sym b olized
by th e muddy bottom o f h er drawers a s h er b r o th e r s looked
up in t o th e a p p le t r e e th a t sh e had clim bed to lo o k in
th e window. Arid th e sym bolism o f th e muddy bottom o f th e
drawers became th e l o s t Caddy, w hich had cau sed one
b r o th e r to commit s u ic id e and th e o th e r b r o th e r had m is
u sed h er money th a t sh e 'd send back to th e c h ild , th e
d au gh ter. (Gwynn and B lo tn e r , pp. 3 1 -3 2 )
The s to r y in v o lv e s th e d is in t e g r a t io n o f th e Corapson
fa m ily , p r im a r ily from th e 1890's to A p r il 8 , 1928, when
Benjamin, C a ro lin e Compson's i d i o t so n , i s t h ir t y - t h r e e .
The Compson c h ild r e n — Candace (Caddy), Q uentin, Jason J r .,
and Benjam in— are born in th e 1 8 9 0 's; t h e ir in t e r r e la t e d
l i v e s are o f m ajor in t e r e s t in th e n o v e l.
The f i r s t s e c t io n (A p r il 7, 1 9 2 8 ), i s " w ritten " by
2
F a u lk n er's comments on prim ary theme in The Sound and
th e Fury show some d is p a r it y co n cern in g fo c u s . The n o v e l
c e r t a in ly i s more than a stu d y o f Caddy and "muddied
d raw ers," d e s p ite F a u lk n er 's freq u en t p u b lic sta te m en ts to
t h is e f f e c t .
40
th e i d i o t B enjy. He la c k s any s e n s e o f tim e, and h is
acco u n ts are th e r e fo r e jum bled and fragm entary. The second
(June 2, 19 1 0 ), i s r e la t e d by Q uentin Compson, who i s about
to commit s u ic id e . He i s a Harvard stu d en t whose p reo ccu
p a tio n w ith p a st e v e n ts and t h e i r r e la t io n s h ip in tim e to
h is id e n t it y c u lm in a tes in h is drow ning; th e th ir d (A p r il 6,
1 9 2 8 ), i s w r itte n in a r a th e r t e r s e fa sh io n by Jason J r .,
th e " r e a lis t " who ex p o ses h im s e lf a s an la g o - lik e p e r so n
a l i t y , d e str o y in g e v e r y th in g around him; th e fo u r th
(A p ril 8, 19 2 8 ), i s F a u lk n er 's s e c t io n , alth ou gh th e m ajor
n a r r a tiv e v o ic e i s D ils e y 's , th e Negro se rv a n t who has been
w ith th e Compsons from "de b e g in n in . . . to . . . de
3
en d in ." The l a s t s e c t io n m ost c le a r ly p r e se n ts th e theme
o f th e f i n a l d is in t e g r a t io n and doom o f th e Compson fa m ily .
Although e v e n ts are t o ld and r e t o ld in v a r io u s ways
throughout th e fo u r s e c t io n s o f th e n o v e l, th e r e i s more
c h r o n o lo g ic a l order than a cu r so ry f i r s t rea d in g m ight su g
g e s t . H yatt H. Waggoner sp eak s o f F a u lk n er's o rd erin g o f
e v e n ts in tim e:
I f we r e la t e th e ch ron ology o f th e e v e n ts in th e s to r y ,
in o th e r w ords, to th e fo u r -p a r t s tr u c tu r e o f th e book,
3
The Sound and th e Fury (New York, 1929), p. 371.
41
we fin d th a t, w ith one im portant e x c e p tio n , th e "scram
b lin g " o f tim e, th e c h r o n o lo g ic a l d is o r d e r w hich has so
o fte n been a tta c k e d and d efen d ed , i s l e s s extrem e than
we may have been le d to e x p e c t. The e v e n ts o f 1896 to
1906 occur f i r s t and we en cou n ter them f i r s t in S ec
tio n I. L a ter, in S e c tio n I I , we reen co u n ter some o f
them. The e v e n ts o f th e n e x t p e r io d , 1906 to 1910, we
g e t c h i e f l y in S e c tio n I I , though some o f them we have
a lrea d y en cou n tered in th e f i r s t s e c t io n . Though we have
had a few g lim p se s o f th e e v e n ts in th e th ir d p e r io d ,
1910 to 1928, in th e f i r s t s e c t io n , we g e t our f u l l e s t
accou nt, and o f m ost o f them our o n ly a cco u n t, in S ec
t io n I I I . The e v e n ts o f th e l a s t th r e e days in E a ster
Week we g e t in S e c tio n s I, I I I and IV. Here i s th e on ly
con sp icu ou s e x c e p tio n to th e predom inance o f ch ron o
l o g ic a l o rd er. (p . 4 1 )
This i s an im portant c o n s id e r a tio n , b eca u se i t su g
g e s t s th a t F aulkner i s n o t m a n ip u la tin g tim e m erely to
o b fu sc a te e v e n ts on th e p lo t l e v e l ; r a th e r , he i s r e f l e c t
in g , in h is tim e p a tte r n s , th e " v isio n " o f r e c a lle d or
r e c r e a te d e v e n ts in tim e as p e r c e iv e d by th e m ajor ch a ra c
t e r s in th e book.
The m other and f a t h e r , C a ro lin e and Jason S r ., fin d
l i t t l e s ig n if ic a n c e in t h e ir p r e se n t l i v e s : Jason Sr.
r e c o g n iz e s t h i s , b u t C a ro lin e ta k e s r e fu g e in mem ories
(d is to r te d or im agin ed ) o f h er fa m ily "honor." Both a re
prim ary fig u r e s a s p r o g e n ito r s o f th e fo u r c h ild r e n around
whom th e n o v e l r e v o lv e s .
Throughout th e n a r r a tio n , Jason Sr. i s se en in th e
background as an i n f l u e n t i a l fig u r e ( p a r t ic u la r ly in h is
42
im pact on h is son , Q u en tin ), r a th e r than as a c e n tr a l
c h a r a c te r a c tin g and r e a c tin g on th e p lo t l e v e l . He i s an
i n d i s t i n c t f ig u r e in th e f i r s t s e c t io n o f th e n o v e l (n ar
r a te d by B en jy ); in S e c tio n I I , he i s se e n as a p e s s im is t ic ,
c y n ic a l, d rin k in g i n t e l l e c t u a l , weary o f l i f e .
The d a te o f S e c tio n I I i s June 2 , 1910. Through
F aulkn er*s stream o f c o n sc io u sn e s s te c h n iq u e , th e read er
l i v e s in Q uentin*s mind as he m oves, d r e a m -lik e , through
th e f i n a l hours o f h is l i f e . The s e c t io n b e g in s w ith a
c le a r sta tem en t o f Jason S r .* s a t t it u d e toward tim e as he
p r e se n ts a fa m ily watch t o Q uentin:
Q uentin, I g iv e you th e mausoleum o f a l l hope and d e s ir e ;
i t ' s r a th e r e x c r u t ia t in g - ly [ s i c ] a p t th a t you w i l l u se
i t to g a in th e red u cto absurdum [ s i c ] o f a l l human e x
p e r ie n c e w hich can f i t your in d iv id u a l need s no b e t t e r
than i t f i t t e d h is or h is f a t h e r ' s . I g iv e i t t o you n o t
th a t you may remember tim e, b u t th a t you m ight f o r g e t i t
now and th en fo r a moment and n o t spend a l l your b rea th
tr y in g to conquer i t . B ecause no b a t t l e i s e v er won he
s a id . They are n o t even fo u g h t. The f i e l d o n ly r e v e a ls
to man h is own f o l l y and d e s p a ir , and v ic t o r y i s an i l l u
s io n o f p h ilo so p h e r s and f o o l s . (p . 9 3 )
The sta tem en t can h a rd ly be more em p h atic. Jason Sr.
fin d s l i t t l e v a lu e even in th e f i e l d o f b a t t l e : " v icto r y "
i s an i l l u s i o n b e lie v e d in o n ly by " f o o ls ." V alues once
v i t a l in th e p a st cannot be r e c la im e d . Q uentin remembers
h i s f a t h e r 's sta tem en t th a t " C h rist was n o t c r u c if ie d : he
43
was worn away by a m inute c lic k in g o f l i t t l e w h eels"
(p . 9 4 ). Q uentin a ls o remembers what h is fa th e r s a id about
th e u t t e r f u t i l i t y o f s p e c u la tio n con cern in g tim e and th e
m eaning o f l i f e :
F ather s a id th a t c o n sta n t s p e c u la tio n reg a rd in g th e p o s i
t io n o f m ech an ical hands on an a r b itr a r y d i a l w hich i s a
symptom o f m in d -fu n c tio n . Excrement F ather s a id l ik e
sw e a tin g . And I sa y in g a l l r ig h t . Wonder. Go on and
wonder. (p . 9 4 )
Jason S r .* s n i h i l i s t i c in flu e n c e on Q uentin i s v ery
str o n g , and p r o v id e s th e m ajor p h ilo s o p h ic a l r a t i o n a li z a
t io n fo r Q uentin*s s u ic id e . Lawrance Thompson p o in ts out
t h i s str o n g lin k betw een Jason Sr. and Q uentin:
[Jason S r .] ta k e s com fort in a v e ry p e s s im is t ic form o f
cosm ic determ inism and im parts th a t n o tio n to h is c h i l
d ren . . . . Q uentin, stu b b o rn ly c o n d itio n e d by and
c lin g in g to a r id ic u lo u s ly p a th e tic Old South code o f
honor, in regard to s e x u a l m a tte r s, a t f i r s t r e t r e a t s
in t o th o se c o n v e n ien t n o tio n s o f determ inism w hich h is
fa th e r has ta u g h t him , and a t l a s t a s s e r t s h is own f r e e
w i l l in arran gin g h i s own d e a th .^
B efore h is s u ic id e , Q uentin remembers h is f a t h e r ’ s s t a t e
ment :
B ecause F ather s a id c lo c k s s la y tim e. He s a id tim e
i s dead as lo n g as i t i s b e in g c lic k e d o f f by l i t t l e
w h e e ls; o n ly when a c lo c k s to p s d oes tim e come to l i f e ,
(pp. 1 0 4 -1 0 5 )
4
W illiam F aulkner: An In tr o d u c tio n and I n te r p r e ta tio n
(New York, 1 9 6 3 ), p. 5 0 .
44
Time, as a ccep ted by Jason S r ., i s "dead." He seems t o
in d ic a t e th a t l i f e can proceed o n ly when man in some se n se
" s to p s” th e c lo c k and thu s e s t a b lis h e s v a lid meaning in
now.
Q uentin, in h is f i n a l attem p t t o fin d some kin d o f
l i f e - r a t i o n a l e , scroe means o f " stop p in g t im e ," in v e n ts a
p a st a c t o f in c e s t w ith h is s i s t e r Caddy and im agines th a t
t h i s "sin" w i l l th r u s t b oth h im s e lf and Caddy in to a H e ll
w here, a t l e a s t , h is and Caddy’s i d e n t i t i e s w i l l be r e c o g
n iz e d . In th e sc e n e j u s t b e fo r e h is s u ic id e , he th in k s o f
h is c o n fe s s io n o f th e s in to Jason Sr. The r h e to r ic , as
w e ll as th e e lim in a tio n o f p u n c tu a tio n , r e f l e c t s Q uentin’s
m en tal s t a t e and, a g a in , th e r a th e r e x tr a o rd in a r y i n f l u
en ce o f h is f a th e r . Near th e end o f th e s e c t io n , Q uentin
"remembers" h is f a t h e r ’s r esp o n se to th e c o n fe s s io n :
. . . you are to o s e r io u s to g iv e me any ca u se fo r alarm
you w ouldn’ t have f e l t d r iv e n t o t h i s e x p e d ien t o f t e l l
in g me you have com m itted in c e s t o th e r w ise . . . you
wanted t o su b lim a te a p ie c e o f n a tu r a l f o l l y in t o a
h orror and th en e x o r c is e i t w ith tr u th and i t was to
i s o l a t e h er out o f th e loud w orld so th a t i t would have
to f l e e us o f n e c e s s it y and th en th e sound o f i t would
be as though i t had n ev er b een . . . . (pp. 2 1 9 -2 2 0 )
Jason Sr. u n d ersta n d s, a lth o u g h Q uentin d oes n o t, th a t
Q uentin i s a tte m p tin g , through a m a ssiv e a c t , to remove
h im s e lf from a l i f e s it u a t io n where th e "sound and fury"
45
s i g n if y n o th in g .
Q uentin c o n tin u e s h is r e v e r i e :
. . . i f i co u ld t e l l you we d id i t would have been so
and th en th e o th e r s w ouldnt be so and th en th e w orld
would roar away and he and now t h i s o th e r you are n o t
ly in g now e it h e r you a re s t i l l b lin d to what i s in you r
s e l f to th a t p a rt o f g e n e r a l tr u th th e seq u en ce o f
n a tu r a l e v e n ts and t h e ir c a u se s w hich shadows every
mans brow even b en jy s you are n o t th in k in g o f f in it u d e
you are co n tem p la tin g an a p o th e o s is in which a tem porary
s t a t e o f mind w i l l become sym m etrical above th e f l e s h
and aware b oth o f i t s e l f and o f th e f l e s h i t w i l l n o t
q u ite d isc a r d you w i l l n o t even be dead . . . th e d e sp a ir
or rem orse or bereavem ent i s n o t p a r t ic u la r ly im portant
to th e dark dicem an and i tem porary and he was th e sa d
d e s t word o f a l l th e r e i s n o th in g e l s e in th e w orld i t s
n ot d e sp a ir u n t i l tim e i t s n o t even tim e u n t i l i t w as.
(pp. 2 2 0 -2 2 2 )
Even though Q uentin remembers (or im a g in es) h is
f a t h e r ’ s a t t it u d e s , he cannot f u l l y comprehend t h e ir mean
in g s . Jason Sr. i s f u l l y sym p a th etic w ith Q u entin’ s d e s ir e
to " liv e " in some manner, b u t he p o in ts ou t th a t th e "dark
diceman" w i l l pay Q uentin no m ind. D e sp ite Q u en tin 's i n
te n s e e f f o r t , t o t a l d e sp a ir rem ains b eca u se m ean in gfu l
a c tio n in th e p r e se n t seem s im p o s s ib le . In h is sta tem en t
"tim e i t s n o t even tim e u n t i l i t was" Jason Sr. em p hati
c a l l y a s s e r t s th a t contem porary man, who has f e l t i t n e c e s
sa r y to r e j e c t a p a st w hich once co n ta in e d a b s o lu te v a lu e s
g iv in g human l i f e d ig n it y and p u rp ose, i s l e f t w ith o n ly
a r e l a t i v e (o fte n m e a n in g le ss) p r e s e n t, and an unrew arding
46
fu tu r e . Man l i v e s in a determ in ed , seem in g ly a l ie n u n i
v e r s e , and has l i t t l e , i f any, c o n tr o l over h is d e s t in y .
Jason S r .' s a t t it u d e r e f l e c t s th e m ech an ical or lin e a r
p a tte r n in w hich tim e sym bols c o n s ta n tly remind man o f
th o se v a lu e s w hich have been ir r e t r ie v a b ly l o s t . P eter
Sw iggart d e p ic ts Jason S r .' s aw areness o f t h i s dichotom y:
[He] r e a l iz e s and y e t seems t o evade th e tr u th t h a t , fo r
him, p a st id e a ls have become g h o s tly form s, h is p r e
c io u s g e n t i l i t y h avin g no more s u b s t a n t ia l o b je c t o f
s e r v ic e and d e v o tio n . (pp. 9 9 -1 0 0 )
Jason S r .f s v is io n - - s a r d o n ic , c y n ic a l, y e t p o ig n a n t—does
n o t, th e r e fo r e , en a b le him to fin d s i g n if ic a n c e in th e
"sound and fury" around him, and i s a major f a c to r in th e
f i n a l d e s tr u c tio n and doom o f th e Compson fa m ily .
His w if e , C a ro lin e Compson, la c k s cou rage t o fa c e th e
v i s i o n se e n by h er husband. In ste a d , sh e l i v e s as a
f o o l is h and i n e f f e c t u a l f ig u r e am idst d is t o r t e d memories
o f th e p a s t. Her s e l f - p i t y i s apparent t o th o se around
h er; Caddy su g g e s ts th a t sh e "go u p s t a ir s and la y down, so
you can be sic k " (p . 7 8 ).
C a ro lin e i s th e m other o f fo u r c h ild r e n , y e t can id e n
t i f y o n ly w ith Jason J r. Maury, h er f i r s t - b o r n i d i o t son ,
was g iv e n to h er as "punishm ent fo r p u ttin g a s id e my p r id e
and m arrying a man who h e ld h im s e lf above me" (p. 1 2 7 ).
47
She, l i k e Jenny and N a r c issa in S a r t o r is . s e e s a " cu rse” in
th e fa m ily b lo o d and, lik e N a r c issa , changes her s o n 's name
(from Maury t o Benjam in) in an attem p t t o s ta v e o f f th e
in e v it a b le f u l f i ll m e n t o f th e " c u r se ." Her m aiden name
(Bascomb) r e p r e s e n ts t o her a f i n e and n o b le t r a d it io n , and
i s embodied o n ly in Jason J r . The "noble" t r a d it io n o f h er
fa m ily i s o f extrem e con cern to h er, and a g a in r e f l e c t s
th e m istak en c o n c e p t--a r e c u r r in g theme in F aulkn er— th a t
fa m ily name a lo n e c a r r ie s e f f e c t i v e m eaning from p a st to
p r e s e n t. In sp eak in g to Jason Sr. about h er weak and i n
e f f e c t u a l b r o th e r , Maury, C a ro lin e c r i e s , " If you begrudge
Maury your fo o d , why a r e n 't you man enough to say so to h is
fa c e . To r id ic u l e him b e fo r e th e c h ild r e n , behind h is
back" (p. 5 2 ). Jason S r .' s r esp o n se i s t y p i c a ll y sa r d o n ic :
"Of c o u r se I d o n t." F ath er s a id , " I adm ire Maury.
He i s in v a lu a b le to my own s e n s e o f r a c i a l s u p e r io r it y .
I w o u ld n 't swap Maury fo r a m atched team ." (p. 52)
C a r o lin e 's u s u a l r e b u tta l i s , "Ify p e o p le are every b i t as
w e ll born as yours" (p. 5 3 ). T his i n t e r e s t in fa m ily , in
b lood l i n e s , ta k es p reced en ce in h er mind over any h o n est
a p p r a is a l o f th e e v e n ts and s it u a t io n s in p r e se n t tim e.
She i s m arried to a Compson, an oth er o f th e "cursed"
F aulkner f a m ilie s , b u t sh e and Jason Sr. rem ain Bascombs
48
and a r e , th e r e fo r e , su p e r io r .
C a ro lin e i s n o t a dominant c h a r a c te r in th e f i r s t two
s e c t io n s o f The Sound and th e Fury. She i s se e n as a
h yp och ond riac, c o n tin u a lly b e w a ilin g th e f a t e th a t has
"wrongly" p la ced her in th e Compson realm . She le a v e s th e
r e s p o n s ib ilit y fo r th e r a is in g o f th e c h ild r e n t o th e i n
d om itab le Negro se r v a n t, D ils e y ; h er r e la t io n s h ip w ith h er
husband seems o f l i t t l e im port.
In S e c tio n I I I (A p r il 6, 19 2 8 ), n a rra ted by Jason J r .,
and S e c tio n IV (A p ril 8, 19 2 8 ), sh e i s se e n as a more
a c t iv e c h a r a c te r . The f i c t i v e p r e se n t in S e c tio n I I I i s
c o n t r o lle d by Jason J r ., who i s now head o f th e h o u seh o ld .
Candace has lon g s in c e l e f t J e ffe r s o n , but h er i l l e g i t i m a t e
d au gh ter, M iss Q uentin, fa th e r e d by D alton Ames, rem ains in
Jason J r . ’ s c a r e . Candace r e g u la r ly sen d s c h ild su pp ort
money, and Jason J r . r e g u la r ly s t e a l s th e fu n d s. C a ro lin e
C leanth Brooks in " P rim itiv ism in The Sound and th e
F u r y ," E n g lish I n s t i t u t e E ssa y s. 1952 (New York, 1 9 65),
p. 24, sa y s " . . . Mrs. Compson i s everyw here in th e book
and now here. Her p a s s iv it y i s a d e str o y in g power—a
b l i g h t . C a ro lin e Compson i s n a tu re p e r v e r te d , grown un
n a tu r a l ~nd m onstrou s.
"Faulkner, how ever, i s n o t w r itin g a c a s e h is to r y
o f a n e u r o tic m other. The Sound and th e Fury i s n ot
Mrs. Comps on *s s to r y ; we n ev er e n te r in t o h er mind, though
we s t e a d i l y se n se h er im pact and s u s ta in e d p r e ssu r e upon
th e o th e r c h a r a c te r s ."
49
i s n ot f u l l y aware o f th e e x te n t o f h er s o n ’s th ie v e r y ; sh e
makes a m onthly r i t u a l o f burning Candace’ s ch eck , b u t th e
checks sh e d e str o y s a re c o u n t e r f e it , w r itte n by Jason J r . ;
th e money i s a c tu a lly hoarded fo r h is own u s e . C arolin e
i n s i s t s th a t h er m o tiv e in burning th e ch eck s i s a ’’proper"
se n se o f p r id e , as "W e Bascombs need nobody’ s c h a r it y .
C e r ta in ly n o t th a t o f a f a l l e n woman." But sh e r e v e a ls
h e r s e l f in th e sta te m e n t, "I co u ld b r in g m y se lf to a c ce p t
them. . . . For my c h ild r e n ’ s sa k e . I have no p ride"
(p. 2 7 3 ).
C a ro lin e cou ld n ot be sp eak in g more i r o n ic a l ly , b e
ca u se i t i s h er d is t o r t e d p r id e , her flaw ed id e n t i t y based
on a r o m a n ticized memory o f what th e name "Bascomb" has
meant in th e p a s t, th a t p rev en ts h er from v ie w in g w ith any
accu racy e v e n ts or human b e in g s in th e p r e s e n t. She had
r e fu s e d , many y e a rs ago, to become a "Compson," to a c ce p t
r e s p o n s ib i li t y as a w ife and m other. By rem aining a
"Bascomb," sh e a b ro g a tes any id e n t i t y a s s o c ia te d w ith th e
p r e s e n t, and th u s rem ains a lo n e , u n ab le t o understand
e it h e r th o se around h er or h er own r a th e r p a th e tic g e s
t u r e s . She " liv e s " o n ly in a f i c t i o n o f what m ight have
b een . The Compsons have "robbed" h er o f h e r name and her
50
r ig h t f u l p la c e in th e Southern c u lt u r e . Her p e r so n a l se n se
o f id e n t it y i s ex trem ely tenuous b eca u se sh e a c c e p ts a
c o g n it iv e tim e p a tte r n th a t in v o lv e s o n ly th e p a s t. Her
l a s t rem aining p o s it iv e g e s tu r e in v o lv e s h er ’’lo v e ” fo r
Jason J r ., as e x p ressed in a c o n v e r sa tio n w ith h er husband:
. . . e x ce p t Jason he has n ev er g iv e n me one moment*s
sorrow s in c e I f i r s t h e ld him in my arms I knew th en th a t
he was t o be my jo y and my s a lv a t io n . . . t h a t ’s i t go
on c r i t i c i z e Jason a ccu se me o f s e t t in g him t o w atch her
[Caddy] . . . you must l e t me go away I can n ot stan d i t
l e t me have Jason and you keep th e o th e r s th e y ’r e n ot
my f l e s h and b lo o d l i k e he i s str a n g e r s n o th in g o f mine
and I am a fr a id o f them I can ta k e Jason and go where we
are n o t known I ' l l go down on my knees and pray f o r th e
a b s o lu tio n o f my s in s th a t he may esca p e t h is c u r se tr y
to f o r g e t th a t th e o th e r s e v er w ere. (pp. 1 2 7 -1 2 8 )
The f a c t th a t Jason J r. i s a c h e a t, a l i a r , and a t h i e f i s
n o t comprehended by h er; fo r to o many y ea rs sh e has f u t i l e l y
attem p ted to r a t i o n a li z e her own i n a b i l i t y to a c t in any
m ean in gfu l manner. Both C a r o lin e ’ s and Jason S r .* s i n
a b i l i t y to a c ce p t th e p r e sen t p rofou n d ly a f f e c t s th e l i v e s
o f t h e ir c h ild r e n .^
Of th e fo u r Compson c h ild r e n , i t i s Benjam in, th e
P eter S w iggart, in The Art o f F a u lk n er 's N o v els.
speaks o f t h i s c a u s a l r e la t io n s h ip : "Mrs. Compson d e p r iv e s
her husband o f a tru e w ife and h er c h ild r e n o f a m other.
. . . The u n s u c c e s s fu l m arriage o f Mr. and Mrs. Compson i s
a n u cle u s o f d is in t e g r a t io n u n d e rly in g th e more tr a g ic
f a i lu r e s o f t h e ir c h ild r e n ," pp. 10 4 -1 0 5 .
51
i d i o t , who, s u r p r is in g ly , p ro v id es th e m ost o b j e c t iv e v iew
o f th e m ajor e v e n ts in The Sound and th e Furv» His b r a in
sim p ly reco rd s im p ressio n s and i s in c a p a b le o f ren d erin g
m oral or e t h i c a l jud gm en ts. H is s e c t io n in th e n o v e l i s
fragm ented in image and tim e , but h is b a s ic im p ressio n s
r e v e a l r a th e r a c c u r a te ly th e prim ary fa m ily r e la t io n s h ip s .
The s e c t io n i s n a rra ted in stream o f c o n sc io u sn e ss te c h
n iq u e, and ranges in tim e, through f r e e a s s o c ia t io n , from
about 1896 to 1906. E vents a re s tr a n g e ly ju x ta p o se d , and
are o f te n dim and shadowy, but F aulkner, even though he i s
sp eak in g through Benjam in’ s lim ite d i n t e l l e c t , produces a
q u ite c o n v in c in g m onologue.
Benjamin (born "Maury" in 1 8 9 5 ), i s an i d i o t , and
s y m b o lic a lly th e " lo s t B i b l i c a l s o n . H e i s l i t e r a l l y ,
b ecau se o f h is m en tal c o n d itio n , in a tim e le s s s it u a t io n .
In a d d itio n to th e prim ary sym b olic im p lic a tio n o f h is
^Faulkner was asked about th e name by stu d e n ts a t th e
U n iv e r sity o f V ir g in ia :
Q. Why i s i t th a t Mrs. Compson r e f e r s to Benjy as
h avin g b een s o ld in t o Egypt? Wasn’ t th a t Joseph in th e
B ib le ? Is th e m ista k e you rs o r h e r s?
A. I s th e r e anybody who knows th e B ib le h e r e?
Q. I looked i t up and Benjamin was h e ld h o sta g e fo r
Joseph .
A. Yes, t h a t ’ s why I u sed them in te r c h a n g e a b ly .
Faulkner in th e U n iv e r s ity , p. 18.
52
name, he a ls o , in some o b liq u e s e n s e , i s s u g g e s tiv e o f
C h r ist. The m a jo r ity o f s i g n if i c a n t e v e n ts in th e n o v e l,
as n oted by th e fo u r s e c t io n d a te s , occu r d u rin g E a ster or
th e days im m ed iately p reced in g th e red em ptive f e a s t .
Benjamin i s t h ir t y - t h r e e y e a rs o ld , th e s to r y he r e l a t e s
cu lm in a tes on E a ste r , and he h o ld s , a t im portant p o in ts in
8
th e n a r r a tiv e , a jim son w eed.
These o b liq u e sym b olic r e f e r e n c e s , s im ila r in q u a lity
t o th o s e employed by F aulkner in d e s c r ib in g Joe C hristm as
in L ight in A ugust, seem to su g g e s t an im potent or power
l e s s God o f th e p r e se n t. Benjamin c e r t a in ly i s n ot
lis t e n e d t o —he i s n o t even u n d erstood m ost o f th e tim e —
and h is f i n a l b e llo w in g and c r y in g , h is "sound and fury"
s i g n i f y , from one p o in t o f v ie w , " n o th in g ." However, from
an o th er, more co g en t p o in t o f v ie w , h is f i n a l " b ellow in g"
i s an apt and m ea n in g fu l sym b olic sta tem en t o f th e seem
in g ly e te r n a l h ia t u s , s t i l l n e s s , la c k o f e f f e c t i v e a c tio n ,
th a t e x i s t s , n ot o n ly in J e ffe r s o n , but in F a u lk n er's
O
H yatt H. Waggoner p o in ts ou t "th e jim son weed he
[B en jy] som etim es p la y s w ith has a n oth er l o c a l name,
a n g e l's tru m p et." W illiam F au lk n er, p . 4 4 . Benjy i s
a s s o c ia te d w ith th e p la n t u n t i l th e f i n a l sc e n e w here he
i s se e n a p p r o p r ia te ly h o ld in g a broken n a r c is s u s , sym
b o l i c a l l y a lig n e d w ith th e Compsons' f i n a l " d is in t e g r a t io n
and doom ."
53
e y e s , everyw h ere.
The c e n tr a l ev en t in th e s e c t io n , th e death o f th e
grandm other, occu rs somewhere in 1896-1897. I t i s p o s
s i b l e , in m ost s c e n e s , to id e n t if y th e approxim ate tim e.
Benjamin, b o m in 1895, i s u s u a lly a tten d ed by V ersh,
D ils e y 's o ld e s t c h ild , born about 1889, T.P. (1 8 9 0 ), or
L u ster, D ils e y ’s g r a n d c h ild . As th e s e c t io n b e g in s on
A p ril 7, 1928, Benjamin i s t h ir t y - t h r e e , and i s a tten d ed
by L u ster. L u ster i s sp eak in g o f B en jy 's b ir th d a y , and
Benjam in, in h is u s u a l fa s h io n , i s sim p ly rec o rd in g se n s u a l
im p r e ssio n s. He " sm ells th e c o ld ," th in k s o f Caddy (who
has l e f t J e ffe r s o n ) as " sm ellin g l i k e t r e e s ." Through h is
s e n s a t io n s , p e r s o n a lit ie s and e v e n ts are r e v e a le d which
form in t o a c o h e s iv e p a tte r n la t e r in th e n o v e l. Olga W .
V ickery p o in ts out th a t Benjy a ls o u s e s th e s e v a r io u s
s e n s a tio n s to order h is own e x is t e n c e :
With consummate s k i l l th e r e p e t it io n s and id e n t if y in g
s e n s a tio n s which are used to g u id e th e read er a re a ls o
used as th e b a s is o f B en jy ’s own o r d e rin g o f e x p e r ie n c e .
B en jy’ s mind works n o t by a s s o c ia t io n w hich i s dependent,
to some e x te n t, on an a b i l i t y t o d is c r im in a te as w e ll as
compare but by m ech a n ica l i d e n t i f ic a t io n .^
9
"The Sound and th e F u ry: A Study in P e r sp e c tiv e , "
PM LA . IXIX (December 1 9 5 4 ), 1022.
54
Caddy i s h is f a v o r it e human b e in g , and D ils e y p ro v id es h is
d a ily n eed s; he r e a l iz e s in some dim way th a t Jason J r.
i s an a n ta g o n is t.
The ev en t l a t e r t o be shaped through memory by Q uentin
as in c e stu o u s i s f i r s t o u tlin e d in B en jy’ s s e c t io n :
W e were p la y in g in th e branch and Caddy sq u a tte d
down and g o t her d r e ss w et . . .
Caddy was a l l w et and muddy behind . . . (p. 21)
L ater, Caddy clim b s th e t r e e to s e e through th e upper w in
dow:
"Push me up, V e r sh ," Caddy s a id .
" A ll r ig h t ," Versh s a id . "You th e one g o in g t o g e t
whipped. I a in t ." He went and pushed Caddy up in t o th e
t r e e to th e f i r s t lim b . W e w atched th e muddy bottom o f her
draw ers. Then we c o u ld n ’ t s e e h e r . W e co u ld hear th e tr e e
th r a sh in g . (p. 4 7 )
She s e e s members o f th e fa m ily s i t t i n g q u ie t ly in
grandm other’ s room. D ilse y e n te r s th e sc e n e and i n s i s t s
th a t Caddy g e t down from th e t r e e , and Caddy remarks th a t
"They’r e n o t doin g an yth in g in th e r e . J u s t s i t t i n g in
c h a ir s and look in g" (p . 5 5 ). D ils e y ta k e s h er away from
th e t r e e to th e h ou se:
"Whyn’ t you g e t your n ig h t ie o n ," D ils e y s a id . She
went and h elp ed Caddy ta k e o f f h er b o d ic e and draw ers.
" Ju st look a t you ," D ils e y s a id . She wadded th e drawers
and scrubbed Caddy behin d w ith them . " I t done soaked
c le a n through on to you ," sh e s a id . "But you wont g e t no
b ath t h i s n ig h t. H ere." She put Caddy’ s n ig h t ie on h er
55
and Caddy clim bed in to th e bed and D ilse y went t o th e
door and sto o d w ith her hand on th e l i g h t . "You a l l be
q u ie t now, you h e a r ,” sh e s a id . (p. 9 1 )
B enjy*s s e c t io n ends a t t h i s p o in t w ith Caddy co m fo rt
in g him as he reco rd s h is s e n s a tio n s b e fo r e s le e p :
Caddy h e ld me and I co u ld hear us a l l , and th e d ark n ess,
and som ething I co u ld s m e ll. And th en I co u ld s e e th e
windows, where th e t r e e s w ere b u zz in g . Then th e dark
began to go in smooth, b r ig h t sh a p e s, l i k e i t alw ays
d o e s, even when Caddy sa y s th a t I have been a s le e p .
(p. 9 2 )
Benjamin*s s e c t io n i s o b j e c t iv e , n o t in th e s e n s e o f
c l a r i t y o f c h a r a c te r or s c e n e , but in h is r e l a t i v e i n a b i l i t y
t o in d ic a t e any b ia s or p r e ju d ic e . H is memory i s th a t o f
a randomly aimed c a m e r a --n e u tr a l, im p a r tia l, am oral. A l
though we s e e fragm en ts, p a r ts , sh apes o f sc e n e s through
h is p e r c e p tio n in tim e, th e la t e r s e c t io n s a re n e c e ssa r y to
a f u l l u n d erstan d in g o f what he i n i t i a l l y r e c o r d s. John W .
Hunt p e r c e p tiv e ly d is c u s s e s B enjy*s am b ivalen t r e la t io n s h ip
t o tim e :
In B enjy*s c o n s c io u s n e s s , th e p a s t i s no l e s s v iv id
than th e p r e se n t; in d eed , th e d i s t i n c t i o n betw een tim e
p a st and tim e p resen t i s sim p ly n o t a p a r t o f h is men
t a l i t y , ex cep t to th e e x te n t th a t he can m a in ta in in
h is memory a sh o r t seq u en ce o f e v e n ts . One can sa y th a t
Benjy i s c o m p le te ly tim e bound and y e t f r e e o f tim e a l
to g e th e r . Uhaware o f tim e 's movement, he i s c o n sc io u s
alw ays o f i t s u n d iffe r e n tia te d p r e sen ce in th e f u l l
immediacy o f e v e n ts , y e t b eca u se i t s p r e sen ce i s
56
u n d if f e r e n t ia t e d , he i s c o m p le te ly in c a p a b le o f a b s tr a c t
in g i t as a q u a lit y o f e v e n ts .
Benjamin, alth ou gh a q u ite b e lie v a b le a e s t h e t ic e n t it y in
The Sound and th e Fury, has l i t t l e , i f any, s e n s e o f p e r
so n a l id e n t i t y . He la c k s th e c a p a c ity t o g iv e up "past"
v a lu e s b ecau se he has no "past"; he cannot f e e l th a t tim e
has "cheated" him o f m eaning, b eca u se i t i s im p o ssib le fo r
him to a c c e p t or r e j e c t any c o g n it iv e tim e p a tte r n . He
i s in n o cen ce, t o t a l in n o cen ce, in a tim e le s s u n iv e r se ;
Faulkner r e f e r s to him as b e in g s tr ic k e n "m indless a t
b ir t h ." The f i n a l iro n y o f Benjam in’ s e x is t e n c e ( a s s o c i
ated w ith th e o b liq u e C h rist im ages in h is n a r r a tio n ), i s
th a t h is in n o cen ce i s n ot a r e s u l t o f m oral or e t h ic a l
e f f o r t on h is p a r t, but i s an e s s e n t i a l r e s u lt o f h is b a s ic
id io c y .
P a r a d o x ic a lly , how ever, Benjamin has some co n cep t o f
order as r e le v a n t to th e ta n g le o f d is o r d e r in th e n o v e l.
He can p e r c e iv e and "judge" in a m inim al s e n s e , th e ab sen ce
(p a r tic u la r ly o f Caddy) o f "what sh ou ld b e ," and he r e
sponds w ith "sound and fu r y ." F red erick J. Hoffman p o in ts
out "B enjy’ s i n s t i n c t i v e r e a c tio n s to any d istu r b a n c e " :
^ W illiam F aulkner: Art in T h e o lo g ic a l T en sion (S yra
c u s e , 1 9 6 5 ), p. 38.
57
Benjy does n o t want change; i t u p se ts him . He i s q u ite
in c a p a b le o f s e e in g Caddy as a p erson who w i l l change,
grow o ld and e x i s t in tim e . In a s e n s e Benjy w ants a
sim p le w orld (th e w orld more or l e s s fix e d fo r him when
he was th r e e ) th a t does n o t change and i s above and
beyond th e e f f e c t s o f p a ssin g tim e . (W illiam F aulkner.
p. 53)
The f i n a l a c tio n in th e n o v e l h in g e s on B enjy*s r e a c tio n to
d is o r d e r as L u ster attem p ts to sw ing th e h o r se and c a r r ia g e
around to th e l e f t o f th e C on fed erate monument. This i s
"wrong" in B enjy*s mind, and he resp on d s w ith th e f i n a l
th em atic sta tem en t in th e w ork:
For an in s ta n t Ben s a t in an u t t e r h ia t u s . Then he
b e llo w e d . B ellow on b e llo w , h is v o ic e mounted, w ith
s c a r c e in t e r v a l fo r b r e a th . There was more than
a sto n ish m en t in i t , i t was h o rro r; sh ock ; agony e y e le s s ,
to n g u e le s s ; j u s t sound, and L u ster*s e y es b a c k r o llin g
fo r a w h ite in s t a n t . "Gret God," he s a id , "Hush! Hush!
Gret God!" He w h irled a g a in and str u c k Q ueenie w ith th e
s w itc h . I t broke and he c a s t i t away and w ith Ben*s
v o ic e m ounting toward i t s u n b e lie v a b le crescen d o lu s te r
caught up th e end o f th e r e in s and lea n ed forw ard as
Jason came jumping a c r o ss th e sq u are and on to th e s te p .
With a backhanded blow he h u rle d L u ster a s id e and
caught th e r e in s and sawed Q ueenie about and doubled th e
r e in s back and sla sh e d h er a c r o ss th e h ip s . He c u t h er
a g a in and a g a in , in t o a p lu n gin g g a llo p , w h ile Ben*s
h o a rse agony roared about them, and swung h er about to
th e r ig h t o f th e monument. (p. 4 0 0 )
Benjam in, through F aulkner*s in t e n t , tra n scen d s h is
n a tu r a l lim it a t io n s as an i d i o t to fu r n is h t h i s l a s t r a th e r
v i o le n t sta te m en t o f th e "sound and fu r y ." He b e llo w s in
h o rro r, in agony, in an " u n b e lie v a b le crescen d o" t o s u g g e s t
58
n o t o n ly h is own dim r e a l iz a t i o n o f d is o r d e r , d is in t e g r a
t io n and "doom," but th e g e n e r a l d is o r d e r and la ck o f
meaning in l i f e su g g e ste d by Shakespeare in M acbeth:
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in t h i s p e tty pace from day to day,
to th e l a s t s y l l a b l e o f record ed tim e,
And a l l our y e ste r d a y s have lig h t e d f o o ls
The way to d u sty d e a th . Out, o u t,
b r i e f ca n d le!
L if e 's but a w alk in g shadow, a poor p la y e r
That s t r u t s and f r e t s h is hour upon th e s ta g e
And th en i s heard no m ore. I t i s a t a l e
Told by an i d i o t , f u l l o f sound and fu r y ,
S ig n ify in g n o th in g .
M acbeth's sta tem en t c o r r e la t e s c l o s e l y w ith F a u lk n er's
them e. Man fin d s h im s e lf a "poor p layer" d ir e c te d , p e r
h ap s, by th e "dark diceman" su g g e ste d by Jason Sr. in th e
12
second s e c t io n o f th e n o v e l.
^ Shakespeare: Major P lays (New York, 1 9 4 8 ), p. 860.
12
Lawrance Thompson expands th e c o r r e la t io n betw een
Macbeth and The Sound and th e F ury: " A ll o f th e s e ch a r a c
t e r s [Mrs. Compson, Q uentin, and Jason ] have t h i s much in
common: each i s in te n t on s e l f - p i t y i n g j u s t i f i c a t i o n . A ll
are c e r ta in th a t th e y have become v ic t im iz e d by circu m
sta n c e s beyond t h e ir c o n tr o l, and a l l o f them p r o je c t o u t
ward on l i f e t h e ir own in n er ch a o s, w hich has i t s r o o ts in
a p e r v e r sio n o f lo v e , through s e l f - l o v e . S im ila r ly , in th e
f i f t h a c t , Macbeth i s r e p r e se n te d as r e fu s in g to r e c o g n iz e
th a t he has been in any way to blam e, or r e s p o n s ib le , fo r
what has happened t o him . In ste a d , he a ls o p r o je c ts h is
own in n er chaos outward, s e l f - j u s t i f y i n g l y , to make a sc a p e
g o a t o f th e w hole w orld , even o f tim e, and to v iew l i f e i t
s e l f as a w alk in g 'sh a d o w .'" "M irror A nalogues in The Sound
and th e F u r y ." E n g lish I n s t it u t e E ssa y s. 1952. pp. 1 0 2 -1 0 3 .
59
The v i s i o n , f e l t by B enjy, and a p p lic a b le to th e w hole
Compson fa m ily , i s n e g a tiv e , s e l f - d e f e a t in g , d ev o id o f
v a lu e s ; th e n o v e l ends w ith t h i s to n e as Benjamin s i t s w ith
"the broken flo w er [ n a r c is s u s ] dropped over [ h is ] f i s t "
(p. 4 0 1 ). The i d i o t has fin is h e d h is t a l e , " f u ll o f sound
13
and fu r y , s ig n if y in g n o th in g ."
Candace (Caddy), B enjam in's b e lo v ed s i s t e r , p la y s th e
c h ild o f " lo s t inn ocen ce" around whom th e f u l l sym b olic
n a r r a tiv e o f The Sound and th e Fury s lo w ly r e v o lv e s . Her
l i f e i s a ls o tr a g ic ; h er p r o g r e ss io n i s se e n through out th e
n o v e l and, l a t e r , in F a u lk n er 's Appendix, w r itte n in 1946.
I t i s her w et and muddy draw ers, a s t a i n as D ils e y sa y s
th a t "done soaked c le a n through on to you ," th a t i s , sym
b o l i c a l l y , th e f i r s t mark o f h er l o s t in n o cen ce, th e s t a i n
o f "sin" th a t cannot be f u l l y c le a n s e d . This s t a i n , l a t e r
o b j e c t if ie d in her a f f a i r w ith D alton Ames and th e r e s u l t
ing pregnancy, i s em ployed by Q uentin in S e c tio n I I as
13
F aulkner, when asked about th e t i t l e , s a id th a t "of
c o u r se , [ i t ] came from th e f i r s t s e c t io n , w hich was B enjy.
I thou ght th e s to r y was t o ld in B e n jy 's s e c t io n , and th e
t i t l e came th e r e . So i t — in th a t s e n s e i t d oes ap p ly to
Benjy r a th e r than anybody e l s e , alth o u g h th e more I had to
work on th e book, th e more e l a s t i c th e t i t l e becam e, u n t i l
i t covered th e w hole fa m ily ." Faulkner in th e U n iv e r s ity ,
p. 87.
60
a m ajor p art o f th e f i n a l r a tio n a le lea d in g t o h is s u ic id e .
Faulkner, in th e 1946 Appendix, c o n tin u e s Caddy’s
s to r y p a st th e f i r s t p u b lish ed ending o f The Sound and th e
Fury to th e 1940’s . His d e s c r ip tio n o f her r e v e a ls e x
p l i c i t l y b oth h er sym b olic v a lu e in th e n o v e l, and her
p e r so n a l co n cep t o f id e n t it y in tim e . She calm ly a c c e p ts
th e "doom" fa c in g h er and th e Compson fa m ily , and p la c e s
l i t t l e v a lu e on h er own e x is t e n c e . Lawrance Thompson d i s
c u ss e s h er ’’ b e t r a y a l" :
. . . sh e i s r e p r e se n te d as h avin g an i n s t i n c t i v e under
sta n d in g o f lo v e as a two-way p r o c ess o f g iv in g and
r e c e iv in g . Her c a p a c ity fo r lo v e e x p r e sse s i t s e l f j u s t
as in t e n s e ly through h er a d o r a tio n o f her o ld e r b r o th e r
Q uentin as through her com passion fo r her younger b ro th er
Ben. She i s doomed n ot o n ly by p a r e n ta l f a i lu r e s but
a ls o by the m isle a d in g a c tio n s o f Q uentin. . . . Thus
sh e sta n d s f i n a l l y as b e tra y e d by her p a r e n ts, by Quen
t i n , by D alton Ames, and by Jason . (p . 4 9 )
She i s e x c e p tio n a l, as a m ajor Faulkner c h a r a c te r , in th a t
sh e does n o t s e e h e r s e l f as a t r a g ic f ig u r e , o r, f o r th a t
m a tter , as a p a r t ic u la r ly im portant f ig u r e . Her a b i l i t y
to "accept" i s dem onstrated by Faulkner in th e Appendix:
Doomed and knew i t , a ccep ted th e doom w ith o u t e it h e r
se e k in g or f l e e i n g i t . Loved h er b ro th er [Q u en tin ]
d e s p ite him, lo v ed n o t on ly him b u t loved in him th a t
b i t t e r prophet and i n f l e x i b l e c o r r u p tle s s ju d ge o f what
he co n sid er ed th e fa m ily ’s honor and i t s doom, as he
thought he lo v ed b u t r e a l l y h ated in h er what he con
sid e r e d th e f r a i l doomed v e s s e l o f i t s p r id e and th e
fo u l in stru m en t o f i t s d is g r a c e ; n o t o n ly t h i s , sh e
61
lo v e d him n ot o n ly in s p it e o f but b ecau se o f th e f a c t
th a t he h im s e lf was in c a p a b le o f lo v e . ^
She i s two months pregnant w ith D alton Ames* c h ild
when sh e m a rries Sidney H erbert Head in 1910. Hie c h ild i s
born (M iss Q uentin, named a f t e r her b r o th e r ), and sh e i s
d iv o r c e d by Head in 1911. F aulkn er, in th e Appendix, p ro
v id e s th e m o tiv a tio n fo r her a c tio n s a f t e r th a t d a te :
. . . Candace, c a s t o f f by h e r husband, had brought her
in fa n t d au gh ter home and l e f t th e c h ild and dep arted by
th e n e x t t r a in , to r etu r n no m ore, and n o t o n ly th e
Negro cook, D ils e y , b u t th e lib r a r ia n to o [sh e th in k s
sh e has se e n Caddy*s photograph in a s l i c k magazine;]
d iv in e d by sim p le i n s t i n c t th a t Jason was somehow u sin g
th e c h i l d ’ s l i f e and i t s i ll e g it i m a c y b o th to b la ck m a il
h e r m other not o n ly in t o s ta y in g away from J e ffe r s o n fo r
th e r e s t o f h er l i f e b u t in t o a p p o in tin g him s o l e un
c h a lle n g e a b le t r u s t e e o f th e money sh e would send fo r
th e c h i l d ' s m aintenance and had r e fu s e d to speak to him
a t a l l s in c e th a t day in 1928 when th e d au gh ter clim bed
down th e r a in p ip e and ran away w ith th e pitchm an.
( The Sound and th e Fury/As I Lav D ying, p . 14)
Caddy's r o le in th e n o v e l— th e c h ild o f " lo s t in n o
c e n c e " — i s ex trem ely im p ortan t, even though Faulkner does
n o t g iv e h er one o f th e s e c t io n s to n a r r a te . She i s th e
fo cu s o f B e n jy 's lo v e ; sh e s e r v e s t o i l l u s t r a t e Jason J r .* s
d u p lic it y and c h ica n er y ; and, o f m ost s i g n if i c a n c e , sh e
app ears s y m b o lic a lly in th e n o v e l ( t o her b r o th e r Q uentin
^ The Sound and th e Fury/As I Lav Dying (New York,
1 9 4 6 ), p. 10.
62
in p a r t ic u la r ) as th e c a r r ie r o f th e " fa m ily 's h on or," th e
one human who can t r a n s la t e p a st v a lu e s in tim e to th e
p r e s e n t. She cannot do t h i s , and knows i t , but Q uentin
l i t e r a l l y cannot a c c e p t t h i s f a c t . John W . Hunt a p tly
i l l u s t r a t e s t h i s p o in t in h is d is c u s s io n o f Caddy and Quen
t in :
Caddy's f a i lu r e i s n o t from sh e e r p e r v e r s ity ; sh e
f a i l s in Q u en tin ’s term s n o t h er own. Her exp erim en ts in
sex a re " n a tu r a l," i f f o o l is h . She i s c a p a b le o f compas
s io n and lo v e , as h er r e la t io n s h ip w ith Benjy and h er
lo v e fo r D alton Ames i l l u s t r a t e . The p a th e tic iro n y o f
Q u en tin 's s i t u a t i o n comes from h is in c a p a c ity , n o t h e r s .
. . . Q u en tin 's agony, a r is in g from h is myopic m oralism ,
i s h e ig h te n e d by th e f a c t th a t he h as n o t o n ly a p r o
m iscuous s i s t e r , but a ls o a s i s t e r who w i l l n o t adm it,
does n o t know, and cannot b e lie v e th a t h er p ro m iscu ity
in v o lv e s a n y th in g more than a p r iv a te and p e r so n a l
doom. . . . A lthough o n ly w ith r e fe r e n c e t o Caddy can
he b r in g h is in h e r it e d and p r e se n t w orld s to g e th e r ,
Caddy i s c o n s t i t u t i o n a l l y in c a p a b le o f h e lp in g him .
(p . 5 7 )
I t i s h er " f a ilu r e ," in Q u en tin 's e y e s , th a t forms th e
n e c e s s it y o f h is own s u ic id e . Only by ste p p in g out o f tim e
through d eath can he s y m b o lic a lly (by " p ro te ctin g " Caddy in
an e v e r la s t in g H e ll) r e t a in th e "honor" o f th e p a s t and
c r e a te an a c c e p ta b le r e a l i t y in th e p r e s e n t.
Caddy, th e r e fo r e , looms la r g e in Q u en tin 's mind as he
n a r r a te s S e c tio n I I . His r a th e r v i o le n t e f f o r t to e s t a b
l i s h m eaning and id e n t it y in h is own l i f e f a i l s b eca u se
63
he fin d s i t im p o ssib le to a d ju st to Caddy's " s in ," her
d e c is io n , as he v iew s i t , to a llo w h er se d u ce r, D alton
Ames, to "rob" th e Compson fa m ily o f i t s honor, and
f i n a l l y , i t s "u nstain ed " i d e n t i t y . P resen t tim e to him i s
a c r u e l m ockery, a c o n sta n t rem inder o f a m ean in gfu l and
g lo r io u s p a s t th a t has been ir r e t r ie v a b ly l o s t .
Q u en tin 's s e c t io n (June 2 , 1910) ta k e s p la c e a t Har
v ard , two months a f t e r Caddy's m arriage to Sidney H erbert
Head. His c o n sta n t o b s e s s io n w ith m eaning and id e n t it y in
tim e i s im m ed iately n o te d . He th in k s o f th e w atch , "the
mausoleum o f a l l hope and d e s ir e " (p. 9 4 ), g iv e n t o him by
h is f a th e r . He l i s t e n s to th e t ic k in g , and s e e s th e lin e a r
v i s i o n o f tim e — tim e as m arching numbers or ranks in
s t r a ig h t m otion :
You can be o b liv io u s to th e sound fo r a lon g w h ile , th en
in a secon d o f t ic k in g i t can c r e a t e in th e mind unbroken
th e lon g d im in ish in g parade o f tim e you d id n 't h e a r .
L ike F ather s a id down th e lon g and lo n e ly l i g h t ra y s you
m ight s e e Jesu s w a lk in g , l i k e . And th e good S a in t
F ran cis th a t s a id L i t t l e S is t e r Death, th a t n ev er had
a s i s t e r . (p. 9 4 )
H is s u ic id e i s a number o f hours away, and Q u en tin 's v i s i o n
com bines th e p a st ( r e a l and im agin ed ) w ith th e p r e se n t in
a lo o s e m atrix o f im p r e ssio n s. He s e e s th e p a s t (J esu s and
S t. F ra n cis as p a r tic u la r im ages) as c o n ta in in g a b s o lu te
64
and p o s i t i v e v a lu e s in tim e, and h e lon gs to r e tu r n to t h i s
im agined e x is t e n c e . Only in d e a th , he f e e l s , even i f i t
were " ju st to h e l l , " can he fin d rea so n to e x i s t . In H e ll,
he can p r o te c t Caddy, and r e g a in v a lu e s ( l o s t to th e p r e s
e n t through " sin " —p a r t ic u la r ly Caddy’ s " sin " ), through
e v e r la s t in g e x p ia tio n . To g a in h is id e n t it y in tim e, p ara
d o x ic a lly , he m ust d ie t o e n te r a no tim e or a l l tim e s i t u
a tio n :
Because i f i t were j u s t t o h e l l ; i f th a t w ere a l l o f i t .
F in ish e d . I f th in g s j u s t fin is h e d th e m se lv e s. Nobody
e l s e th e r e but h er and me. I f we cou ld j u s t have done
som ething so d r e a d fu l th a t th e y would have f le d h e l l
e x c e p t u s . I have com m itted in c e s t I s a id F ather i t was
I i t was n o t D alton Ames. . . . (pp. 9 7 -9 8 )
The in c e stu o u s a c t e x i s t s p u r e ly in h is im a g in a tio n ,
bu t i t seems to be a n e c e ss a r y c o n s tr u c tio n as an en try to
th e " e te r n ity " Q uentin e n v is a g e s . P eter Sw iggart speaks
o f Q u en tin 's " p erverse resp o n se" :
. . . he t r i e s to a l t e r th e n a tu re o f Caddy’s d ish o n o r
by sh e e r fo r c e o f w i l l . I b is i s why Q uentin t r i e s to
co n v in ce h is fa th e r th a t he and Caddy have com m itted
i n c e s t . . . . In h is e f f o r t t o im pose some kin d o f mean
in g upon th e p a s t, Q uentin t r i e s t o d e fe a t tim e by d en y
in g what he knows to be th e tr u th . His in c e s tu o u s d e s ig n
i s e g o c e n tr ic in o r ig in and i s a p e r v e r se r e sp o n se t o a
s e lf - c r e a t e d problem . (pp. 9 3 -9 4 )
As th e scen e p r o g r e s s e s , Q uentin ta k e s th e w atch , breaks
th e c r y s t a l , and t w is t s th e hands o f f th e f a c e . He i s
65
a ttem p tin g t o d e str o y th e tim e in d ic a te d by th e in stru m en t,
but "The watch tic k e d on. I turned th e fa c e up, th e blank
d i a l w ith l i t t l e w h eels c lic k in g behind i t , n o t knowing any
b e tte r " (p. 9 9 ).
This i s th e day o f h is s u ic id e ; he c o n tin u e s to se e
hands on c lo c k s , in d ic a tin g v a r io u s tim e s, and to hear
d is ta n t c lo c k s s t r ik in g th e h ou rs:
W hile I was e a tin g I heard a c lo c k s t r i k e th e hou r. But
th en I suppose i t ta k e s a t l e a s t one hour to lo s e tim e
in , who has been lo n g e r than h is to r y g e t t in g in to th e
m ech an ical p r o g r e ss io n o f i t . (p . 10 2 )
The sym b olic sta tem en t i s c le a r , as Q uentin e x p l i c i t l y
s t a t e s h is in t e n t io n t o remove h im s e lf from tim e . Time,
"the m ech a n ica l p r o g r e ss io n o f i t , " a g a in su g g e s ts a lin e a r
view where th e p r e se n t i s o f no v a lu e .
His ears are a ttu n ed t o th e "watch tic k in g in my
pocket" (p. 1 0 2 ), and h e e n te r s a watchm aker’ s shop. He
se e s many c lo c k s and w atches in th e window, and each r e
v e a ls a d if f e r e n t tim e . He ask s " if any o f them a re r ig h t"
(p. 1 0 3 ). Ihe answ er, a p p r o p r ia te ly , i s no, and Q uentin
le a v e s , s t a t in g " I ’m much o b lig e d to y o u . I hope I h aven ’ t
tak en up your tim e" (p. 1 0 4 ). The watchmaker has sy m b o li
c a ll y b u ttr e s s e d Q u en tin ’s c o n v ic tio n t h a t th e r e seem s to
be no " co rrect" p r e se n t tim e.
As th e s e c t io n c o n tin u e s, Q uentin lo s e s more and more
o f h is se n se o f p r e se n t c o n s c io u s n e s s . John W . Hunt f e e l s
th a t th e " p r e c ip ita n t, u n so r ted , and d ream lik e ch a r a cter
o f h is r e c o ll e c t i o n s i s accounted fo r by th e f a c t th a t he
has reached th e p o in t where th e p a st h as c o m p le te ly p re
empted h is c o n s c io u s n e s s ” (p. 6 1 ). Q u entin’ s mind b eg in s
to fu n c tio n in fr e e a s s o c ia t io n r a th e r than str u c tu r e d
th o u g h t, and F aulkner employs few er marks o f p u n ctu a tio n to
match th e r a th e r a im le ss stream o f c o n sc io u sn e s s movement.
Q uentin, l i k e Benjy in S e c tio n I , b e g in s in d is c r im in a te ly
to mix p a st and p r e s e n t, and moves in a d re a m -lik e s t a t e
toward h is d e a th .
He m eets a young g i r l , attem p ts t o h e lp her fin d her
way home, and su cceed s on ly in making h er fa th e r and
b r o th e r s u s p ic io u s th a t he i s a c h ild m o le s te r . He has
n ot even th ou gh t o f m o le stin g th e c h i ld , a lth o u g h sh e does
remind him s y m b o lic a lly o f Caddy. In h is r e v e r ie , he s e e s
th e c h ild as th e " s is t e r ," th e pure and u n sta in e d d e p o s i
to r y o f m ean in gfu l v a lu e s in l i f e . T h is e p is o d e , as w e ll
as s e v e r a l o th e r s in Q uentin’ s s e c t i o n , i s b iz a r r e ; M elvin
Backman a s c r ib e s t o them th e q u a l i t i e s o f a "nigh tm arish
dream in w hich o p p r e ssiv e tr u th s s t a l k t h in ly masked"
("F aulkn er’s S ick H eroes," p. 1 0 2 ).
67
The in c e s t s c e n e , in Q u en tin 's tw is te d memory, i s
a s s o c ia t e d w ith Caddy's muddy drawers a t th e branch and
l a t e r in th e t r e e , Q u en tin 's fa n ta s y murder and s u ic id e
u s in g a p h a llic k n if e , h is an gu ish ed c o n v e r sa tio n s w ith
Caddy a f t e r h er a s s o c ia t io n w ith D alton Ames, and h is f i g h t
w ith D alton in which he t r i e s t o avenge Caddy's d is g r a c e .
These e v e n ts m erge, se p a r a te , merge a g a in ; Q u en tin 's v i s i o n
becomes l e s s and l e s s fo c u se d :
I h i t him [D a lto n Ames] I was s t i l l tr y in g to h i t him
lo n g a f t e r he was h o ld in g my w r is t s but I s t i l l t r ie d
th en i t was l ik e I was lo o k in g a t him through a p ie c e o f
c o lo u r e d g l a s s . . . . (p. 2 0 0 )
I co u ld sm e ll th e cu rv es o f th e r iv e r [th e r iv e r
where Q uentin drow ns] beyond th e dusk and I saw th e l a s t
l ig h t su p in e and tr a n q u il upon t i d e f l a t s l ik e p ie c e s o f
broken m irro r. . . . (p. 2 1 1 )
The b r id g e [o v er Q u en tin 's r iv e r o f d ea th ] th a t i s ,
a rch in g slo w and h ig h in t o sp a c e , betw een s i l e n c e and
n o th in g n e ss where l i g h t s —y e llo w and red and g r e e n --
trem bled in th e c le a r a i r , r e p e a tin g th e m se lv e s.
(p . 2 1 2 )
Q u en tin 's l a s t sym b olic r e v e r ie r e c a l l s once a g a in h is
c o n s tr u c tio n in th e p a st o f th e in c e s t sc e n e and h is remem
b ered c o n fe s s io n to h is f a t h e r . With t h i s com p leted , he i s
read y f o r death as "3he l a s t n o te sounded. At l a s t i t
stop p ed v ib r a tin g and th e dark n ess was s t i l l again"
(p . 2 2 2 ).
68
Q uentin i s a n oth er o f Faulkner*s c h a r a c te r s who i n s i s t
" th eres a c u r se on us i t s n o t our f a u lt i s i t our fa u lt"
(p. 1 9 6 ). He i s a Compson, and he must c a r r y , in tim e,
th e en n o b lin g and enduring v a lu e s o f th e fa m ily . Y et,
t r a g i c a l l y , he cannot f u l f i l l t h i s ta sk ; th e m ech an ical
lin e a r p r o c e ss o f u n a lte r a b le tim e has somehow e lim in a te d
th e v a lu e s he was born to s u s t a in and pass on to th e n e x t
g e n e r a tio n . His d e sp a ir i s b o u n d le s s ; he r e c o g n iz e s what
h is i d e n t it y and purpose in l i f e sh ou ld b e, but th e f o l l y
o f even a ttem p tin g th e e f f o r t i s apparent t o him, as i t i s
to h is f a t h e r . He rem ains a c h a r a c te r "out o f tim e"; in
order t o esca p e th e atm osphere o f d is in t e g r a t io n th a t s u r
rounds him, he must in v e n t a good r e a s o n - - h is m a ssiv e
im agined s i n w ith h is s i s t e r — to le a v e p r e se n t tim e through
s u ic id e in ord er t o e n te r a t im e le s s H e ll w here, throughout
e t e r n it y , he can p r o te c t h is " l i t t l e s i s t e r " from th e sym
b o lic fu lm in a tio n s o f th e "dark d icem a n ." P errin Lowrey
a c c u r a te ly sum m arizes Q uentin*s m o tiv e s:
I f he can j u s t e sca p e; i f he can j u s t b e l i k e th e g u lls
h anging in s t a t i c r e l a t io n t o th e sch o o n er, o u ts id e tim e
and sp a c e , f ix e d and e te r n a l, h is problem s w i l l be
s o lv e d . (p. 75)
To l i v e , p a r a d o x ic a lly in h is mind, he m ust d i e . He fin d s
no v a l i d i t y fo r l i f e in any c o g n it iv e tim e p a tte r n . Time,
69
a s h is liv i n g enemy, must be d e fe a te d through d ea th . Quen
t i n e n te r s th e w aters o f th e r iv e r to wash away sy m b o li
c a l l y th e fragm ented and b lu rr ed v i s i o n o f h im s e lf in
l i f e . ^ Iaw rence Bowling s e e s Q u en tin 's c h o ic e o f death
by drowning a s stemming from an a s s o c ia t io n o f w ater w ith
" p e a c e fu ln e ss, and d eath and i d e a l i t y . " ^ Q u en tin 's
s u ic id e , i r o n ic a l ly , i s h is f i n a l d e sp e r a te attem p t to
produce p e r c e p t i b i li t y and m eaning through d ea th .
The o n ly Compson who e sca p es th e "curse" o f tim e i s
Jason J r ., d e sc r ib e d in F a u lk n er's Appendix as th e " f i r s t
san e [ i t a l i c s m ine] Compson . . . " (Hie Sound and th e Fury/
As I la v D ying, p . 1 6 ); he i s san e b eca u se he has a v iv id
and, to him, q u ite s a t i s f a c t o r y image o f h im s e lf. In h is
own e y e s , he i s a s o l i d c i t i z e n , a good busin essm an, and a
man o f c h a r it y b ecau se he c o n tin u e s t o ta k e c a r e o f h is
m other, C a ro lin e; C andace's d au gh ter, M iss Q uentin; and
B enjy. His s a n ity , how ever, a s in te r p r e te d by F aulkner,
i s dependent on h is t o t a l con cern w ith m a t e r i a li s t i c
^ W ater i s a ls o probably a s s o c ia t e d in Q u en tin 's
memory w ith ch ild h o o d sc e n e s a t th e branch ( p a r tic u la r ly
th e s p la s h in g sc e n e w ith Caddy).
16
"F au lk n er: The Theme o f P ride in The Sound and th e
Fury," Modem F ic tio n S tu d ie s. I I (Summer 1 9 6 5 ), 134.
70
a c q u is it io n . H yatt H. Waggoner p o in ts out th a t t h is
c h a r a c t e r is t ic i s e v id e n t e a r ly in J a so n 's l i f e :
Even as a c h ild he seems to have a c te d by th e stan d ard
w hich he l a t e r v e r b a liz e d as th a t o f b ein g in te r e s t e d
o n ly in r e s u l t s : a broken bow prom ised no r e s u l t s and
so co u ld e n te r in to no c a lc u la t io n he cared to make.
For him, th a t i s tr u e w hich g e ts r e s u l t s ; th a t i s b in d
in g which prom ises r e s u l t s . He i s bound by no ’’a b so
lu t e s . ”
He i s n o t, as are a l l th e o th e r s in some way, even
th e m other in h er v ic io u s and p i t i a b l e d e lu s io n s , tak en
in by in t a n g ib le s . (p. 5 4 )
Jason does n o t lo s e h im s e lf in th e p a s t; he i s in c a p a b le o f
s e e in g th e l o s t t r a g ic v i s i o n o f honor and g lo r y th a t once
e x is t e d in th e Compson fa m ily . He i s th e com p lete pragma
t i s t , and i s m o tiv a ted throughout th e n o v e l by an o v e r
whelming s e l f i s h n e s s . I t i s q u ite a p p ro p ria te th a t he i s
th e f a v o r it e son o f C a r o lin e; b oth are e g o c e n tr ic p e rso n
a l i t i e s who manage to r a t io n a liz e ev ery s e l f i s h a c tio n .
In th e A ppendix, F aulkner in d ic a t e s h is a t t it u d e
toward Jason J r . :
[He th ou gh t] n o th in g w hatever o f God one way or th e o th e r
and sim p ly c o n sid e r in g th e p o lic e and so fe a r in g and
r e s p e c tin g o n ly th e Negro woman, h is sworn enemy s in c e
h is b ir th and h is one m ortal one s in c e th a t day in 1911
when sh e to o d iv in e d by sim p le c la ir v o y a n c e th a t he was
somehow u sin g h is in fa n t n i e c e 's ill e g it i m a c y t o b la c k
m a il i t s m other, who cooked th e food he a t e . Who n o t
o n ly fended o f f and h e ld h is own w ith th e Compsons but
competed and h e ld h is own w ith th e Snopeses who took over
th e l i t t l e town fo llo w in g th e tu rn o f th e c e n tu r y as th e
Compsons and S a r to r is e s and t h e ir i l k fad ed from i t .
(The Sound and th e Furv/As I Lav D ying, pp. 1 6 -1 7 )
71
The sta tem en t about th e Snopeses i s o f i n t e r e s t when
th in k in g o f th e e n t ir e canon o f F a u lk n er's work. Malcolm
Cowley was f i r s t to p o in t out th e b a s ic b if u r c a t io n in
F a u lk n er's a r t betw een th o se " lo s t" and "doomed" fa m ilie s
who look backward in tim e, and th e Sn opeses and " th e ir ilk "
who ta k e advantage o f t h i s s i t u a t i o n in a m a t e r i a li s t i c
f a s h io n :
The Deep South was s e t t l e d p a r tly by a r is t o c r a t s l ik e
th e S a r to r is c la n and p a r t ly by new men l i k e C olon el
Sutpen. Both ty p e s o f p la n te r s w ere d eterm ined to e s ta b
l i s h a l a s t in g s o c i a l order on th e land th ey had s e iz e d
from th e Indian s (th a t i s , t o le a v e so n s behind them ).
They had th e v ir t u e o f l i v i n g s in g le -m in d e d ly by a fix e d
cod e; b u t th ere was a ls o an in h e r e n t g u i l t in t h e ir
" d e sig n ," t h e ir way o f l i f e ; i t was s la v e r y th a t put a
c u r se on th e land and brought about th e C iv il War. A fte r
th e War was l o s t , . . . th ey t r ie d to r e s t o r e "the d e
sig n " by o th er m ethods. But th e y no lo n g e r had th e
s tr e n g th t o a c h iev e more than a p a r t i a l su c c e s s . . .
th ey had to f ig h t a g a in s t a new e x p lo it in g c la s s d e
scen ded from th e la n d le s s w h ite o f s la v e r y d a y s. In
t h i s s tr u g g le betw een th e c la n o f S a r to r is and th e
u n scru p u lou s tr ib e o f Snopes, th e S a r to r is e s were d e
fe a te d in advance by a t r a d i t io n a l cod e th a t kep t them
from u s in g th e weapons o f th e enemy. . . .
In a l l h is n o v e ls d e a lin g w ith th e p r e s e n t, Faulkner
makes i t c le a r th a t th e d escen d a n ts o f th e o ld r u lin g
c a s t e have th e w ish b u t n o t th e co u ra g e or th e s tr e n g th
to p rev en t h is new d i s a s t e r . . . . th ey are robbed and
r e p la c e d in t h e ir p o s it io n s o f in f lu e n c e by th e Snopeses
( l ik e o ld Bayard S a r to r is , th e p r e s id e n t o f th e b an k),
or th e y drug th em selv es w ith elo q u en ce and a lc o h o l ( lik e
Q uentin Compson's f a t h e r ) or th ey r e t i r e in to th e i l l u
s io n o f b e in g in v io la b le Southern la d ie s ( l ik e Mrs. Comp-
so n , who sa y s, " It c a n 't be sim p ly to f l o u t and h u rt me.
Whoever God i s , He would n o t perm it t h a t . I'm a la d y ," ) ,
72
or th ey d w e ll so much on th e p a st th a t th ey are in c a p a b le
o f fa c in g th e p r e se n t ( l ik e Reverend H ightower o f L ight
in A u g u st), or th ey run from danger ( l ik e young Bayard
S a r to r is ) f r a n t i c a l l y se e k in g t h e ir own d e s tr u c tio n .
F a u lk n er's n o v e ls are f u l l o f w ell-m ea n in g and even
adm irable p e r so n s, n o t o n ly th e grandsons o f th e c o tto n
a r is t o c r a c y , b u t a ls o p i n e - h i l l farm ers and sto r e k e e p e r s
and sew ing-m achine a g e n ts and Negro cooks and sh a r e
croppers ; but th ey a re alm ost a l l o f them d e fe a te d by
circu m sta n ces and th e y ca rry w ith them a se n s e o f th e ir
own doom.
Jason i s " sane” b eca u se he a lig n s h im s e lf, id e o lo g i
c a l l y , w ith th e "unscrupulous tr ib e " d e sc r ib e d by Cowley.
He manages t o commit Benjy t o th e s t a t e asylum ; he sy stem
a t i c a l l y (and c le v e r ly ) rob s Miss Q uentin o f h er su p p ort
money; he s e l l s th e fa m ily p ro p erty ; and t o t a l l y d is s o lv e s
any c o n c e iv a b le a f f i l i a t i o n he m ight have once f e l t toward
th e Compson name and what i t form erly r e p r e se n te d .
J a so n 's s e c t io n (A p r il 6 , 1928) opens w ith a sta tem en t
about Miss Q uentin, "ONCE A BITCH, A LW A Y S A BITCH, what
I say" (p. 2 2 3 ). Miss Q uentin i s se v e n te e n and has been
r a is e d in an atm osphere o f h a tred and m is t r u s t . Speaking
o f Q u en tin 's m isb eh a v io r, C a r o lin e moans how her "own f l e s h
and b lood r o s e up to c u r se her"; sh e adds to Jason, "I
d o n 't mean you, . . . you a re th e o n ly one o f them th a t
~^The P o rta b le F aulkner (New York, 1 9 4 6 ), I n tr o d .,
pp. 1 4 -1 6 .
73
i s n ’ t a rep roach to me” (p. 2 2 4 ). The e v e r - f a i t h f u l D ilse y
c o n tin u e s to se r v e th e fa m ily , but Jason r e a l iz e s th a t sh e
i s h is "sworn enemy." In f a c t , Jason f e e l s surrounded by
"enem ies"; h is u n iv e r se i s a t o t a l l y m a t e r i a li s t i c one
where e v er y means i s employed t o g a in any ad van tage.
A m ajor ev en t in th e s e c t io n , d e sig n ed to i l l u s t r a t e
h is a lm o st l i m i t l e s s a b i l i t y to co rru p t and d egrad e, i n
v o lv e s Caddy and her in te n s e d e s ir e to s e e h er d au gh ter.
Jason a c c e p ts one hundred d o lla r s from Caddy to l e t her
s e e Q uentin " ju st . . . a m inute" (p. 2 5 1 ). He goes to
th e l iv e r y s t a b le , g e ts th e hack and Mink (th e d r iv e r ) ,
p ic k s up Q uentin, and arran ges to p ass by where Caddy i s
a n x io u sly a w a itin g th e m eetin g w ith h er d au gh ter:
I t o ld Mink t o d r iv e to th e d e p o t. He was a fr a id to pass
th e s t a b le , so we had to go th e back way and I saw her
sta n d in g on th e co rn er tinder th e l i g h t and I to ld Mink
to d r iv e c lo s e to th e w alk and when I s a id Go on, to
g iv e th e team a b a t. Then I took th e r a in c o a t o f f o f her
[M iss Q uentin] and h e ld her to th e window and Caddy saw
her and s o r t o f jumped forw ard. (pp. 2 5 4 -2 5 5 )
A fte r t h is a c t o f sa v a g ery , Jason r e tu r n s home, p le a se d
w ith h im s e lf . Caddy does n o t le a v e town; th e n e x t day, sh e
c o n fr o n ts him. His r esp o n se i s t y p ic a l:
"Are you crazy?" I s a y s . "What do you mean? coming
in h e r e l i k e t h is ?" . . . "What have you g o t t o sa y to
me?" I s a y s , "Didn’ t I do e v e r y th in g I s a id ? I s a id s e e
her a m in u te, d id n ’ t I? W ell, d id n ’ t you?" She j u s t
74
sto o d th e r e lo o k in g a t me, sh ak in g l ik e an a g u e - f i t , h er
hands clen ch ed and kin d o f je r k in g . "I d id j u s t what I
s a id I w o u ld ,” I s a y s . (pp. 2 5 5 -2 5 6 )
This a c t o f p e r fid y i s "n atural" t o Jason; h is eg o cen -
t r i c i t y i s such th a t he never fin d s h im s e lf (nor does
1 8
C a r o lin e ) in a m o ra lly or e t h i c a l l y in c o r r e c t p o stu r e .
This e v e r -p r e se n t a b i l i t y to r a t io n a liz e every a c tio n i s a
v i t a l a sp e c t o f h is r e c o g n itio n o f s e l f , and deepens th e
f i n a l iro n y o f M iss Q u entin’s le a v in g w ith th e money.
J a so n 's rage and fu ry l i t e r a l l y know no lim it s a f t e r t h i s
immense "wrong" has been d e a lt him; Faulkner e x h ib it s
J a so n ’ s rage in c o n flu e n c e w ith v a r io u s tim e sym b ols. The
t r a in o f a c tio n b e g in s in S e c tio n I I I , but i s p r im a r ily
se e n in S e c tio n IV. I t i s E a ster Sunday, A p r il 8, 1928,
and Q uentin has d isa p p ea r ed . Jason, e v er s u s p ic io u s and
18
C arvel C o llin s d is c u s s e s th e c r u e lt y in J a so n 's
n a tu re: "Jason i s ex trem ely se v e r e and c r u e l in h is r e p r e s
s io n o f freedom and p le a s u r e . Even h is m other th in k s th a t
he i s to o b r u ta l. He i s p h y s ic a lly and m e n ta lly c r u e l to
h is n ie c e ; he fa v o rs p o iso n in g th e p ig eo n s in th e square
even i f th e p o iso n w i l l a ls o k i l l d o g s. . . . h is method
w ith women i s to ’keep them g u e s s in g . I f you c a n 't th in k
o f any o th e r way t o s u r p r is e them, g iv e them a b u st in th e
j a w .’ . . . throughout J a so n ’s m onologue, we s e e him sp en d
in g enormous amounts o f energy in t h is c o n c e n tr a tio n upon
r e p r e s s iv e th ou gh ts and a c t s ." "The I n te r io r M onologues o f
The Sound and th e Fury. ” E n g lish I n s t it u t e E ssa y s. 1952,
p. 4 8 .
75
w a itin g fo r th e w o r st, im m ed iately se a rc h e s h is str o n g box
and fin d s th e money m issin g . He c a l l s th e s h e r i f f to
r ep o rt th e " t h e f t ,” and le a v e s th e h ou se. Faulkner d e
s c r ib e s th e h ou se:
The c lo c k tic k -to c k e d , solem n and profound. I t m ight
have been th e dry p u lse o f th e d ecayin g house i t s e l f ;
a f t e r a w h ile i t w h irred and c le a r e d i t s th r o a t and
str u c k s ix tim e s. (p. 355)
The house i s d eca y in g as Jason*s l i f e i s d e c a y in g . He s e e s
th e s h e r i f f , who i s j u s t i f i a b l y s u s p ic io u s o f J a so n 's
havin g so much ca sh a t home, and Jason le a v e s in an attem p t
t o fin d Miss Q uentin and th e money. It i s E a ste r , and "the
b e l l s w ere r in g in g a g a in , h igh in th e scudding s u n lig h t in
b r ig h t d is o r d e r ly t a t t e r s o f sound" (p. 3 8 0 ). Jason d r iv e s
"out o f th e b e l l s and ou t o f th e town" (p. 381) toward
M ottson, where he hopes to fin d Q uentin. Q uentin, how ever,
has l e f t th e area perm anently, w ith th e pitchm an from th e
to u r in g show. When Jason r e a l iz e s th a t sh e and th e money
a re ir r e v o c a b ly gone, he slumps in a b je c t m isery :
He s a t th e r e fo r som etim e. He heard a c lo c k s t r i k e
th e h a l f hour; th en p e o p le began to p a ss, in Sunday and
E aster c lo t h e s . Some look ed a t him as th ey p a sse d , a t
th e man s i t t i n g q u ie t ly behin d th e w h eel o f a sm a ll c a r ,
w ith h is i n v i s i b l e l i f e r a v e lle d out about him l i k e a
w om out so ck . (p . 391)
Perhaps nowhere in modem lit e r a t u r e i s th e r e a more
ap t and s u c c in c t e x p r e ss io n o f p o e tic j u s t i c e . Jason has
76
tr u ly been " fle e c e d " ; he has been robbed o f se v en thousand
d o lla r s (th r e e thousand accum ulated by c a r e f u l sa v in g over
a p erio d o f two d e c a d e s), b u t he cannot t e l l th e com plete
s to r y to th e p o lic e becau se th e b a la n c e o f th e money does
in f a c t b elo n g t o Quentin.
The f u l l s tr e n g th o f t h is iron y i s n o t se en in th e
o r ig in a l p u b lic a tio n o f The Sound and th e Fury. I t i s in
th e Appendix, th a t F aulkner, c le a r ly w ith d e l ig h t , r e v e a ls
a l l th e r a m if ic a t io n s o f th e a c tio n :
. . . i t was a lm o st seven thousand d o lla r s and t h is was
J a so n 's r a g e , th e red u n b earab le fu r y w hich on th a t n ig h t
and a t in t e r v a ls r e c u r r in g w ith l i t t l e or no dim inishm ent
fo r th e n e x t f i v e y e a r s, made him s e r io u s ly b e lie v e
would a t some unwarned in s ta n t d e str o y him, . . . th a t
a lth ou gh he had been robbed n o t o f a mere p e tty th r e e
thousand d o lla r s but alm ost sev en thousand d o lla r s
in s te a d o f j u s t th r e e he co u ld not o n ly n ev er t e l l any
body; . . . h e c o u ld n 't even go to th e p o lic e ; becau se
he had l o s t fo u r thousand d o lla r s w hich d id n o t b elon g to
him he c o u ld n 't even r ec o v er th e th r e e thousand which d id
s in c e th o s e f i r s t four thousand d o lla r s w ere n o t o n ly th e
l e g a l p ro p erty o f h is n ie c e as p art o f th e money su p p lie d
fo r her su p p ort and m aintenance by h er m other over th e
l a s t s ix t e e n y e a r s , th ey d id n o t e x i s t a t a l l , having
been o f f i c i a l l y record ed as expended and consumed in th e
annual r e p o r ts he su bm itted to th e d i s t r i c t C h a n cello r,
as req u ired o f him as gu ard ian and t r u s t e e by h is bonds
man; so th a t he had been robbed n o t o n ly o f h i s th ie v in g s
b u t h is sa v in g s to o , and by h is own v ic tim ; he had been
robbed n o t o n ly o f the fo u r thousand d o lla r s w hich he had
r is k e d j a i l t o acq u ire b u t o f th e th r e e thousand w hich
he had hoarded a t the p r ic e o f s a c r i f i c e and d e n ia l,
alm ost a n ic k e l and a dime a t a tim e , over a p e r io d o f
alm ost tw en ty y e a r s: and t h is n o t o n ly by h is own v ic tim
77
but by a c h ild who d id i t a t one blow , w ith o u t p rem ed ita
t io n or p lan , n o t even knowing or even c a r in g how much
sh e would fin d when sh e broke th e drawer open; and now
he c o u ld n 't even go to th e p o lic e fo r h e lp . (The Sound
and th e Fury/As I Lay Dying, pp. 2 0 -2 1 )
Olga W . V ickery p e r c e p tiv e ly d e s c r ib e s th e "double irony"
o f J a so n 's l o s s :
J a so n 's con cern w ith forms o f a c tio n r a th e r than w ith
th e a c tio n s th em selv es i s r e f l e c t e d in h is l e g a l i s t i c
v iew o f s o c ie t y and e s p e c i a l ly o f e t h i c s . I t i s on t h is
view th a t th e dou ble iron y o f Miss Q u en tin 's t h e f t o f
h is th ie v in g s h in g e s . He has r e t r ie v e d h is lo s s e s ,
s u ffe r e d b ecau se o f Caddy, a t th e exp en se o f Caddy's
dau ghter w ith o u t a c t u a lly b reak in g any law . . . . But
w ith h er own un prem editated a c t M iss Q uentin d e str o y s
th e work o f y e a r s ; more im portant, sh e i s as s a fe from
p r o se c u tio n d e s p it e her h e e d le s s n e s s as Jason was b ecau se
o f a l l h is c a r e . . . . The s h e r i f f r e fu s e s t o h e lp on th e
b a s is o f th e v e ry l e t t e r o f th e law Jason had so c a r e
f u l l y o b serv ed . Thus, he i s e f f e c t i v e l y h o is te d w ith h is
own p etard and f a i r l y d e fe a te d w ith h is own w eapons.
(p, 44 )
Jason is d e fe a te d by cir cu m sta n c es beyond h is c o n t r o l,
b u t he su cc ee d s in coming to l i f e as a c h a r a c te r in th e
n o v e l. His l i f e i s n ot c o m p lica ted by p h ilo s o p h ic a l is s u e s
o f tim e and t h e ir c o r r e la t io n t o i d e n t i t y . He a c c e p ts
f u l l y a c o g n it iv e tim e p a tte r n —and assum es a l l o th e rs do
to o — in which tim e i s som ething numbered, cou n ted , or
m easured. P errin Lowrey a n a ly z es J a so n 's co n cep t o f tim e:
Thus, Jason n ev er th in k s o f tim e as a continuum , but
alw ays in a m ech an ical and m in u te -to -m in u te s e n s e . He
has a f a t a l i s t i c a t t it u d e toward tim e , as w e ll; . . .
78
B ecause tim e r e p r e se n ts money t o him, he has a ten d en cy
to m easure tim e in term s o f th e f i r s t and l a s t o f th e
month; th e tim es when b i l l s come due and money comes in .
U n lik e Q uentin, he does n ot b e lie v e w atches l i e , but
q u ite th e c o n tr a r y , men l i e , b u t w a tch es, b eca u se th ey
are m ech an ical d e v ic e s , are to be t r u s t e d . ^
His w orld i s t o t a l l y e m p ir ic a l, and h is v a lu e s c o m p le te ly
a lig n e d w ith m a t e r i a li s t i c a c q u is it io n . His i d e n t it y i s
shaped around th o s e g o o d s. t a n g ib le good s, th a t he p o s
s e s s e s . The fa m ily name, th e v i s i o n o f th e p a s t, c o n c ep ts
o f a m e ta p h y sic a l, m oral, or e t h i c a l sy ste m --su c h c o n s id e r
a tio n s are f o l l y . Jason is . o n ly what he owns, and he ends
owning n o th in g . He i s in th e Snopeses* w orld , d e s p ite h is
name.
Jason, to be su r e , e x h ib it s one form o f th e d i s i n t e
g r a tio n o f th e Compson fa m ily , but S e c tio n IV o f The Sound
and th e Furv b e lo n g s p r im a r ily t o D ils e y and F aulkn er. I t
i s th e e a s i e s t s e c t io n t o rea d , and b r in g s to g e th e r th e
v a r io u s p a rts o f th e n a r r a tiv e t o form a f i n a l c o h e s iv e
w h ole. I t i s E a ste r, th e f e a s t o f r e b ir th , red em ption , and
hope, y e t w ith deep iro n y we s e e th e f i n a l ’’doom” o v e r
ta k in g th e Compson fa m ily .
19
"Concepts o f Time in The Sound and th e F u r v ."
E n g lish I n s t it u t e E ssa y s, pp. 7 7 -7 8 .
79
The tim e i s a v i t a l c o n s id e r a tio n throughout th e
s e c t io n , as th e v a r io u s c o g n it iv e p a tte r n s con verge in t o
th e f i n a l "sound and fu r y ." I t i s D ils e y , how ever, who
sta n d s un iqu e in h er t o t a l a ccep ta n ce o f tim e and i t s ram i
f i c a t i o n s , and " r is e s " on E a ster above any human lim it a
tio n s a p p a ren tly imposed by tim e.
As A p r il 8th b e g in s , "bleak and c h i l l , " D ils e y emerges
from her c a b in , w earing a " s t i f f b la c k straw h a t perched
upon her turban , and a maroon v e lv e t cape w ith a border
o f mangy and anonymous fu r above a d r e ss o f p u rp le s ilk "
(p. 3 3 0 ). She was once a la r g e woman w ith l i m i t l e s s
energy, but now sh e i s se e n as o ld and fa tig u e d , y e t s t i l l
in d o m ita b le :
She had been a b ig woman once but now h er s k e le to n r o s e ,
draped lo o s e ly in unpadded s k in th a t tig h te n e d a g a in
upon a paunch alm ost d r o p s ic a l, as though m uscle and
t i s s u e had been cou rage or f o r t it u d e w hich th e days or
th e y ea rs had consumed u n t i l o n ly th e in d o m ita b le s k e l e
ton was l e f t r is in g l i k e a r u in or a landmark above th e
som nolent and im pervious g u ts , and above th a t th e c o l
la p sed fa c e th a t gave th e im p r essio n o f th e bones them
s e lv e s b e in g o u ts id e th e f l e s h , l i f t e d in to th e d r iv in g
day w ith an e x p r e ss io n a t once f a t a l i s t i c and o f a
c h i l d ' s a sto n is h e d d isa p p o in tm en t, u n t i l sh e turned and
en tered th e h ou se a gain and c lo s e d th e d oor. (p. 33 1 )
She e n te r s th e Compson house and im m ed iately h ears
C a r o lin e 's p la in t iv e r e q u e st fo r th e h o t w ater b o t t l e . The
normal seq u en ce o f e v e n ts in tim e has been a lte r e d b ecau se
80
L uster o v e r s le p t . D ilse y sa y s th a t he " o v e r sle p d is mawnin,
up h a lf de n ig h t a t d a t show" (p. 3 3 4 ). L u ster, d e s p ite
alm ost in c r e d ib le o b s ta c le s (w ith p a r tic u la r in te r fe r e n c e
by Jason J r . ), has managed to a tte n d th e to u r in g show, th e
show o f th e pitchm an who le a v e s w ith Q uentin and th e money.
D ils e y ta k e s c a r e o f th e morning c h o r e s --a tte n d in g t o
B enjy, h e a tin g th e h ou se, and p rep arin g b r e a k fa st--a n d
keeps a ttu n ed t o th e k itc h e n c lo c k and th e tim e i t in d i
c a te s :
C h i th e w a ll above a cupboard, i n v i s i b l e sa v e a t n ig h t,
by lamp l ig h t and even th en e v in c in g an en ig m a tic pro
fu n d ity b eca u se i t had but one hand, a c a b in e t c lo c k
tic k e d , then w ith a p relim in a ry sound as i f i t has
c le a r e d i t s th r o a t, str u c k f i v e tim e s. (p. 341)
The c lo c k i s " in c o r r e c t ," b u t th e r e i s no c o n fu sio n on
D ils e y 's p a rt; "E ight o c lo c k ," D ils e y sa y s (p. 3 4 2 ). She
knows th e "proper" tim e as sh e knows th e Compson fa m ily ,
in tim a te ly and a b s o lu te ly . I t i s sh e who "manages somehow
to keep l i f e fu n c tio n in g in th e f e c k le s s Compson h o u se
h o ld ." 20
Today i s E a ste r , and D ils e y has been prom ised tim e t o
a tten d th e s e r v ic e a t her church. She p la n s to ta k e Benjy,
20
Mary Cooper Robb, W illiam F au lk n er: An E stim ate o f
h is C o n trib u tio n to th e Modern American N ovel (P ittsb u r g h ,
19 5 7 ), p. 4 2 .
81
who, b e fo r e th e s e r v ic e , foresh adow s, alm ost in c la ir v o y a n t
fa s h io n , th e "sound and fury" sym b olic theme o f th e e n d in g :
Then Ben w a ile d a g a in , h o p e le ss and p rolon ged . I t was
n o th in g . J u st sound. I t m ight have been a l l tim e and
i n j u s t i c e and sorrow become v o c a l fo r an in s ta n t by a
c o n ju n c tio n o f p la n e t s . (p. 359)
There i s a "music o f th e sp h eres" h e r e, b u t i t i s a harsh
and d isc o r d a n t m u sic, s ig n if y in g d is in t e g r a t io n and d eath ,
r a th e r than in t e g r a t io n , harmony, and l i f e . D ils e y calm s
B enjy, but h is p l a i n t i v e w a il s e r v e s as background sound
throughout th e coming church s e r v ic e .
The church, s im ila r to o th e r s in F a u lk n er's work,
sta n d s and has d e f i n i t e m eaning in th e l i v e s o f some major
c h a r a c te r s , but t h i s p a r tic u la r one i s ram shackle,
w eath ered , w ith a "crazy s te e p le " (p . 3 6 4 ). I t seem s a l
m ost p a r t o f a s ta g e s e t , y e t i t does e x i s t in tim e and
s p a c e :
. . . th e w hole sc e n e was as f l a t and w ith o u t p e r sp e c
t i v e as a p a in ted cardboard s e t upon th e u ltim a te edge
o f th e f l a t e a r th , a g a in s t th e windy s u n lig h t o f sp ace
and A p r il and a midmorning f i l l e d w ith b e l l s . (p . 364)
The v i s i t i n g p reach er i s , a t f i r s t , a d isap p oin tm en t
to th e c o n g r e g a tio n . When f i r s t se e n , "an in d e s c r ib a b le
sound went up, a s ig h , a sound o f aston ish m en t and d is a p
pointm ent" (p. 3 6 5 ). Hie sound i s s im ila r to B e n jy 's
82
e a r lie r sym b olic pronouncem ent, b u t th e p reach er, who has
"a w izen ed b la c k fa c e lik e a sm a ll, aged monkey” (p . 3 6 5 ),
soon in v o lv e s th e c o n g r e g a tio n in a t o t a l l y em p ath etic
u n io n :
And th e c o n g r eg a tio n seemed to watch w ith i t s own eyes
w h ile th e v o ic e consumed him , u n t i l he was n o th in g and
th ey w ere n o th in g and th e r e was n ot even a v o ic e but
in s te a d t h e ir h e a r ts were sp ea k in g to one an oth er in
c h a n tin g m easure beyond th e need fo r w ords, so th a t when
he came to r e s t a g a in s t th e read in g d esk , h is monkey fa c e
l i f t e d and h is w hole a t t it u d e th a t o f a se r e n e , to r tu r e d
c r u c i f ix th a t tran scen d ed i t s sh a b b in ess and i n s i g n i f i
ca n ce and made i t o f no moment, a long moaning e x p u ls io n
o f b rea th r o se from them, and a woman*s s in g le sop ran o:
”Y es, J e s u s ! ” (pp. 3 6 7 -3 6 8 )
Benjy s i t s s i l e n t l y as "Two te a r s s l i d down h er [ D ils e y * s ]
ch eek s, in and out o f th e m yriad c o r u sc a tio n s o f im m olation
and a b n eg a tio n and tim e" (p . 3 6 8 ). P eter Sw iggart u se s
t h is d e s c r ip t io n to d is c u s s D ilse y * s r o le as a "tim e sym
b ol" :
During th e sermon . . . D ils e y becomes h e r s e lf a tim e
sym bol, her sunken ch eek s r e p r e s e n tin g human e v e n ts and
h er s l i d i n g tea rd ro p s th e flo w o f tim e. Her r o le su g
g e s t s th e d e s t r u c t iv e im pact o f tim e and in d ic a t e s th e
p o s s i b i l i t y o f a r e l ig i o u s v i s i o n by w hich th e i n d i
v id u a l can f r e e h im s e lf a t l e a s t from d e s p a ir , (p . 106)
The p r e a c h e r 's theme in v o lv e s "de r ic k lic k s h u n en de
Blood o f de Lamb" (p. 3 6 9 ), th e c o n c e p t, s y m b o lic a lly i n t e
g r a l to th e Compson fa m ily sa g a — th e s u f f e r in g , th e s a c r i
f i c e , th e b lo o d --y e t th e co n cep t o f ren ew al o f th e
83
g e n e r a t io n s :
"I s e e s de L ight en I s e e s de w orld , po sin n e r ! Dey
p assed away in Egypt, de sw in g in c h a r io ts ; de g e n e r
a tio n s p a ssed away. . . .
I s e e s de r e s u r r e c tio n en de l i g h t ; s e e s de meek
J esu s sa y in g Dey k i l t M e d at ye s h a l l l i v e a g a in ; I d ied
d a t dem what s e e s en b e lie v e s s h a l l n ever d ie . Breddren,
0 breddren: I s e e s de doom cra ck en h ea rs de gold en
horns s h o u tin down de g lo r y , en de a r is e n dead whut g o t
de b lo o d en de r ic k lic k s h u n o f de Lamb!" (pp. 3 6 8 -3 7 0 )
The p rea ch er has found a l l tim e in now, b eca u se o f th e
word " r ic k lick sh u n " and i t s im p lic a t io n s ; he has found a
way to b r in g p a s t e te r n a l v e r i t i e s in t o p r e se n t tim e, and
p r o je c t th e s e " v e r it ie s " in t o th e prom ise o f a fu tu r e
s a lv a t io n . B ecause he f u l l y u n d erstan d s th e v a l i d i t y o f
v a lu e s in th e p a s t, and t h e ir s u s ta in in g q u a lit y in th e
p r e se n t, he can speak w ith a ssu ra n ce o f a red em p tive
fu tu r e . I r o n ic a lly , how ever, he i s sp ea k in g n ea r th e end
o f a n o v e l in w hich m ost o f th e c h a r a c te r s can n ot c o n c e iv e
o f any kin d o f c r e d ib le ren ew al or r e s u r r e c t io n . There i s
f u l l u n d erstan d in g o n ly in D ilse y * s mind as sh e s i t s n e x t
t o th e p e r s o n ifie d in n ocen ce o f B enjy:
In th e m id st o f th e v o ic e s and th e hands Ben s a t ,
r a p t in h is sw eet b lu e g a z e . D ils e y s a t b o lt u p rig h t
b e s id e , c r y in g r i g i d l y and q u ie t ly in th e annealm ent
and th e b lo o d o f th e remembered Lamb. (pp. 3 7 0 -3 7 1 )
Ir v in g Howe e f f e c t i v e l y d e s c r ib e s th e sy m b o lic im port o f
th e church a c tio n :
84
Toward th e end th e r e i s a sc e n e in a Negro church, in
w hich a l l th a t has happened i s brought t o a coda by th e
m arvelous sermon o f a Negro p rea ch er. . . . Here th e
foreground a c tio n and th e C h r istia n r e fe r e n c e s seem to
draw c lo s e r , . . . to a llo w th e language o f th e C h r istia n
drama, as i t has been p reserv ed by th e N egroes, to en
fo r c e a t a c i t judgment on th e ending o f th e Compsons.
(p. 4 8 )
The s e r v ic e over, i r o n ic a l ly p a r a lle lin g th e "ending” o f
th e Compsons, D ilse y r i s e s , g a th e rs h er group, and b e g in s
th e w alk home. S t i l l th in k in g o f th e sermon and i t s r e l a
tio n s h ip to th e Compsons, sh e rem arks, " I 'v e se ed de f i r s t
en de la s t " (p. 3 7 1 ). She i s n o t u n d erstood (by th o s e
around her in th e n o v e l) on th e l i t e r a l l e v e l , and c o n
t in u e s , "I seed de b e g in n in , en now I s e e s de endin"
(p. 3 7 1 ). A lthough sh e has su cceed ed in fin d in g a m eaning
f u l c o g n it iv e p a tte r n in tim e (h er th ou gh ts c e r t a in ly
p a r a lle l th e serm on), sh e r e a l iz e s w ith sa d n ess th a t th e
Compsons, h er "adopted" fa m ily , are m oving toward a f i n a l
d is in t e g r a t io n ; and th a t sh e i s p o w erless to a l t e r th e
in e sc a p a b le f a c t o f th e oncoming d is a s t e r .
Back home, sh e q u ie t s th e a g a in v o c a l B enjy:
"Hush. D ils e y g o t you ." But he b ello w ed s lo w ly ,
a b j e c t ly , w ith o u t t e a r s ; th e grave h o p e le s s sound o f
a l l v o i c e le s s m ise ry under th e su n . (p. 395)
D ils e y rock s back and fo r th , s tr o k in g B en's head. "Dis
lon g tim e, 0 J e su s ," sh e s a id , "Dis lo n g tim e" (p. 3 9 6 ).
85
D ils e y s e e s th e "long tim e" o f h er own l i f e and th a t o f th e
d ecayin g Compsons; her sta tem en t le a d s , in th e n e x t and
l a s t sc e n e o f th e n o v e l, t o B enjam in's f i n a l "hoarse agony"
as h e s y m b o lic a lly , w ith a broken n a r c is s u s in h is hand,
scream s th e f i n a l "sound and fury" o f th e s i l e n t and dead
Compsons.
D ilse y i s a rem arkable c h a r a c te r in f i c t i o n , b oth as
an a e s t h e t ic e n t it y , and as a c h a r a c te r who, d e s p ite major
o b s t a c le s , c r e a te s fo r h e r s e l f a p e r c e p tiv e and m ean in gfu l
id e n t it y in tim e . Even though sh e se r v e s fo r many decades
th e members o f a d is in t e g r a t in g fa m ily , sh e manages to
esca p e th e co n ta g io n o f t h e ir l o s s o f id e n t it y , t h e ir
"doom." She "sees" th e fra g m e n ta tio n o f c h a r a c te r and
i d e n t it y around h er, but sh e rem ains in d o m ita b le in h er own
str u c tu r e d id e n t it y . Time i s n o t h er enemy, b ecau se to h er
i t i s n o t m ech an ical or lin e a r , m oving from a g lo r io u s p a st
to a m ea n in g less p r e se n t. She s e e s E a ster as r e o c c u r r in g :
a l l tim e i s co n ta in e d in "now" b eca u se o f "de r ic k lic k s h u n
o f de Blood o f de Lamb." The p a s t, and th e m essage to her
o f J e su s, i s c u r r e n t; tim e i s h er a l l y . She rem ains im
m o rta l, or n o n -a ffe c te d by tim e, b eca u se o f h er f a i t h .
John W . Hunt s e e s c le a r l y D ils e y 's " su c ce ss" :
86
More than any o th e r c h a r a c te r , D ilse y e x e m p lifie s a
r e a l i s t i c liv i n g in th e fa c e o f th e e v e n t’ s f u l l fo r c e .
This r e a lis m i s h er " t r u t h ," th e way sh e d e a ls w ith
e x p e rien ce t o e l i c i t i t s v a lu e . "I does de b es I kin"
shows an endurance in h i s t o r i c a l tim e, n o t in fe a r or
f r a n t ic h o s t i l i t y , but w ith a s e r e n it y stemming from a
r e a l i s t i c c o n fid e n c e in l i f e . (p. 93)
D ils e y i s , f i n a l l y , perhaps F aulkn er’ s m ost s u c c in c t
r e a l iz a t i o n o f th e s u c c e s s f u l human b ein g who i s "im m ortal,
n ot b eca u se he a lo n e among c r e a tu r e s has an in e x h a u s tib le
v o ic e , b u t b eca u se he has a s o u l, a s p i r i t ca p a b le o f com-
21
p a ssio n and s a c r i f i c e and endurance."
Although F aulkner s t a t e d t h a t, even a f t e r t e l l i n g th e
Compson s to r y fo u r ways through fo u r p o in ts o f v iew in
The Sound and th e Furv. "I s t i l l fa ile d " (Gwynn and
B lo tn e r, p. 1 ) , i t i s d i f f i c u l t t o fin d m ajor a e s t h e t ic
f a u l t w ith th e book. The t i t l e lea d s d i r e c t l y in t o th e
f i r s t s e c t io n , where a m ixed, y e t a e s t h e t ic a l ly o b j e c t iv e
n a r r a tiv e r e v e a ls B enjy, th e i d i o t , th e f i r s t c h a r a c te r to
su g g e st a l i f e o f "sound and fu r y ." His "tim e" i s no tim e,
and h is p a r t ia l s t a t e s o f aw areness lea d th e rea d er on to
th e expanded and e x p la n a to r y l a t e r s e c t io n s . Jason S r .,
many y ea rs b e fo r e th e n o v e l b e g in s , has abandoned h is
21
W illiam F aulkner: E ssa y s. Speeches and P u b lic
L e tte r s , ed. James B. M eriw ether (New York, 1 9 6 5 ), p . 120.
87
attem p ts to e s t a b lis h an e f f e c t i v e l i f e - r a t i o n a l e . He
e x i s t s throughout th e n o v e l as a man d e fe a te d , com posing
" c a u stic and s a t i r i c e u lo g ie s on both h is dead and h is
liv i n g fellow -tow nsm en" (The Sound and th e Furv/As I Lay
Dying, p. 8 ) . Q uentin, h is so n , attem p ts to s tr u c tu r e some
meaning in tim e b y a lt e r in g p a s t e v e n ts , but h is i n a b i l i t y
to "see" h im s e lf c le a r l y in tim e lea d s him to s u ic id e .
Like th e o th e r Compsons, he fin d s h im s e lf in a "cursed"
s it u a t io n in tim e , and th e r e i s seem in g ly no a lt e r n a t iv e
to th e v i s i o n . Jason J r . v ig o r o u s ly attem p ts t o le a v e th e
Compsons in a t t it u d e and m o tiv a tio n , but he to o i s caught
up by c ir c u m sta n c e s, i r o n i c a l l y , o f h is own m aking. He
attem p ts t o com pete in a w orld d evoid o f th e v a lu e s once
r e p r e se n te d by th e Compson name, and in e v it a b ly f a i l s .
C arolin e a ls o f a i l s to s a lv a g e any id e n t it y fo r h e r s e l f in
th e n o v e l; sh e r e t r e a t s in t o an im agined u n iv e r s e where
h er every a c tio n i s j u s t i f i e d . Her overw helm ing s e n s e o f
s e l f - p i t y p rev en ts h er from e s t a b lis h in g any m ea n in g fu l
r e la t io n s h ip w ith her fa m ily . She, more than h er husband
or her son Q uentin, sim p ly " g iv es u p ." Candace and h er
dau ghter Q uentin le a v e th e fa m ily ; Faulkner d oes n o t
d e s c r ib e p r e c is e ly how th e y fa r e , b u t Caddy i s s e e n l a t e r
88
as a d is tr a u g h t m other, and Q u en tin 's esca p e w ith th e
pitchm an (a lrea d y under in d ictm en t fo r bigam y) r e v e a ls an
attem p t t o le a v e a t o t a l l y n e g a tiv e s i t u a t i o n .
There rem ains D ils e y , th e one m ajor c h a r a c te r in th e
book who has an id e n t it y in tim e b oth s u s ta in in g and en
d u rin g . Even though th e church sh e a tte n d s i s ram shackle
w ith a "crazy" s t e e p le , sh e r e c o g n iz e s th e r e h er a f f i n i t y
w ith a l l men who have liv e d in a l l tim e . She r e a l iz e s th a t
through h er f r e e w i l l , sh e can s tr u c tu r e p a st through
memory and fu tu r e through a n t ic ip a t io n . She i s n ot trapped
by tim e; sh e i s lib e r a t e d . As a member o f th e human
fa m ily , sh e s e e s h e r s e l f as one w ith a l l o th e r s who s u f f e r ,
y e t fin d c o g e n t meaning in l i f e . She p r e v a ils , b ecau se sh e
c h o o ses t o p r e v a il, and h er a t t it u d e tu rn s The Sound and
th e Fury from a n i h i l i s t i c sta te m en t t o a sta tem en t o f com
p a s sio n , o f hope, o f im m o rta lity .
F aulkner was asked i f h is words in th e N obel P rize
sp eech in d ic a te d a "great f a i t h in mankind, . . . n o t o n ly
to endure b u t p r e v a il. . . . Do you th in k t h a t ' s th e im
p r e s s io n th e average rea d er would g e t a f t e r rea d in g The
Sound and th e Furv?" (Gwytm and B lo tn e r , p . 4 ) . F a u lk n er's
answer sp eak s f o r h is o th e r n o v e ls as w e ll as fo r The Sound
and th e F u rv:
89
I c a n ’ t answer th a t b ecau se I don ’ t know what th e
average rea d er g e ts from rea d in g th e book. I a g ree th a t
what I t r ie d t o say I f a i le d to sa y , and I n ever have
had th e tim e t o read rev iew s so I d o n ’ t know what im
p r e s s io n p e o p le m ight g e t from th e book. But in my
o p in io n , y e s , th a t i s what I was ta lk in g about in a l l
th e b ook s, and I f a i l e d t o say i t . I a g ree w ith you,
I d id f a i l . But th a t was what I was tr y in g to s a y - -
th a t man w i l l p r e v a il, w i l l endure b eca u se he i s cap ab le
o f com passion and honor and p r id e and endurance.
(Gwynn and B lo tn e r , pp. 4 - 5 )
CHAPTER IV
AS I LAY DYING
Faulkner has s a id th a t As I Lav Dying was a to u r de
fo r c e r a th e r h a s t i l y w r itt e n :
I took t h is fa m ily [th e Bundrens] and su b je c te d th en t o
th e two g r e a t e s t c a ta s tr o p h e s w hich man can s u f f e r —
flo o d and f i r e , t h a t ' s a l l . That was sim p le to u r de
f o r c e . That was w r itt e n in s i x weeks w ith o u t ch angin g
a word b ecau se I knew from th e f i r s t where th a t was
g o in g . (Gwyrm and B lo tn e r , p . 87)
In th e p r e fa c e to San ctu ary, w r itte n in 1932 (As I Lay
Dying was f i r s t p u b lish ed in 1 9 3 0 ), Faulkner was more s p e
c i f i c co n cern in g th e g e n e s is o f th e n o v e l:
I g o t a job in th e power p la n t, on th e n ig h t s h i f t , from
6 P.M. to 6 A.M., as a c o a l p a s s e r . I sh o v ele d c o a l from
th e bunker in t o a w heelbarrow and w h eeled i t in and
dumped i t where th e firem an c o u ld put i t in t o th e b o i l e r .
About 11 o 'c lo c k th e p e o p le w ould be g o in g to bed, and
s o i t d id n o t ta k e much steam . Then we co u ld r e s t , th e
firem an and I . He w ould s i t in a c h a ir and d o z e . I had
in v e n te d a t a b le o u t o f a w heelbarrow in th e c o a l bunker,
j u s t beyond a w a ll w here th e dynamo ra n . I t made a d eep ,
c o n sta n t humming n o is e . There was no more work t o do
u n t i l about 4 A.M ., when we would have to c le a n th e f i r e s
and g e t up steam a g a in . On th e s e n ig h t s , betw een 12
and 4 , I w rote As I Lav Dying in s i x w eeks, w ith o u t
90
91
changin g a word. 1 s e n t i t t o Smith and w ro te him th a t
by i t I w ould sta n d or f a l l . *
The n o v e l i s more p u z z lin g , a t f i r s t r e a d in g , than
The Sound and th e Furv. a lth o u g h th e in t e r io r m onologue
s tr u c tu r e i s s im ila r (fragm ented s e c t io n s adding up to a
f i n a l e n t i t y ) . As I Lav Dying i s d iv id e d in t o f i f t y - n i n e
s e c t io n s , d e s c r ib in g an e x o t ic , som etim es g r o te sq u e , f o r t y -
m ile jo u rn ey to bury Addie Bundren in J e ffe r s o n .^ The
a c tio n i s p r im a r ily concerned w ith Anse, th e r a th e r la z y
m ale head o f th e fa m ily ; A ddie, h is r e lu c ta n t w if e , who
fo r c e s th e b u r ia l t r i p to J e ffe r s o n ; Cash, th e e ld e s t c h ild
and " r e a lis t " in th e fa m ily ; D ari, th e second son , con
sid e r e d somewhat " cra zy ," who i s f i n a l l y i n s t i t u t i o n a l i z e d ;
Jew el, th e i l l e g i t i m a t e son o f A ddie and Reverend W hit
f i e l d ; Dewey D e ll, th e se v e n te e n -y e a r o ld s in g le - - a n d
pregn an t—d au gh ter; and Vardaman, th e you n gest son ,
i
Sanctuary (New York, 1 9 3 2 ), p . v i i .
o
W illiam Van O'Connor d is c u s s e s th e broad sym b olic
r a m ific a tio n s o f th e fu n e r a l p r o c e s s io n : "The fu n e r a l j o u r
ney co u ld s u g g e s t th e M osaic tr e k o u t o f Egypt, th e c r o s s
in g o f th e r iv e r Jordan, th e d i f f i c u l t jou rn ey o f th e dead
a c r o ss th e r iv e r S ty x , th e lo n g caravan s on sa c r e d jo u r n e y s
t o Mecca o r t o some sa n ctu a ry w ith in M ongolia or T ib e t.
Addie B undren's fu n e r a l p r o c e s s io n has an e p ic to n e . I t i s
a r i t u a l , th e f u l f i l l i n g o f a p ro m ise." W illiam F aulkner
(M in n eap olis, 1 9 5 9 ), p . 15.
92
con fu sed and " lo s t" in h is attem p t to "find" h is m other.
A lthough th e n a r r a tio n i s b a s i c a l ly c h r o n o lo g ic a l, th e
a c tio n i s s e e n from a number o f p o in ts o f v ie w . D ari, th e
m ost r e f l e c t i v e o f th e c h a r a c te r s , n a r r a te s n in e te e n s e c
t io n s ; Vardanian, who m ost d e s p e r a te ly a ttem p ts to keep h is
m other " a liv e ," n a r r a te s te n s e c t io n s . The prim ary v ie w
p o in t from o u ts id e th e fa m ily i s p rovid ed by th e Bundrens*
n eig h b o rs, Mr. T u ll and h is w if e , Cora, who n a r r a te n in e
s e c t io n s , and by a number o f r e l a t i v e l y m inor c h a r a c te r s .
The f o r t i e t h s e c t io n , tw o -th ir d s o f th e way through th e
n o v e l, i s n a r r a te d by A ddie, and p r o v id e s th e b a s ic rea so n s
fo r th e str a n g e jo u r n e y . F aulkner, how ever, in th e s e c
tio n s le a d in g up t o A d d ie*s, a llo w s th e rea d er s lo w ly to
c o n str u c t i n tim e th e str a n g e (o fte n b iz a r r e ) m o tiv a tio n s
th a t en ab le th e in d iv id u a l c h a r a c te r s t o p a r t ic ip a t e in th e
rig o r o u s t r i p from th e farm t o th e graveyard in J e ffe r s o n .
The s to r y l i n e i s n o t p a r t ic u la r ly c o m p lic a te d . As
th e n o v e l b e g in s , Addie Bundren l i e s d yin g on th e Bundren
farm some d is ta n c e from J e ffe r s o n , th e cou n ty s e a t . She
has e x tr a c te d a p rom ise from Anse t o bury h er in J e ffe r s o n .
B ecause o f u n fo re se en o b s t a c le s , how ever, i t ta k e s n in e
days fo r A ddie*s r e q u e s t to b e f u l f i l l e d (a f a c t w e ll n o ted
93
by p a sse rsb y b eca u se o f th e odor o f th e dead b o d y ). Flood
w a ters ca u se a lt e r a t io n s in th e o r ig in a l p lan ; a b a m
tem p o ra rily h o u sin g A ddie*s body i s burned by D ari; Cash
breaks h i s le g ( i t i s su b seq u e n tly s e t in a c o n c r e te c a s t ) ;
Jew el c o n s ta n tly a ttem p ts to " p ro tect" h is m other; Dewey
D e ll t r i e s t o arran ge an a b o r tio n ; Vardaman t r i e s to fin d
h is " l o s t ” m other, and t o o b ta in a red to y t r a in he has
se e n in a s t o r e window in J e ffe r s o n ; and Anse su b se q u e n tly
a c q u ir e s " th e second" Mrs. Bundren and " sto re-b o u g h t"
t e e t h .
Mary Cooper Robb h as a c c u r a te ly d e t a ile d th e fu n e r a l
p r o c e s s io n a s a " ch allen ge" fo r th e B undrens:
. . . th e fa m ily s e t s ou t to s o lv e th e m ost demanding
problem i t has e v e r c o n fr o n te d . . . . T h eir g r i e f fo r
Addie h e r s e l f i s n o t g r e a t enough t o move them, s in c e fo r
t h e ir kin d g r i e f i s a lu x u ry . Keeping th em selv es a l i v e
ta k e s a l l t h e ir tim e. T h eir m orals a re s u b je c t t o con
s id e r a t io n s o f e x p e d ien cy . But o f t h i s one th in g th ey
a re su r e : A ddie must be b u ried a s sh e had w ish ed and as
th e y have prom ised, (p . 12)
A ddie*s r e f l e c t i o n s a r e o f m ost im p ortan ce, a s h er
mem ories o f th e p a st and h er a t t it u d e s toward th e fa m ily
ca u se th e jo u rn ey th a t i s t o make up th e n a r r a tiv e . Her
i n t e r io r m onologue p r e se n ts th e fa m ily as sh e s e e s i t , p a s t
and p r e s e n t, and s u g g e s ts th e theme o f tim e and i t s r e l a
tio n t o l i f e and d e a th . T his lin k in g o f th e n a r r a tiv e
94
tec h n iq u e to th e image o f d ea th has been s k i l l f u l l y e x
p lo red by John K. Simon:
Hie c e n t r a l e x p e r ie n c e o f th e n o v e l i s th e p r o c e ss o f
d y in g , w hether a c tu a l d e a th , d eath o f th e moment, or th e
dead rap p ort betw een o b je c t and o b s e r v e r . . . . The
Sartrean n o tio n o f l e reg a rd , th e o b j e c t i f i c a t i o n o f
g e s tu r e and lan gu age i s rendered by th e v e r y n a r r a tiv e
str u c tu r e o f As I Lay Dying w ith i t s s u c c e s s iv e , f r a g
m entary n a r r a tio n s.3
Addie b e g in s h er s e c t io n by remembering th a t b e fo r e
sh e m arried Anse, sh e was a d is c o n te n te d s c h o o l te a c h e r :
In th e a fte r n o o n when s c h o o l was o u t and th e l a s t one
had l e f t w ith h is l i t t l e d ir t y s n u f f lin g n o se , in s te a d
o f g o in g home I would go down th e h i l l t o th e sp r in g
where I c o u ld be q u ie t and h a te th a n . ( I t a l i c s m in e .)
She remembers th a t h er fa th e r u sed t o say "the rea so n fo r
liv in g was to g e t read y to s t a y dead a lo n g tim e"; sh e
th in k s o f h er fa th e r w ith h a tred " for h avin g e v er p la n ted
m e ," and g a in s some m easure o f reven ge by w a itin g fo r th e
s c h o o lc h ild r e n t o f a u l t "so I co u ld whip them" (p. 1 5 7 ).
And "So," c o n tin u e s A ddie, " I took Anse" (p. 1 5 9 ).
The l i n e , and th e grim d e s c r ip t io n p reced in g i t , f o r e
shadows th e l a t e r q u a lit y o f h er l i f e . L iv in g i s " p a in ,"
3
"Faulkner and S a r tr e : M etam orphosis and th e O bscene,"
Com parative L ite r a tu r e . XV (Summer 1 9 6 3 ), 220.
^As I Lav Dying (London, 1 9 6 2 ), p. 157.
95
as sh e r e v e a ls , and words are n o t c o r r e la te d to m ean in gfu l
a c tio n in tim e:
And when I knew th a t I had Cash [h er f i r s t c h i ld ] , I knew
th a t l iv i n g was t e r r i b l e and th a t t h i s was th e answer
t o i t . That was when I lea r n e d th a t words a re no good;
th a t words don*t e v e r f i t even what th ey a re tr y in g to
say a t . When h e was born I knew th a t motherhood was i n
v e n ted by someone who had to have a word fo r i t w hether
th e r e was a word f o r i t o r n o t . I knew th a t fe a r was
in v e n te d by someone th a t had n ev er had th e fe a r ; p r id e ,
who n ev er had th e p r id e . I knew th a t i t had b een , n o t
th a t th ey had d ir t y n o s e s , b u t th a t we had had t o u se
an oth er by words l i k e s p id e r s d a n g lin g by t h e ir mouths
from a beam, sw in gin g and t w is t in g and n ev er to u c h in g ,
and th a t o n ly through th e blow s o f th e sw itc h co u ld my
b lood and t h e ir b lo o d flo w a s one stream . 1 knew th a t
i t had b een , n o t th a t my a lo n e n e ss had t o be v io la t e d
over and ov er each day, b u t th a t i t had n ev er been
v io la t e d u n t i l Cash came. Not even by Anse in th e
n i g h t s .
He had a word, t o o . Love, he c a lle d i t . But I had
been used to words f o r a lon g tim e . I knew th a t th a t
word was l i k e th e o th e r s : j u s t a shape t o f i l l a la c k ;
th a t when th e r ig h t tim e came, you w o u ld n 't need a word
fo r th a t any more th an f o r p r id e or f e a r . . . .
M y a lo n e n e ss had b een v io la t e d and th en made w hole
a g a in by th e v i o la t i o n : tim e , A nse, lo v e , what you w i l l ,
o u ts id e th e c i r c l e . (pp. 1 5 9 -1 6 0 )
A ddie*s " alon en ess" seem s a n e c e ss a r y con com itan t t o
h er p e r so n a l se n se o f " b ein g ." "Time, A nse, lo v e " —m ost
humans and e v e n ts in h er l i f e —e x i s t " o u tsid e th e c ir c le "
o f h er in n er r e a l i t y . Words, in p a r t ic u la r , a re tr e a c h e r
o u s, b eca u se th ey su g g e s t a r e a l i t y th a t i s in f a c t i l l u
so r y :
96
I would th in k how words go s t r a ig h t up in a th in l in e ,
q u ick and h a r m less, and how t e r r i b ly d o in g goes alon g
th e e a r th , c lin g in g t o i t , s o th a t a f t e r a w h ile th e two
l in e s are to o fa r a p a rt fo r th e same p erso n to s tr a d d le
from one t o th e o th e r ; and th a t s i n and lo v e and fe a r
are j u s t sounds th a t p e o p le who have n ev er sin n ed n or
lo v ed nor fe a r e d have fo r what th ey n ev er had and can n ot
have u n t i l th e y fo r g e t th e w ords. (p. 162)
Her d e s c r ip t io n o f th e i n v a l i d i t y o f th e v e r t i c a l
p a tte r n , th e ’’th in l i n e ” o f words m oving up w ith l i t t l e or
no ta n g ib le m eaning, c o n tr a s te d to "doing . . . along th e
e a r th , c lin g in g to it " h o r iz o n t a l im ages, i s q u ite r e v e a l
in g when compared t o A n se's r e f l e c t i o n s on th e n atu re o f
r e a l i t y and i d e n t i t y , found in th e n in th s e c t io n o f th e
n o v e l:
When He [A n se 's con cep t o f God] aim s f o r som ething t o
b e alw ays a-m oving, He makes i t lo n g w ays, l i k e a road
or a h o r se or a wagon, but when He aim s f o r som ething t o
s ta y p u t, He makes i t up-and-down w ays, l i k e a tr e e or
a man. And so h e n ever aimed f o r f o lk s t o l i v e on a
road , b eca u se w hich g e t s th e r e f i r s t , 1 s a y s , th e road
or th e h ou se? . . . B ecause i f He'd a aimed fo r man t o
be alw ays a-m oving and g o in g somewheres e l s e , w o u ld n 't
He a put him longways on h i s b e l l y , l i k e a snake? I t
sta n d s to r ea so n He w ould. (pp. 3 0 -3 1 )
Anse f e e l s , in h is u s u a l r a th e r sim p le fa sh io n , th a t
l i f e , or "m eaningful" r e a l i t y , i s a lig n e d w ith a v e r t i c a l
im age, "a t r e e or a man." A n se 's "up-and-down ways" do n o t
fin d a f f i n i t y w ith th e h o r iz o n t a l co n cep t su g g ested by
A ddie. T heir m arriage, from th e f i r s t , was str a n g e ,
97
e x o t ic , b iz a r r e , and i t i s n o t s u r p r is in g th a t th e c h ild r e n
r e f l e c t t h i s . Ir v in g Howe su g g e s ts th e c a u s a l r e l a t i o n
sh ip :
. . . A ddle*s s o lilo q u y makes c le a r th a t th e c o n f l i c t s
among th e c h ild r e n a re r o o te d in th e l i v e s o f t h e ir
p a r e n ts, in th e f a i lu r e o f a m arriage. I t i s Addie who
dom inates th e book, th r u s tin g h er son s a g a in s t each
o th e r a s i f th e y w ere w arrin g elem en ts o f h er own
c h a r a c te r , (p. 177)
Addie i s so in f u r ia t e d when sh e i s pregnant w ith Dari
th a t she b e lie v e s sh e w i l l * 'k ill A nse. I t was as though
he had tr ic k e d me, h id d en w ith in a word l i k e w ith in a paper
screen and str u c k me in th e back through it'* (pp. 1 6 0 -1 6 1 ).
I t i s a t t h is p o in t in h er l i f e th a t sh e p la n s th e reven ge
d e sc rib ed in th e n o v e l:
. . . I r e a liz e d th a t I had been tr ic k e d by words o ld e r
than Anse or lo v e , and th a t th e same word had tr ic k e d
Anse to o , and th a t my rev en g e would be th a t he would
n ever know I was ta k in g r ev e n g e . And when D ari was b om
I asked Anse t o prom ise t o ta k e me back to J e ffe r s o n
when I d ie d , b e c a u se I knew th a t fa th e r had been r ig h t ,
even when he c o u ld n 't have known he was r ig h t any more
than I cou ld have known I was wrong, (p . 161)
Her con cep t o f i d e n t i t y i s a s s o c ia te d w ith h er se n se
o f 'V io la tio n , " and, in term s o f th e p a tte r n s o f im agery,
w ith " sh ap es." Anse, sh e s u g g e s ts , i s "dead" t o h e r , and
h er i n i t i a l " r e a lity " as a woman has been " v io la te d " by
Cash and D ari. She th in k s o f h er hu sb an d 's name, and th e
98
word changes to a con cep t o f " sh a p e ," w hich has v io la t e d
h er b e in g , p a r t ic u la r ly h er s e x u a l id e n t i t y :
. . . I co u ld s e e th e word a s a sh ap e, a v e s s e l , and I
would w atch him liq u e fy and flo w in t o i t l ik e c o ld
m o la sse s flo w in g ou t o f th e d ark n ess in t o th e v e s s e l ,
u n t i l th e ja r sto o d f u l l and m o tio n le s s : a s i g n i f i c a n t
shape p rofou n d ly w ith o u t l i f e l i k e an empty door fram e;
and th en I would fin d th a t I had fo r g o tte n th e name o f
th e j a r . I would th in k : The shape o f my body where I
u sed t o be a v i r g i n i s in th e shape o f a and I
c o u ld n 't th in k Anse. c o u ld n 't remember A nse. (p . 161)
The b lan k in th e p a ssa g e i s in t e n t io n a l; A d d ie's sym b olic
se x u a l r e v e r ie a t t h i s p o in t i s a g a in a s s o c ia te d w ith h er
se n se o f i d e n t i t y . Anse (th e word and th e man) h a s, on a
number o f m ean in gfu l l e v e ls in th e n o v e l, "flow ed" in to
h er; th e r e s u lt i s th e f i n a l l o s s o f th e word, a s r e p r e
se n te d by th e b lan k , m ost a p p lic a b le t o A ddie*s s e n s e o f
s e x u a l s e l f .
A fte r D a r i's b ir t h , Addie has an a f f a i r w ith Reverend
W h itfie ld . J u st as Q uentin, in The Sound and th e Fhrv.
f e e l s th a t a ccep ta n ce o f a " te r r ib le " s i n w i l l p r o v id e , in
some s e n s e , a r e a l i t y fo r h im s e lf and Caddy in an e v e r
la s t in g h e l l , A d d ie's a f f a i r i s an attem p t to put "blood"
or m eaning in to words and a c t i o n s :
I would th in k o f s i n as I would th in k o f th e c lo t h e s we
[A ddie and W h itfie ld ] b oth wore in th e w o r ld 's f a c e , o f
th e c ir cu m sp ec tio n n e c e ssa r y b ecau se he was he and I
was I; th e s in th e more u t t e r and t e r r i b l e s in c e he was
99
th e in stru m en t ord ain ed by God who c r e a te d th e s in , to
s a n c t if y th a t s i n He had c r e a te d . W hile I w a ited fo r
him in th e woods, w a itin g fo r him b e fo r e he saw me,
I would th in k o f him as d r e sse d in s i n . I would th in k
o f him as th in k in g o f me as d r e sse d a ls o in s in , he more
b e a u t if u l s in c e th e garment w hich he had exchanged fo r
s in was s a n c t i f i e d . I would th in k o f th e s i n a s garm ents
which we would remove in ord er to shape and c o e r c e th e
t e r r i b le b lo o d to th e fo r lo r n echo o f th e dead word h ig h
in th e a i r . (p . 163)
Olga W . V ickery p e r c e p tiv e ly e x p lo r e s A ddie*s m o tiv a
tio n fo r " s in n in g ” :
[A d d ie*s] sudden and b r i e f a f f a i r w ith W h itfie ld c o n s t i
t u t e s A d d ie's attem p t t o e x p lo r e t h i s new r e la t io n s h ip
betw een words and a c t s , fo r i t encom passes even as i t
d i f f e r e n t i a t e s betw een two q u ite d i s t i n c t c o n c e p tio n s o f
s i n . As a word, s in i s th e o p p o s ite o f v ir t u e and le a d s
in e v it a b ly to dam nation. . . . But a s an a c t , s i n may be
a s te p toward s a lv a t io n . . . . Through s in , Addie se ek s
to fin d and e n a c t h er own hum anity, and i f h er s o lu tio n
seems extrem e, so i s h er p r o v o c a tio n . For th e a lt e r n a
t i v e , as sh e s e e s i t , i s th e m oral m yopia o f th o se who
l i v e by w ords. (pp. 5 4 -5 5 )
The r e s u lt o f th e l i a i s o n betw een Addie and Reverend W hit
f i e l d i s Jew el; b eca u se o f t h i s , Addie g iv e s Anse Dewey
D e ll to " n e g a tiv e ," or make up fo r J e w e l's i lle g it im a c y
(o f w hich Anse i s unaw are). The l a s t c h ild i s Vardaman t o
" rep la ce th e c h ild I had robbed him o f" (p . 1 6 5 ).
Addie has thu s produced th r e e c h ild r e n (Cash, D ari,
and Vardaman) who "belong" t o Anse. She h as " liv e d ," how
e v e r , o n ly in th e s e n s e o f J ew el, th e r e s u l t o f th e " t e r
r i b l e b lo o d ." Dewey D e ll i s b o m to e x p ia te th e f a c t o f
100
J e w e l's e x is t e n c e . I t i s a t t h i s p o in t and w ith t h is l in e
o f rea so n in g th a t Addie d e c id e s "I co u ld g e t ready to d ie "
(p. 1 6 5 ).
A d d ie's s e c t io n se r v e s as th e sym b olic eye o f th e n a r
r a t iv e v o r te x th a t i s th e n o v e l. Each c h a r a c te r , in h is
way, i s shaped v e ry s i g n i f i c a n t l y by h is a t t it u d e toward
and r e la t io n s h ip t o A ddie. Donald T r it s c h le r to u ch es upon
t h is theme o f in te r d e p e n d e n c e :
S in ce each member [ o f th e Bundren fa m ily ] in some way
c a r r ie s th e te n a c io u s in flu e n c e o f Addie Bundren upon h is
p e r so n a l c o n s c io u s n e s s , he m ust j o i n in th e fa m ily
s t r u g g le to la y h er to r e s t in ord er t o fin d an id e n t it y
th a t i s ind ep en dent o f her.-*
I t i s no wonder th a t Anse g iv e s Addie l i t t l e purpose
or se n s e o f d ir e c t io n in h er own l i f e . He i s seen th rou gh
out th e n o v e l as a f ig u r e lim ite d in b o th i n t e ll i g e n c e and
p a ssio n , y e t t o t a l l y com m itted to h is prom ise to retu r n
Addie to J e ffe r s o n . He i s a p r a c t ic a l man, ca p a b le o f im
p r o v is a tio n as th e jou rn ey r e q u ir e s i t ; h is " p r a c t ic a lit y ,"
how ever, a t tim es becomes g r o te sq u e —ev en hum orously g r o
te sq u e .
As nom inal head o f th e h o u seh o ld , he i s th e le a d e r o f
-*"The U nity o f F a u lk n er 's Shaping V is io n ," Modem
F ic t io n S tu d ie s. V (W inter 1 9 5 9 -6 0 ), 3 4 2 .
101
th e r a th e r e x o t ic o d y ssey from th e farm t o J e ff e r s o n . He
i s guid ed by h is se n se o f th e " p r a c t ic a l," th e w orkab le,
and a t r i t e l i s t o f aph orism s. E arly in th e n o v e l - - in
f a c t , b e fo r e A ddie*s d e a th —he arran ges f o r th e h o r se s and
wagon, b eca u se "I m is l i k e u n d e c is io n a s much a s e re a man"
(p. 1 3 ). He b e lie v e s th a t th e "Old M arster" w i l l c o r r e c t ly
g u id e h is a c t i o n s :
I have heard men c u ss t h e ir lu ck and r ig h t , f o r th e y were
s i n f u l men. But I do n o t say i t ' s a c u r se on me, b ecau se
I have done no wrong t o be cu ssed b y . I am n o t r e l i
g io u s , 1 reck o n . But peace i s my h e a r t: I know i t i s .
I have done th in g s b u t n e ith e r b e t t e r n or w orse th an them
th a t p reten d o th e r w is e , and I know th a t Old M arster w i l l
c a re f o r me as f o r e r e a sparrow th a t f a l l s . (p. 3 2 )
Im m ediately a f t e r A d d ie's d e a th , Anse, in h is p r a c t i
c a l fa sh io n , t e l l s Dewey D e ll t o "put supper o n ," s t a t i n g ,
"God's w i l l be don e. Now I can g e t them te e th " (p. 4 7 ) .
His i n t e r e s t in d e n tu re s and f i n a l l y , h is a c q u is it io n o f
th e "second Mrs. Bundren" are b oth " p r a c tic a l" r e s u l t s o f
h is b a s ic o b lig a t io n to ca rry Addie home t o J e ff e r s o n .
His r e a c tio n to d i f f i c u l t y d u rin g th e jou rn ey i s a l
ways th e same. God, a s he u n d erstan d s Him, has "chosen"
Anse to lea d th e way, and th e w i l l o f God m ust be fo llo w e d ,
even i f a t tim es th e " w ill" seem s " c u r io u s." When fa ce d
w ith th e flo o d in g r iv e r , Anse rem arks:
102
W e drove a l l th e r e s t o f th e day and g o t t o Sam son's a t
d u sk “dark and th en th a t b r id g e was gone, to o . They
h a d n 't n ev er se e n th e r iv e r so h ig h , and i t ' s n o t done
r a in in g y e t . There was o ld men th a t h a d n 't n ev er seen
nor heard o f i t b e in g so in th e memory o f man. I am th e
ch osen o f th e Lord, fo r who He lo v e th , so d oeth He c h a s-
t i s e t h , b u t 1 be durn i f He d o n 't ta k e some c u r io u s ways
t o show i t , seem s l i k e .
But now I can g e t them t e e t h . That w i l l be com fort.
I t w i l l . (p. 98)
When th e c o r te g e a r r iv e s in J e ffe r s o n , Anse p u lls up
th e h o r se a t th e house o f th e woman who i s t o become th e
"second Mrs. Bundren." Cash s u g g e s ts " It was l i k e he
[A nse] knowed. Sometimes I th in k th a t i f a w orking man
co u ld se e work a s f a r ahead a s a la z y man can s e e l a z in e s s .
So he stop p ed th e r e l i k e he knowed" (p. 2 2 3 ).
At th e end o f th e n o v e l, th e fu n e r a l com pleted and
w ith i t A n te 's se n s e o f o b lig a t io n t o A ddle, he marries**
and in tr o d u c e s th e new step m oth er t o th e c h ild r e n :
" I t ' s Cash and Jew el and Vardaman and Dewey D e ll," pa
sa y s , k in d o f hangdog and proud to o , w ith h is te e th and
a l l , even i f he w o u ld n 't look a t u s . "Meet Mrs. Bun
d ren ," he s a y s . (p. 248)
David F. S a d ler has su g g e ste d an in t e r e s t in g th eo ry
th a t Anse n ev er l e g a l l y m arried th e "second Mrs. Bundren,"
d e s p it e F a u lk n e r 's sta tem en t th a t h e had (F aulkner in th e
U n iv e r s ity , p. 1 1 1 ). S ad ler c i t e s th e c o n v e r sa tio n r eg a r d
in g money betw een Anse and Cash, and A n se 's su b seq u en t
"hangdog" e x p r e s s io n as e v id e n c e o f th e c o n c lu s io n . "The
Second Mrs. Bundren: Another Look a t th e Ending o f As I Lav
D y in g ." American L ite r a tu r e . XXXVII (March 1 9 6 5 ), 6 5 -6 9 .
Anse, from one p o in t o f v iew , i s n o t a co m p lica ted
fig u r e in th e n o v e l; he has n ever f u l l y u n d erstood e it h e r
Addie or th e c h ild r e n . He h as plodded through l i f e , doin g
"God’ s w i l l , " e v er su re o f h is id e n t it y in tim e . L ife i s
d i f f i c u l t , on o c c a sio n , fo r him; but h e, w ith "God’ s h e lp ,"
alw ays fin d s a way to manage. From A ddie*s p o in t o f v iew ,
and perhaps F au lk n er’ s , Anse has been "dead" fo r many y ea rs
b ecau se he t o t a l l y la c k s th e c a p a c ity fo r s e l f - a n a l y s i s ,
change, or p r o g r e ss io n . He s e e s h im s e lf as one o f God’ s
c r e a tu r e s , w ith h is path in l i f e c le a r ly in d ic a te d by th e
God o f r e v e la t io n in th e B ib le . Never d oes he q u e s tio n ;
c ircu m sta n ces may ca u se a d e v ia tio n from th e " tru e p a t h ,"
but Anse a lw a y s, in some k in d o f p r a c t i c a l, o ft e n macabre
way, fin d s h is way back to th e "proper" p o s it io n . T his
" r ig id ity " o f c h a r a c te r has i t s e f f e c t on th e c h ild r e n .
Cash, th e e ld e s t so n , p r a c t ic a l in h i s way as Anse i s
in h i s , e x h ib it s a d e f i n i t e m a tu ra tio n in th e n o v e l. Addie
has r eq u e sted a str o n g , w e l l - b u i l t c o f f i n and, a s sh e l i e s
d y in g , sh e can s e e Cash w orking and h ear th e co m fortin g
sound o f h is c o n s tr u c tin g , in h is workm anlike way, th a t
"box":
. . . a good c a r p e n te r , Cash i s . He h o ld s th e two plan ks
on th e t r e s t l e , f i t t e d a lo n g th e ed ges in a q u a rte r o f
104
th e fin is h e d box. He k n e e ls and sq u in ts a lon g th e edge
o f th an , then he low ers them and ta k e s up th e ad ze.
A good c a r p e n te r . Addie Bundren co u ld n o t want a b e t t e r
one, a b e t t e r box to l i e in . (p . 2 )
The c o f f i n i s n o t f in is h e d when Addie d i e s , but Cash does
n o t ru sh h is work t o produce som ething l e s s than p e r fe c t .
S e c tio n E ig h teen , Cash’ s f i r s t s e c t io n in th e n o v e l, e x
p la in s q u ite s p e c i f i c a l l y how and, more im p ortan t, why th e
c o f f i n was c o n str u c te d . A lthough Cash’ s n a r r a tio n i s com
p l e t e l y s e r io u s from h is p o in t o f v ie w , th e r e i s a to n e o f
macabre —even g r o te sq u e - -humor:
I made i t on th e b e v e l.
1. There i s more su r fa c e fo r th e n a i l s to g r ip .
2 . There i s tw ic e th e g r ip p in g -s u r fa c e to each seam.
3 . The w ater w i l l have to se e p in t o i t on a s la n t .
Water moves e a s i e s t up and down or s t r a ig h t a c r o s s .
4 . In a house p e o p le are u p r ig h t tw o -th ir d s o f th e
tim e. So th e seams and j o i n t s a r e made up-and-dow n.
B ecause th e s t r e s s i s up-and-dow n.
5 . In a bed where p e o p le l i e down a l l th e tim e, th e
j o i n t s and seams are made sid ew a y s, b eca u se th e s t r e s s
i s sid ew a y s.
6 . E xcep t.
7. A body i s n o t square l i k e a c r o s s - t i e .
8 . Animal m agnetism .
9 . The anim al m agnetism o f a dead body makes th e
s t r e s s come s la n t in g , so th e seams and j o i n t s o f a c o f f i n
are made on th e b e v e l.
10. You can s e e by an o ld gra v e th a t th e e a r th sin k s
down on th e b e v e l.
11. W hile in a n a tu r a l h o le i t s in k s by th e c e n tr e ,
th e s t r e s s b ein g up-and-down.
12. So I made i t on th e b e v e l.
13. I t makes a n e a te r jo b . (p . 7 5 )
105
The l i s t , a t f i r s t r e a d in g , seems to in d ic a te th e extrem e,
perhaps sh o ck in g , p r a c t i c a li t y o f Cash as h e e x p la in s h is
p h ilo so p h y and method o f c o n s tr u c tio n . But a c lo s e r exam i
n a tio n p ro v id es c lu e s to a s u s ta in e d sym b olic p a tte r n o f
geo m etric d egree and a n g le im agery employed throughout th e
n o v e l.
There i s th e s u g g e s tio n th a t th e box i t s e l f e x h ib it s
C ash's a t t it u d e toward human l i f e - - l i f e th a t in some se n se
seems to go on a f t e r th e body i s p la c ed in th e c o f f i n .
Cash s t a t e s th a t p eo p le are " u p righ t tw o -th ir d s o f th e
t im e ," and, th e r e fo r e , th e y are " str e sse d " p r im a r ily a lon g
v e r t i c a l form s. In bed, he c o n tin u e s , th e s t r e s s i s s i d e
w ays, so ap p roxim ately o n e -th ir d o f th e human b e in g i s
s t r e s s e d h o r iz o n t a lly . A fte r a body i s dead, how ever, th e
"anim al magnetism" c a u se s a s la n tin g s t r e s s (th e midway
a n g le betw een th e v e r t i c a l and th e h o r iz o n t a l) , and so a l l
th e seams and j o i n t s o f th e c o f f i n a r e "made on th e b e v e l."
T his i s o n ly "proper" and " c o r r e c t," so th a t th e dead body
w i l l r e s t com fortab ly w ith o u t w ater se e p in g in t o th e
c o f f i n . Cash f e e l s th a t h i s "proof" i s e m p ir ic a l; he
p o in ts out th a t th e e a r th s in k s on th e s l a n t , or b e v e l, in
a g r a v e, w h ile , " in a n a tu r a l h o le , i t s in k s by th e c e n tr e ."
106
H is con cern h e r e , and l a t e r in th e n a r r a tio n , i s to keep
th e c o f f i n (now th a t i t has been c o r r e c t ly made) in i t s
proper p o s it io n and "balanced" so th a t i t w i l l co n tin u e to
se r v e a s a s u it a b le and e f f e c t i v e v e h ic le fo r A d d ie's
str a n g e jo u r n e y . The f i n a l u n u su al a c t in p rep a ra tio n o f
c o f f i n and body i s th e placem ent o f Addie in th e c o f f i n .
T u ll, a n eig h b o r, d e s c r ib e s th e sc e n e :
They had la id her in i t [th e c o f f i n ] r e v e r s e d . Cash
made i t c lo c k -s h a p e , l i k e t h i s w ith every
j o i n t and seam b e v e lle d and
It was h er wedding d r e ss and i t had a f la r e - o u t bottom ,
and th ey had la id h er h ea t to f o o t in i t so th e d r e ss
co u ld sp read o u t. (pp. 7 9 -8 0 )
C ash's con cern w ith "balance" r e f l e c t s th e proper
a t t e n t io n and c a re due to A ddie, who rem ain s, even though
p h y s ic a lly dead, v ery much " a liv e" in d iv e r s e ways in th e
m inds o f h er fa m ily . Only w ith a p r o p e r ly "balanced" c o f
f i n can Addie s u c c e s s f u lly com p lete th e jo u rn ey to her
f i n a l r e s t in g p la c e . In S e c tio n Itoenty-TWo (C ash 's e a r ly
s e c t io n s are r a th e r s h o r t, perhaps r e f l e c t i n g h is se n se o f
com p actn ess; he i s d e f i n i t e l y n ot a " ta lk e r " ), he s p e c i f i
c a l l y sp eak s o f th e n e c e s s it y o f "b alan ce":
scrubbed w ith th e p la n e
as a drum and n e a t a s a
b a s k e t, and th e y had
t ig h t
sew ing
la id
h er in i t head to f o o t
w o u ld n 't cru sh h er
so i t
d r e s s .
107
" It w on 't b a la n c e . I f you want i t to t o t e and r id e
on a b a la n c e , we w i l l h a v e "
"Pick u p . Goddamn you, p ic k up."
"I'm t e l l i n g you i t w o n 't t o t e and i t w on 't r id e on
a b a la n ce u n le s s "
"Pick up! P ick up, goddamn your th ic k -n o se d s o u l to
h e l l , p ick up!"
I t w o n 't b a la n c e . I f th e y want i t to t o t e and r id e
on a b a la n c e , th e y w i l l h a v e (p . 87)
In S e c tio n T h irty -F o u r, E arl r e l a t e s th e fo r d in g o f
th e sw o lle n r iv e r , and C ash's r o le i s o f v i t a l im portance.
B efore th e a c tu a l fo r d in g , Cash tw ic e warns th e fa m ily th a t
th e c o f f i n i s n o t p r o p erly " b alan ced ." But th e d e c is io n
to c r o s s th e r iv e r i s made, and Cash ta k e s th e r e in s and
low ers th e team c a r e f u lly and s k i l l f u l l y in t o th e stream :
I f e l t th e c u rren t ta k e u s and I knew we were on th e
fo rd bv th a t r ea so n , s in c e i t was o n ly by means o f th a t
s lip p in g c o n ta c t th a t we co u ld t e l l th a t we w ere in
m otion a t a l l . What had once been a f l a t su r fa c e was now
a s u c c e s s io n o f trou gh s and h i l l o c k s l i f t i n g and f a l l i n g
about u s. sh ovin g a t u s . t e a s in g a t u s w ith l ig h t la z y
to u ch es in th e v a in in s t a n t s o f s o l i d i t y u n d e r fo o t. Cash
look ed back a t me. and th en I knew th a t we were g o n e.
But I d id n o t r e a l i z e th e r e a so n f o r th e rope u n t i l I
saw th e lo g . I t su rged u p out o f th e w ater and sto o d f o r
an in s t a n t u p rig h t upon th a t sa g g in g and h eavin g d e s o la
t io n l i k e C h r ist. Get o u t and l e t th e c u rren t ta k e you
down to th e bend. Cash s a id . You can make i t a l l r i g h t .
No. I s a id . I'd g e t iu s t a s w et th a t wav a s t h i s .
(p . 135)
The lo g , about t o s t r i k e and o v ertu rn b oth team and
wagon, i s v e r t i c a l , " u p rig h t, upon th a t su rg in g and h ea v in g
d e s o la t io n l i k e C h r ist." S i g n if i c a n t l y , i t does s t r i k e th e
108
team and wagon:
. . . th e lo g r e a r s In a lon g s lu g g is h lu n ge betw een u s ,
b ea rin g down upon th e team . . . th e wagon sh e e r s c r o s s
w is e , p o ise d on th e c r e s t o f th e fo rd as th e lo g s t r ik e s
i t , t i l t i n g i t up and on. Cash i s h a l f tu rn ed , th e r e in s
running ta u t from h is hand and d isa p p e a r in g in t o th e
w a ter, th e o th e r hand reached back upon A ddie, h o ld in g
h er jammed o v er a g a in s t th e h ig h s id e o f th e wagon.
(p. 137)
D e sp ite C ash's alm ost h e r cu le a n e f f o r t , th e wagon and
c o f f i n t i l t in t o th e r iv e r . T u ll, in r e la t in g th e accou nt
t o Cora, sa y s th a t th e lo g (a lre a d y s y m b o lic a lly a lig n e d
w ith C h r is t) "had been s e n t th e r e t o do a jo b and done i t
and went on":
The wagon hung fo r a lon g tim e w h ile th e c u r re n t b u i l t
up under i t , sh o v in g i t o f f th e fo r d , and Cash le a n in g
more and m ore, tr y in g to keep th e c o f f i n braced so i t
w o u ld n 't s l i p down and f i n i s h t i l t i n g th e wagon o v e r.
Soon as th e wagon g o t t i l t e d good, t o where th e cu rren t
co u ld f i n i s h i t , th e lo g w ent on. I t headed around th e
wagon and went on good as a swimming man co u ld have done.
I t was l i k e i t had been s e n t th e r e to do a jo b and done
i t and w ent o n . (p . 141)
Cash su c c e e d s, f i n a l l y , in r ea c h in g th e d is t a n t sh o r e .
A lthough th e wagon t i l t s in th e w a te r, th e c o f f i n rem ains
a tta c h e d , and b o th o b je c ts are a t l a s t s t i l l and q u ie t on
th e fa r sh o r e , th e c o f f i n " ly in g p ro fo u n d ly , th e lo n g p a le
p lan k s hushed a l i t t l e w ith w e ttin g y e t s t i l l y e llo w , l i k e
g o ld se e n through w a te r, sa v e f o r two lo n g muddy smears"
(p . 1 4 5 ). Cash i s b o th exh au sted and in ju r e d by th e
109
e f f o r t ; h is le g i s broken (in c r e d ib ly s e t in a c o n c r e te
c a s t by Anse and th e f a m ily ) , and he a g a in , in h is v ery
b r i e f S e c tio n T h ir ty -E ig h t, remarks on th e w eig h t d i s t r i b u
t io n o f wagon and c o f f i n :
I t w asn’ t on a b a la n c e . I t o ld them th a t i f th ey
wanted i t to t o t e and r id e on a b a la n c e , th e y would
have t o (p. 153)
Cash i s q u ite s p e c i f i c in h is c o n sta n t recom m endation fo r
adequ ate b a la n c in g , b u t, a t t h i s p o in t in th e n o v e l, he
does n o t seem t o u n derstand f u l l y "how" to a c h ie v e what i s
"proper." The q u o ta tio n ends w ith o u t a com pleted p r e d i
c a t e . He rem ains d e d ic a te d t o th e co m p letio n o f th e j o u r
n e y , d e s p ite h is broken le g ; " It don’ t b o th er me n on e," he
i n s i s t s , and " It f e e l s f i n e ." H is in s ig h t in th e s i t u a t i o n
deepens a s th e fa m ily f in is h e s " h elp in g him ":
W e r e p la c e th e s p l i n t s , th e c o r d s, drawing them t i g h t ,
th e cem ent in th ic k p a le g reen slo w su rg es among th e
c o r d s, Cash w atch in g us q u ie t ly w ith th a t profound q u es
tio n in g lo o k . (pp. 195-196; i t a l i c s m in e .)
He would lik e tim e somehow to d is s o lv e th e r e s p o n s ib i li t y
t o A ddie, but t h i s i s im p o ss ib le , and th e e x tr a o rd in a r y
jo u rn ey c o n tin u e s .
C ash's lo n g e s t s e c t io n in th e n o v e l, S e c tio n F i f t y -
Three, in d ic a te s th e m a tu ra tio n a c h ie v e d through h is
a c tio n s and e x p e r ie n c e s in th e jo u r n e y . For on ce, he ta k e s
110
tim e to r e f l e c t , to ponder th e human p o s it io n ; he e x h ib it s
a to le r a n c e , a wisdom, th a t i s a t v a r ia n c e w ith h is e a r l ie r
r a th er sim p le and d ir e c t r e a c t io n s .
He r e a l i z e s th a t D ari i s g u i l t y o f s e t t in g f i r e to
G il l e s p i e ' s b a m (an a c t th a t comes p r e c ip it o u s ly c lo s e to
d e str o y in g A ddie*s body and th e c o f f i n ) , and th a t D ari must
be co n sid er ed somewhat " crazy." He r e f l e c t s w ith m a tu r ity
on th e n a tu re o f s a n i t y :
Sometimes I a i n ' t so sh o w ho's g o t e re a r ig h t t o say
when a man i s crazy and when he a i n t . Sometimes I th in k
i t a i n ' t none o f us pure c ra z y and a i n ' t none o f us pure
sane u n t i l th e b a la n ce o f u s t a lk s him th a t-a -w a y . I t ' s
lik e i t a i n ' t so much what a f e llo w d o e s, b u t i t ' s th e
way th e m a jo r ity o f f o lk s i s lo o k in g a t him when he does
i t . (pp. 2 1 9 -2 2 0 ; i t a l i c s m in e .)
This seems a p a r t ic u la r ly a p p ro p ria te comment on C ash's
p a r t, a s , from c e r t a in p o in ts o f v ie w , th e w hole Bundren
fa m ily i s "crazy" t o have acced ed t o A ddie*s w ish es and
embarked on an in c r e d ib ly d i f f i c u l t f o r t y - m ile fu n e r a l p ro
c e s s io n .
Cash c o n tin u e s h i s r e f l e c t i o n on th e jou rn ey and su g
g e s t s th a t " I thou ght more than once . . . how i t would be
God's b le s s in g i f He d id ta k e h er ou ten our hands and g e t
sh u t o f her in some c le a n way" (p . 2 2 0 ). Cash has done
more than h is p a rt in th e str a n g e ad ven tu re th a t i s As I
Lay Dying, and he co n clu d es th e n o v e l by a g a in r e f l e c t i n g
I l l
on th e n a tu re o f man. A fte r th e fa m ily i s back home a t th e
farm (D ari has been i n s t i t u t i o n a l i z e d ) , th e y l i s t e n to th e
m usic provid ed by Mrs. Bundren*s "graphophone," and Cash
th in k s "what a shame D ari c o u ld n 't be [h e r e ] t o e n jo y i t
to o . But i t i s b e t t e r so fo r him . T his w orld i s n o t h is
w orld; t h i s l i f e h i s l i f e " (p. 2 4 8 ).
Cash i s s u c c e s s f u l, n o t o n ly in s a t i s f a c t o r i l y com-
p le t in g th e m is s io n a ss ig n e d him by A ddie, b u t in s tr u c t u r
in g a co g en t id e n t i t y fo r h im s e lf in tim e . When f i r s t seen
in th e n o v e l, he i s a lm o st th e "m echanical" man, p r o f ic ie n t
w ith " t o o ls ," y e t , a p p a r e n tly , b e r e f t o f s u b t le human f e e l
in g s , a t t it u d e s and r e f l e c t i o n s . I t i s th e jo u rn ey i t s e l f ,
a m icrocosm o f m an's jou rn ey from l i f e to d e a th , th a t
m atures Cash and w idens h i s v i s i o n . Olga W . V ick ery p e r
c e p t iv e ly c r e d it s some o f C ash 's m a tu ra tio n t o th e p a in he
e n d u re s:
H is e x c lu s iv e p reo ccu p a tio n w ith c o n c r e te t a n g ib le ob
j e c t s y ie ld s t o a more f l e x i b l e , im a g in a tiv e v i s i o n .
The v io le n c e he s u f f e r s i s , i f n o t th e c a u se , th en th e
means o f t h i s profound tr a n sfo r m a tio n . The tw ic e broken
le g and th e p a in w hich h e a c c e p ts w ith o u t p r o t e s t , a s
Addie had a c ce p ted th e v io le n c e o f h i s b ir t h , pave th e
way fo r th e e x te n s io n o f h is range o f aw areness and fo r
h i s in c r e a se d s e n s i t i v i t y b oth t o e v e n ts and t o p e o p le .
( The N ovels o f W illiam F aulkner, p. 5 7 )
At th e c o n c lu s io n o f th e n o v e l, Cash " sees" h im s e lf as
112
human, an in t e g r a l p a r t o f th e fa m ily o f man; he r e a l i z e s ,
p a r t ic u la r ly in h is sym p ath etic d is c u s s io n s o f D ari, th e
immense v a r ie t y and depth th a t c o n s t it u t e "man." He
em erges, in every p o s it iv e s e n s e , a s a t o le r a n t human—
f u l l y aware o f th e ex tr a o rd in a r y range o f human e x is t e n c e .
A lthough i t i s n e c e ss a r y to i n s t i t u t i o n a l i z e D ari, h is
" in s a n ity " — or " s a n ity ," Cash w onders— i s a b a s ic c o n s id e r
a tio n t o a f u l l u n d erstan d in g o f th e n o v e l. D ari i s
A ddie*s secon d so n , and i s one o f F au lk n er’ s m ost c l a i r
voyan t c h a r a c te r s . The n eig h b o rs (as w e ll as some o f th e
Bundrens) th in k o f him as "the q u eer one"; he i s , how ever,
a r a th e r profound c h a r a c te r , c a p a b le o f e x tr a o r d in a r y i n
s i g h t s , and seem s, a e s t h e t i c a l l y , th e m ost im portant o f th e
Bundren o f f s p r in g . He i s fe a r e d —perhaps d e s p is e d —by both
Jew el and Dewey D e ll: J e w e l's a t t it u d e i s b ased on D a r i's
somehow "knowing" o f J e w e l's ill e g it i m a c y ; and Dewey D e ll
i s aware th a t D ari has found out th e s e c r e t o f her p reg
nan cy.
D ari n a r r a te s n in e te e n o f th e f i f t y - n i n e s e c t io n s o f
th e n o v e l. The book b e g in s w ith h i s o b j e c t iv e d e s c r ip t io n
o f Jew el and h im s e lf a s th ey r e tu r n from th e f i e l d s and
h ear th e sound o f Cash c o n s tr u c tin g A d d ie's c o f f i n , a s sh e
113
l i e s d y in g . H yatt H. Waggoner p o in ts ou t tn e sym b olic
im portance o f D arl*s r o le :
S in ce D ari i s th e member o f th e fa m ily who " sees" th e
m ost, and s e e s m ost o b j e c t iv e ly , i t i s f i t t i n g th a t we
g e t our in tr o d u c tio n n o t o n ly to th e Bundrens but t o th e
sym b olic r e v e r b e r a tio n s o f t h e ir jou rn ey f i r s t through
him . What D ari s e e s i s tr u e , and what he th in k s alw ays
r e v e a ls more than h is own id io s y n c r a s ie s . . . .
D a r i's openin g ch a p ter i s f a c t u a l, im a g is t ic , o b je c
t i v e . (p. 6 3 )
In S e c tio n T hree, D ari d e s c r ib e s Jew el and h is sym b olic
r e la t io n s h ip t o h o r se s:^
Save fo r Jew el*s le g s th e y [th e h o r se and J ew el] a re l ik e
two f ig u r e s carved f o r a ta b le a u savage in th e sun.
When Jew el can alm ost tou ch him, th e h o r se sta n d s on
h i s h in d le g s and s la s h e s down a t J e w el. Then Jew el i s
e n c lo se d by a g l i t t e r i n g maze o f h ooves a s by an i l l u s i o n
o f w in gs; among them, b en eath th e upreared c h e s t , he
moves w ith th e f la s h in g lim b ern ess o f a sn ak e. For an
in s ta n t b e fo r e th e je r k comes on to h is arms he s e e s h is
w hole body e a r th f r e e , h o r iz o n ta l, w hipping sn a k e-lim b er,
u n t i l he fin d s th e h o r s e 's n o s t r i l s and to u ch es ea rth
a g a in . They a re r i g i d , m o tio n le s s , t e r r i f i c . . . .
They sta n d in r i g i d , t e r r i f i c h ia t u s , th e h o r se
trem b lin g and g r o a n in g . Then Jew el i s on th e h o r s e 's
b ack. (p. 9 )
The word " t e r r i f i c ," o f te n em ployed by F aulkn er, seems
to su g g e s t a s e n s e o f t e r r o r , or extrem e a g it a t io n or
a c t i v i t y . The " r ig id , t e r r i f i c h ia tu s " i s se e n in tim e as
A m ost p e n e tr a tin g stu d y o f F a u lk n er 's u se o f h o r se
im agery, p a r t ic u la r ly in As I Lay Dying, i s "The Janus
Symbol in As I Lav D y in g ." The U n iv e r s ity o f Kansas C itv
Review. XXI (Summer, 1 9 5 5 ), 2 8 7 -2 9 0 .
114
a momentary f r i e z e , th e two f ig u r e s "carved fo r a ta b le a u
sa v a g e in th e su n ." The h o r se as extrem e en ergy, v i r i l i t y ,
th e power and str e n g th o f l i f e i t s e l f , c o r r e la te s w ith
J ew el, who i s a lig n e d , su g g e s ts A ddie, w ith "the t e r r i b l e
b lo o d , th e red b i t t e r flo o d b o ilin g through th e land"
(p . 1 6 3 ). Dari " sees" t h i s r e la t io n s h ip , as h is d e s c r ip
t io n s u g g e s ts ; h is c h a r a c te r i s formed in a major s e n s e by
h i s a b i l i t y as a " s e e r ," and th e r e s u lt a n t complex r esp o n
s i b i l i t y t h i s a b i l i t y p la c e s on him . B ecause o f h is
a b i l i t y , h e, in a s e n s e , "becomes" p a rt o f each fa m ily mem
b er; he can e n te r t h e ir minds and become an a sp e c t o f t h e ir
dream s, h o p es, and f e a r s . Vernon T u ll remarks on D a ri’ s
e y es as g e t t in g " in s id e o f you someway. L ike somehow you
was lo o k in g a t y o u r s e lf and your d o in g s ou ten h is eyes"
(p . 2 4 8 ). I t i s no wonder th a t he view ed as "queer" by
th o se around him, nor i s i t s u r p r is in g t o s e e members o f
th e fa m ily arran gin g f o r him t o be i n s t i t u t i o n a l i z e d . I t
i s o n ly Cash, a t th e end o f th e n o v e l, who f e e l s com passion
and empathy fo r D ari, a man who found h im s e lf an a l ie n in
a "world . . . n o t h is w o rld ."
I t i s n o t D ari’ s w orld b eca u se h e sta n d s un iqu e in i t .
Dewey D e ll, e a r ly in th e n o v e l, comments on D a r i’s str a n g e ,
115
alm ost m y s tic a l, u n d ersta n d in g :
I t was th e n , and th en I saw Dari and he knew [ o f h er
p regn an cy]. He s a id he knew w ith o u t th e words l i k e he
to ld me th a t raa i s g oin g to d ie w ith o u t w ords, and I
knew he knew b eca u se i f he had s a id he knew w ith th e
words I would n o t have b e lie v e d th a t he had been th e r e
and saw us [Dewey D e ll and h er lo v e r ] . But he s a id he
d id know and I s a id "Are you g o in g t o t e l l pa a re you
g o in g t o k i l l him?" w ith o u t th e words I s a id i t and he
s a id "Why?" w ith o u t th e w ords. And th a t* s why I can
ta lk to him w ith knowing w ith h a tin g b eca u se he knows.
(p. 2 3 )
As p ro p h et, h e i s fe a r e d , b ecau se no in d iv id u a l around
him i s w ith o u t s e c r e t s to p r o t e c t . D ari a ls o fin d s i t p o s
s i b l e t o a c t in su ch a way a s to f r u s t r a t e th e m ost e l e
m en tal d e s ir e s o f th o s e n ear him . A lthough h e knows Addie
i s soon t o d ie , he arran ges f o r Jew el t o be w ith him, down
in th e f i e l d —away from th e d eath b ed —h e lp in g load tim b er:
Jew el*s h a t droops lim p about h is neck, c h a n n e llin g
w ater on to th e soaked to w -sa ck t i e d about h i s sh o u ld er s
a s . a n k le-d eep in th e running d it c h , h e p r ie s w ith a
s lip p in g tw o -b y -fo u r , w ith a p ie c e o f r o t t in g lo g fo r
fulcru m , a t th e a x le . J ew el. I sa y , sh e i s dead. J ew el,
Addie Bundren i s d ead . (p. 4 7 )
D ari has s u c c e s s f u lly k ep t th e "jew el" o f A ddie*s l i f e from
b e in g w ith h er a t d e a th . Jew el d o es n o t f o r g e t th e i n c i
d en t; he r e a l iz e s th a t i t i s q u it e in t e n t io n a l on D a r i's
p a r t.
Standing u n iqu e in h is environm ent, D ari has g r e a t
d i f f i c u l t y in u n d erstan d in g b oth h i s o c c u lt powers and
116
h im s e lf. He q u e s tio n s th e n a tu r e o f h is id e n t it y in tim e
throughout th e n o v e l, and h i s f i n a l " in sa n ity " i s in p a rt
th e r e s u lt o f h i s f a i lu r e to c o n s tr u c t an in te g r a te d image
o f h im s e lf th a t w i l l a llo w h i s c o n tin u ed e x is t e n c e in th e
l o c a l community. In S e c tio n S ev en teen , he ponders th e
co n cep t o f h is b e in g :
In a str a n g e room you must empty y o u r s e lf f o r s le e p .
And b e fo r e you a r e em ptied f o r s le e p , what are you. And
when you are em ptied f o r s le e p , you are n o t . And when
you are f i l l e d w ith s le e p , you n ev er w ere. I d o n 't know
what I am. I d o n 't know i f I am or n o t . Jew el knows
he i s , b eca u se he does n o t know what he does n o t know
w hether he i s or n o t. He can n ot empty h im s e lf fo r s le e p
b eca u se he i s n o t what he i s and he i s what he i s n o t.
. . . And s in c e s le e p i s i s - n o t and r a in and wind a r e
w as, i t i s n o t . Yet th e wagon is^ b eca u se when th e
wagon i s was. Addie Bundren w i l l n o t b e . And Jew el i s ,
so Addie Bundren m ust b e . And th e n 1 must b e , or I
co u ld n o t empty m y se lf fo r s le e p in a str a n g e room. And
so I am n o t em ptied y e t , I am is .. (pp. 7 3 -7 4 )
Dari comments th a t Jew el " is" b eca u se Jew el d oes n o t co n
s id e r h is id e n t it y an is s u e ; y e t , D ari c o n tin u e s , Jew el
a c t u a lly " is n ot" b eca u se D ari knows th e s e c r e t o f Addie
and W h itfie ld . J e w e l's " is -n e s s " i s b ased on a f a l s e
p r e d ic a tio n .
D ari, how ever, f in d s p r o o f o f e x is t e n c e in tim e more
d i f f i c u l t . He i s aware th a t he must " lo se" h im s e lf in th e
p r e se n t in order to s le e p , y e t t h i s " lo ss" somehow p roves
th a t he "was" som ething (to l o s e ) , so he m ust, in some
117
s e n s e , e x i s t . T his o n t o lo g ic a l m using i s c it e d by Ralph A.
C ia n cio as one o f th e c a u se s o f D a r i's an gu ish :
. . . i t r e q u ir e s h e r o ic r e s o lv e , th e E x i s t e n t i a l i s t s
sa y , t o l i v e in th e aw areness o f o n e 's red o u b ta b le and
in e sc a p a b le N o th in g n ess. I t i s s i g n if i c a n t th a t th e more
i n t e l l i g e n t , s e n s i t i v e c h a r a c te r s in F a u lk n er's w orld
s u f f e r th e m ost a n g u ish . D ari, th e o n ly member o f th e
Bundren fa m ily w ith any r e a l in s ig h t in t o l i f e (he i s
mad, b u t Lear-m ad), lik e w is e e x i s t s in a n g u ish . Musing
over Being and N o th in g n ess, how ever, o n ly i n t e n s i f i e s
h is an gu ish ; h is m o th er's d ea th rem inds him o f h is own
f i n i t e n e s s and in th e end he i s c a r te d o f f to an asylum
in Jackson.®
In S e c tio n Twenty-One, D ari comments th a t " I cannot
lo v e my m other b ecau se I have no m other” (p . 8 6 ). He has
no m other in th e s e n s e th a t Addie has r e j e c t e d him; J e w e l's
m other, he s u g g e s ts , " is a h orse" (p. 8 6 ), b eca u se Jew el i s
a r e s u l t o f th e "blood p a s sio n " —th a t v i t a l i t y su g g e ste d by
th e h o r se im agery—betw een Addie and W h itfie ld .
L ater, D ari r e p e a ts th e sta te m en t in a d ia lo g u e w ith
Vardaman. The young Vardaman i s a ls o in v o lv e d in an
attem p t to s tr u c tu r e h i s i d e n t i t y . He r e fu s e s t o s e e Addie
as "dead," and d is c u s s e s , in h is c h i l d l i k e way, h i s own
id e n t it y in r e l a t io n t o Addie and h is fa m ily :
^ " F aulkner's E x i s t e n t i a l i s t A f f i n i t i e s , " C arnegie
S e r ie s in E h g lish S tu d ie s in Faulkner (P ittsb u r g h , 1 9 61),
No. 6 , p . 83.
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" J ew el's m other i s a h o r se ," D ari s a id .
"Then m ine can b e a f i s h , c a n 't i t , Dari?" I s a id .
Jew el i s my b r o th e r .
"Then m ine w i l l have to be a h o r s e , to o ," I s a id .
"Why?" D ari s a id . " I f pa i s your pa, why d oes your
ma have to be a h o r se j u s t b eca u se J e w e l's is? "
"Why d oes it ? " I s a id . "Why d oes i t , Dari?"
Dari i s my b r o th e r .
"Then what i s your ma, Dari?" I s a id .
"I h a v e n 't g o t e r e o n e," D ari s a id . "Because i f I had
one, i t i s w as. And i f i t i s w as, i t c a n 't be i s . Can
it? "
"No," I s a id .
"Then I am n o t ," D ari s a id . "A m I?"
"No," I s a id .
I am. D ari i s my b r o th e r .
"But you a r e . D a ri," I s a id .
"I know i t , " D ari s a id . "What's why I am n o t i s . Are
i s to o many f o r one woman to f o a l ." (pp. 9 0 -9 1 )
P eter Sw iggart h as e f f e c t i v e l y a n a ly zed th e a t t it u d e s
o f th e th r e e so n s in r e l a t io n t o t h e ir m a tern a l n e e d s :
J e w e l's v i r t u a l i d e n t i f i c a t i o n o f h is m other and h is
h o rse i s con firm ed s e v e r a l tim es by D ari. As a t r a n s f e r
ence o f em otion i t i s p a r a lle le d by Vardaman*s b e l i e f
th a t h is dead m other has become a l i v e f i s h . . . .
Though Vardaman's b e h a v io r i s fa r from p s y c h o lo g ic a lly
i n e v it a b le , i t i s c o m p le te ly j u s t i f i e d by i t s sy m b o lic
fu n c tio n . J e w e l's h o r se and Vardaman*s f i s h e n a b le th e
two c h a r a c te r s to keep t h e ir m en tal e q u ilib r iu m in th e
fa c e o f bereavem ent. T h eir s u c c e s s in d oin g t h i s i s
c o n tr a ste d to D a r i's f a i l u r e . . . . D ari cannot e sc a p e
h is je a lo u s y a s w e ll a s h is b e l i e f , l i k e Q uentin Compson,
th a t he has no r e a l m other. . . . D ari eq u a tes h i s own
la ck o f p e r so n a l e x is t e n c e w ith t h i s ab sen ce o f a m other-
s u b s t it u t e . (pp. 1 1 9 -1 2 0 )
Q uentin, who i s r e j e c t e d by h is m other, f a i l s t o p o s t u la t e
s u c c e s s f u lly a l i f e - r a t i o n a l e , and ends h is l i f e in an
attem p t t o produce, i r o n i c a l l y , "meaning" in d e a th . In
119
d e a th , more s p e c i f i c a l l y in H e ll, he f e e l s he can fin d
purpose through p r o te c tin g h is " fa lle n " s i s t e r . D a r i's
c o n sc io u sn e ss i s s im ila r in th a t h is r e a liz a t io n o f h is
m other*s r e j e c t io n le a d s him in to a p o s it io n o f t o t a l
i s o l a t i o n and, f i n a l l y , in s a n it y .
Jew el e x i s t s b eca u se he i s a r e s u l t o f in te n s e p a ssio n
to be a l i v e . He i s a ccep ted as " liv in g " w h ile D ari cannot
l i v e . From A ddie*s p o in t o f v ie w , D ari i s an " a ccid en t" ;
and now Addie i s "dead." D a r i's answer t o Vardaman, "I
h a v e n 't g o t e re one [m o th er]," i s c le a r , s y m b o lic a lly ,
b e c a u se , th in k s D ari, even i f I had A ddie, " i t [sh e ] i s
w as. " She e x i s t s no lo n g e r and, in h i s mind, i f sh e no
lo n g er e x i s t s , th en D ari cannot e x i s t : "Then I am n o t,"
Dari s t a t e s , " T h at's why I am n o t i s . " The r e fe r e n c e h ere
i s sin g u la r ; th e l a s t l i n e in th e d ia lo g u e em p hasizes th e
p lu r a l and a g a in s u g g e s ts th e h o r se m etaphor. "Are i s to o
many fo r one woman to f o a l ." His id e n t i t y i s a q u e s tio n
b ecau se he fin d s h im s e lf t o t a l l y a lo n e in th e u n iv e r s e .
D ari p e r c e iv e s tim e a s a " q u a lity ," r e l a t i v e t o th e
a c tio n , th e movement in v o lv e d . His d e s c r ip t io n o f th e
sw o lle n r iv e r (o f tim e, p erh ap s) th a t must be c r o sse d em
p h a siz e s t h i s p o in t o f v iew :
120
The r iv e r i t s e l f i s n ot a hundred yards a c r o s s , and
pa and Vernon and Vardaman and Dewey D e ll a r e th e o n ly
th in g s in s ig h t n ot o f th a t s i n g le monotony o f d e s o la
t io n le a n in g w ith th a t t e r r i f i c q u a lit y a l i t t l e from
r ig h t t o l e f t , as though we had reach ed th e p la c e where
th e m otion o f th e w asted w orld a c c e le r a t e s j u s t b e fo r e
th e f i n a l p r e c ip ic e . Yet th e y appear dw arfed. I t i s
as though th e sp ace betw een u s w ere tim e: an ir r e v o c a b le
q u a lit y . I t i s as though tim e, no lo n g e r running
s t r a ig h t b e fo r e us in a d im in ish in g l i n e , now runs
p a r a l le l betw een us l i k e a lo o p in g s t r in g , th e d is ta n c e
b e in g th e d o u b lin g a c c r e tio n o f th e th read and n o t th e
in t e r v a l betw een , (pp. 1 3 3 -1 3 4 )
Time i s no lo n g e r lin e a r , "no lo n g e r running s t r a ig h t
b e fo r e us in a d im in ish in g l i n e ." I t i s now a " q u a lity ,"
c ir c u la r in p a tte r n , th a t runs " p a r a lle l" t o th e a c tio n .
Dari s e e s two a s p e c ts o f r e a l i t y in tim e h e r e , e s t a b lis h in g
a b ifu r c a tio n co n tin u ed to th e end o f th e n o v e l.
D ari attem p ts to burn th e barn tem p o ra r ily h ou sin g th e
c o f f i n in an e f f o r t t o end th e g r o te sq u e jo u rn ey , but th e
attem p t r e s u l t s in h is b e in g s e n t t o th e in sa n e asylum in
Jackson. Jew el (who sa v e s th e c o f f i n from th e fla m e s ), and
Dewey D e ll fin d out th a t D ari has s e t th e f i r e , and agree
th a t Dari must b e i n s t i t u t i o n a l i z e d .
The moment th e jo u rn ey ends in J e ffe r s o n and th e grave
i s f i l l e d and co v ered , th e a u t h o r it ie s come f o r D ari:
. . . them f e llo w s was w a itin g , when th ey come ou t and
come on him and he jer k e d back, i t was Dewey D e ll th a t
was on him b e fo r e even Jew el co u ld g e t a t him . And th en
I b e lie v e d I [Cash i s n a r r a tin g ] knowed about how
G ille s p ie knowed about how h is b a m tak en f i r e . (p. 224)
121
D ari i s tak en away, and Cash r e f l e c t s a g a in on th e q u a lit y
o f ’’s a n it y ” and " in s a n ity ” :
But I a i n ' t s o sho th a t e r e a man h as th e r ig h t to say
what i s crazy and what a i n ' t . I t ' s l i k e th e r e was a
f e llo w in every man t h a t ' s done a -p a s t th e s a n ity or th e
in s a n it y , th a t w atch es th e san e and th e in sa n e d oin gs o f
th a t man w ith th e same h orror and th e same a sto n ish m en t.
(p. 226)
Cash i s th e o n ly member o f th e fa m ily , n o t o n ly to f e e l
com passion fo r D ari, b u t to wonder w h eth er th e fa m ily or
s o c ie t y has th e r ig h t t o d e c la r e one m an's a c tio n s "cor
r e c t ” and a n o th e r 's " in c o r r e c t." From one p o in t o f v iew ,
o f c o u r se , th e e n t ir e Bundren fa m ily seem s "insane" to make
a f o r ty -m ile jou rn ey c a rr y in g a p u tr e fy in g co rp se t o i t s
f i n a l r e s t in g p la c e . And from t h i s p o in t o f v iew , D a r i's
attem p t to crem ate Addie and thu s end th e w eird pageant i s
e m in en tly "sane"— perhaps th e o n ly "sane" a c tio n in th e
book.
D a r i's in s ig h t i s se a r c h in g and in t e n s e ; h is a n a ly s is
o f h is own i d e n t i t y in tim e c l o s e l y m atches A d d ie's r e f l e c
t io n s on h er progeny in S e c tio n F o r ty . No on e, su g g e s ts
D ari (and perhaps F aulkn er) can p r o p e r ly e x i s t , or fin d
c o g en t m eaning in tim e, w ith o u t th e d e s ir e and h e lp o f
o t h e r s . D ari, l i k e Q uentin in The Sound and th e F\irv. i s
a lo n e in th e w orld , n ot o f h i s own v o l i t i o n , b u t b ecau se
122
he has been p la c ed "alone" by h i s m other. A lthough h e i s
ca p a b le o f com passion and lo v e , he has n o t found th e s e
q u a l i t i e s in h is m other or fa m ily --a n d so fin d s h im s e lf
f i n a l l y a lo n e — th e a l ie n removed from any e f f e c t i v e sp ace
or tim e p a tte r n . His i n t e l l i g e n c e i s such th a t he c le a r l y
"sees" h i s p la c e in a c o g n it iv e tim e p a tte r n , and th a t
p la c e i s in e v it a b ly t r a g ic .
D a r i's r e la t io n s h ip to Jew el i s p e r tin e n t to c h a r a c
t e r i z a t i o n and theme throughout As I Lay D ying. E a rly in
th e n o v e l, Jew el (b ecau se h e i s aware th a t D ari knows th e
s e c r e t o f J e w e l’ s p a r e n ta g e) e x h ib it s a r a th e r in te n s e
a n tip a th y toward D ari. J e w e l's e n t ir e l i f e , a s seen in th e
n o v e l, i s w ild and v i o l e n t , p a r a lle lin g th e "blood p a ssio n "
o f h is c o n c e p tio n . H is r e la t io n s h ip t o h o r se s i s " v io le n t,"
b ecau se h o r se s somehow c a rr y th e v io le n c e o f h i s own b lo o d .
He i s " v io le n t" in h i s ev er v i g i l a n t p r o te c tio n o f A ddie,
sa v in g h er from b oth flo o d and f i r e ; he i s v i o le n t i n h is
in te n s e , and s u c c e s s f u l, attem p t t o i n s t i t u t i o n a l i z e D ari,
and th u s, in h is mind, remove th e one human b e in g who knows
th e s e c r e t o f h i s c o n c e p tio n .
As h i s m other i s d y in g , Jew el i s in extrem e t e n s io n .
He i s angry b eca u se Dewey D e ll i s fa n n in g th e a ir above
123
A ddie*s fa c e ; he i s a g it a t e d b eca u se Cash i s making a
g r e a t d e a l o f n o is e c o n s tr u c tin g th e c o f f in ; he wonders why
God, as he p e r c e iv e s Him, a llo w s such a c tio n s , and m eta
p h o r ic a lly c o n s tr u c ts a more e f f e c t i v e cu lm in a tio n o f
A d d ie's l i f e :
I can s e e th e fa n and Dewey D e l l' s a m . I s a id i f you 'd
j u s t l e t h er a lo n e . Sawing and k n ock in g, and k eep in g
th e a ir alw ays m oving so f a s t on h er fa c e th a t when
y o u 'r e t ir e d you c a n 't b r e a th e i t , and th a t goddamn adze
g o in g One l i c k l e s s . . . i f th e r e i s a God what th e
h e l l i s He f o r . I t would j u s t be me and h er on a h ig h
h i l l and me r o l l i n g th e rock s down th e h i l l a t t h e ir
f a c e s , p ic k in g them up and throw ing them down th e h i l l ,
fa c e s and te e th and a l l by God u n t i l she was q u ie t and
n ot th a t goddamn adze g o in g One l i c k l e s s . One l ic k
l e s s and we co u ld be q u ie t . (pp. 1 1 -1 2 )
When Dari a llu d e s to th e ca n in g d eath o f A ddie, Jew el
does n o t want to l i s t e n : "M a a i n ' t th a t s ic k , . . . Shut
up, Dari" (p. 1 4 ). The two v i t a l elem en ts in h is l i f e are
Addie and h o r se s; th ey a r e s y m b o lic a lly con n ected in h is
mind, and g e n e r a lly lea d him to san e k in d o f condem nation
o f D ari, b eca u se o f D a r i's know ledge. There i s alm ost th e
s u g g e s tio n in J e w e l's mind th a t D ari "caused" th e d ea th o f
Addie; h i s a n tip a th y rea c h e s a peak when he h e lp s arran ge
D a r i's commitment in Jack son . J e w e l's p a s sio n i s u n d er
sta n d a b le in th e n o v e l, b eca u se h e i s th e one member o f th e
fa m ily who seems in c o n s o la b le over A ddie*s d e a th . He g o es
124
to any le n g th to p r o te c t h er, du rin g th e jo u rn ey , and
rem ains " su ffu sed w ith fu ry and d esp a ir" (p. 89) from
b eg in n in g to end.
B efore th e n o v e l b e g in s , Jew el has been d isa p p ea r in g
from th e Bundren farm fo r a tim e each n ig h t in order to
c le a r fo r t y a c r e s o f a n e ig h b o r ’s la n d . He has been work-
9
in g in order t o buy a h o r se , a sym bol o f extrem e im por
tan ce to him, b eca u se th e anim al somehow str e n g th e n s h is
own se n se o f i d e n t i t y , h is bond to Addie and W h it f ie ld - -
n o t to Anse. Anse i s u p se t when he le a r n s what Jew el has
done, b ecau se he th in k s , a g a in in h is em in en tly p r a c t ic a l
fa sh io n , th a t th e h o r se w i l l be an added "burden" to th e
fa m ily :
"So you bought a h o r s e ," he s a id . "You went behind
my back and bought a h o r se . You n ev er c o n su lte d me; you
know how t ig h t i t i s fo r us to make by, y e t you bought
a h o r se f o r me to f e e d . Taken th e work from your f l e s h
and blood and bought a h o r se w ith i t . "
Jew el looked a t pa, h is e y es p a le r than e v e r .
"He won * t n ev er e a t a m ou th fu l o f y o u r s, ” he s a i d .
"Not a m o u th fu l. I ’ l l k i l l him f i r s t . Don’ t you n ever
th in k i t . D on't you n e v e r ." (pp. 1 2 2 -1 2 3 )
The h o r se , from J e w e l's p o in t o f v iew , co u ld n ev er a c ce p t
9
W illiam Van O'Connor p o in ts ou t th a t th e h o r se i s
"a d escen d an t o f th e v i o le n t Texas p o n ie s d e sc r ib e d in
’ Sp otted H o r se s,' l a t e r t o b e in co rp o ra ted in t o The Ham
l e t . " The Tangled F ir e o f W illiam F aulkn er, p . 4 9 .
125
fee d from Anse, b ecau se Anse i s n o t J e w e l's fa th e r , b io
l o g i c a l l y or s y m b o lic a lly . I t i s J e w el, a s t r id e and in
c o n tr o l o f th e h o r se , who "saves" Addie from th e sw o lle n
r iv e r . The sc e n e i s d e sc r ib e d by T u ll:
Then th e wagon t i l t e d over and th en i t and Jew el and
th e h o r se was a l l m ixed up to g e th e r . Cash w ent outen
s i g h t , s t i l l h o ld in g th e c o f f i n b ra ced , and th en I
c o u ld n 't t e l l an yth in g fo r th e h o r se lu n g in g and s p la s h
in g . I th ou gh t th a t Cash had g iv e up th en and was
swimming fo r i t and I was y e l l i n g a t Jew el to come on
back and th en a l l o f a sudden him and th e h o r se went
under to o and I th ou gh t th ey was a l l g o in g . I knew
th a t th e h o r se had g o t dragged o f f th e fo rd to o , and
w ith th a t w ild drowning h o r se and th a t wagon and th a t
lo o s e b ox, i t was g o in g t o be p r e tty bad . . . .
. . . I saw J ew el. He was m id d le d eep , so I knew he
was on th e fo r d , anyway, le a n in g hard upstream , and then
I s e e th e ro p e, and th en I s e e th e w ater b u ild in g up
where h e was h o ld in g th e wagon snubbed j u s t below th e
fo r d . (pp. 1 4 1 -1 4 2 )
Jew el makes what i s fo r him a supreme s a c r i f i c e , a g a in
in d ic a tin g h is t o t a l d e v o tio n to A ddie, by g iv in g up th e
h o rse to r e p la c e th e team th a t drowned in th e r iv e r c r o s s
in g . He r e tu r n s to th e fu n e r a l p r o c e s s io n "wooden-backed,
wooden fa c e d , m oving o n ly from h is h ip s down. He comes up
w ith o u t a word, w ith h is p a le r ig id e y e s in h is h ig h s u lle n
fa c e , and g e ts in th e wagon" (p. 1 9 6 ). C arlos Baker d e
s c r ib e s th e " f a n a t ic a l p erseveran ce" o f J ew el:
I t i s t y p i c a l o f Jew el th a t he sh ou ld a c c e p t th e lo s s
[ o f h is h o r s e ] . I t i s now h is f i e r c e in t e n t io n t o g e t
h is m o th er's body t o town and to g r a v e . The h o rse m ust
be s a c r i f i c e d to th a t in t e n t io n . . . .
126
He i s f i n a l l y th e s in g le member o f th e fa m ily a b so
l u t e ly d evoted to th e f u lf illm e n t o f h is m o th er's d yin g
w ish t o l i e a t home among her own p e o p le , who a re n o t o f
th e Bundren t r ib e any more than Jew el i s . He h as an
angry, u n d e v ia tin g , and a b s o lu te d e v o tio n to th e c a u s e —
lik e th e q u a lit y o f a p a r tn e ss, th e f i e r c e s p i r i t u a l
i s o l a t i o n , th e g r a v it y , th e t a c it u r n it y , and th e alm ost
f a n a t ic a l p e r se v e r a n c e .
Jew el r e tu r n s to th e wagon b eca u se he h as an oth er a c t
o f p r o te c tio n to perform , th a t o f sa v in g Addie from f i r e .
Dari h as s e t G i l l e s p i e ' s barn on f i r e to end th e jo u rn ey ,
and n e a r ly s u c c e e d s . The s e c t io n ( F if t y ) i s n a rra ted by
D ari, who d e s c r ib e s J e w e l's d e d ic a te d a c tio n as he d a sh es,
w ith o u t regard f o r h is own s a f e t y , in t o th e burning b a m
to reach th e r a th e r heavy c o f f i n :
W e s e e h is sh o u ld e r s s t r a in as he u p -en ds th e c o f f i n and
s l i d e s i t sin g le -h a n d e d from th e sa w -h o r se s. I t looms
u n b e lie v a b ly t a l l , h id in g him: I would n o t have b e lie v e d
th a t Addie Bundren would have needed th a t much room to
l i e c o m fo r ta b le in ; fo r an oth er in s t a n t i t sta n d s up
r ig h t w h ile th e sp ark s r a in on i t in s c a t t e r in g b u r s ts
as though th e y engendered o th e r sparks from th e c o n ta c t.
Then i t to p p le s forw ard , g a in in g momentum, r e v e a lin g
Jew el and th e sp ark s r a in in g on him to o in en gen d erin g
g u s t s , so th a t he appears t o be e n c lo s e d in a t h in nimbus
o f f i r e . W ithout sto p p in g i t o v er-en d s and r e a r s a g a in ,
p a u se s, th en c r a sh e s s lo w ly forw ard and through th e c u r
t a in . T his tim e J ew el i s r id in g upon i t , c lin g in g t o i t ,
u n t i l i t c r a sh e s down and f l i n g s him forw ard and c le a r
^ " W illia m F a u lk n er : The Doomed and th e Damned, " The
Young R ebel in American L ite r a tu r e , e d . G arl Bode (London,
195 9), pp. 1 5 3 -1 5 4 .
127
and Mack le a p s forw ard in to a th in sm e ll o f sc o r c h in g
meat and s la p s a t th e w id en in g crim son -ed ged h o le s th a t
bloom l ik e flo w e r s in h is u n d e r s h ir t, (p . 208)
The c o n n e c tio n h ere betw een Addie and th e p a tte r n o f h o rse
imagery i s q u ite c le a r . As Jew el en d eavors to maneuver
the c o f f i n to s a f e t y , " it o v er-en d s and r e a r s a g a in ,
p a u ses, th en c r a sh e s s lo w ly forw ard . . . t h is tim e Jew el
i s r id in g upon i t , c lin g in g t o i t . . . ." The image su g
g e s t s th a t Jew el i s sa v in g a h o r se caught in a burning
s t a b le . Jew el sa v e s th e m other, th e " h o rse," from f i r e
dam nation. With t h i s a c t acco m p lish ed , h i s major r o le in
the a c tio n i s com p leted; h is l a s t m is s io n i s to s e e th a t
Dari i s a d e q u a tely "punished" fo r s e t t in g th e f i r e .
Jew el i s a c r e a tio n o f " v io le n c e " and " p a s s io n ," and
r e f l e c t s h is g e n e s is in h is own p a tte r n o f l i v i n g . He se e s
h is id e n t i t y in tim e as A ddie*s o n ly son , b eca u se he i s
the r e s u l t o f th e " t e r r ib le b lo o d ," th e v i s i o n Addie has o f
r e a l — o f t a n g ib le — l i f e . Addie s t a t e s th a t Jew el " is my
c r o ss and he w i l l be my s a lv a t io n . He w i l l sa v e me from
th e w a ter and from th e f ir e " (p . 1 5 6 ). The o th e r c h ild r e n
b elon g to Anse, and do n o t sh a re J e w e l's co n cep t o f id e n
t i t y . D ari knows th a t J e w e l's fa th e r " is a h o r se ," and
Jew el fin d s h is fa th e r image in th e p a s s io n , th e v i t a l i t y ,
128
th e b r u te s tr e n g th o f h o r s e s . J e w e l1s c o n c e p tio n was
v i o l e n t , h is l i f e in th e n o v e l v i o l e n t , and h i s fu tu r e
beyond th e n o v e l w i l l probably c o n tin u e th e p a tte r n .
A ddie*s jou rn ey from l i f e to d eath in v o lv e s two o th e r
r e l a t i v e l y young members o f th e Bundren fa m ily , Dewey D e ll
and Vardaman. Dewey D e ll’ s r e a l m o tiv e f o r making th e
t r i p i s c le a r ; in a m a rv elo u sly humorous sc e n e in th e
n o v e l, sh e and h er b o y fr ien d Lafe a re p ic k in g b e r r ie s t o
g e th e r , on e it h e r s id e o f th e row:
W e p ick ed on down th e row, th e woods g e t t in g c lo s e r
and c lo s e r and th e s e c r e t sh ad e, p ic k in g on in to th e
s e c r e t shade w ith my sack and L a fe 's sa c k . B ecause I
s a id w i l l I or won’ t I when th e sack was h a l f - f u l l b e
c a u se I s a id i f th e sack i s f u l l when we g e t to th e
woods i t won’ t be me. (p. 2 2 )
Dewey D e ll’ s i d e n t it y h in g es on th e sack i t s e l f . She w i l l
be " g u ilty " and h e r s e l f i f sh e and L afe e n te r th e woods
w ith a h a l f - f u l l sa ck , but " if th e sack i s f u l l when we g e t
t o th e woods i t w o n 't be me. . . . I t w i l l be th a t I had
to do i t a l l th e tim e and I cannot h e lp i t " (p . 2 2 ) . The
in e v it a b le , o f c o u r se , o c c u r s :
And we p ick ed on toward th e s e c r e t shade and our ey es
would drown to g e th e r to u ch in g on h is hands and my hands
and I d id n ’ t sa y a n y th in g . I s a id "What a r e you doing?"
and he s a id "I am p ic k in g in t o your sa c k ." And s o i t
was f u l l when we came t o th e end o f th e row and I co u ld
n o t h e lp i t . (pp. 2 2 -2 3 )
Her r a t io n a liz a t io n i s in t e r e s t in g , b u t th e r e s u lt a n t
pregnancy i s d e f i n i t e l y n o t t o Dewey D e ll’ s lik in g . She
f e e l s th a t th e d eath o f h er m other and th e fu n e r a l jo u rn ey
w i l l g iv e h er an o p p o rtu n ity to "purchase” an a b o r tio n o f
some k in d . She lo o k s forw ard w ith "new hope” a s th e
c o r te g e approaches th e town o f New Hope, b u t th e town i s
b y p a ssed . Her f i r s t o p p o rtu n ity t o a l l e v i a t e h er c o n d itio n
i s in M ottson, but sh e i s r e fu s e d "help" by a r a th e r sympa
t h e t ic d r u g g is t who t e l l s h er to "take my a d v ic e and go
home and t e l l your pa or your b r o th e r s i f you have any or
th e f i r s t man you come t o in th e road" (p . 1 9 0 ). Dewey
D e ll, o f c o u r se , d oes n o t heed h is a d v ic e , and t r i e s a g a in
in J e ffe r s o n . The s e c t io n i s n a r r a te d by MacGowan, an
u n scru pu lous c le r k in a drug s t o r e :
"Oh," I s a y s . "You [ Dewey D e ll 3 g o t som ething in your
b e l ly you w ish you d id n ’ t h a v e." . . .
"I g o t th e money," sh e s a y s . "He [ l a f e ] s a id I co u ld
g i t som ething as th e d r u g -s to r e f o r h i t . " (p . 23 1 )
MacGowan p reten d s t o be a d o c to r and a ssu r e s Dewey
D e ll th a t he can "help"; he g iv e s h e r some " m ed icin e," and
su g g e s ts sh e r e tu r n a t " ten o ’c lo c k to -n ig h t" t o r e c e iv e
"the r e s t o f i t " (p. 23 5 ) and have th e " op eration " p e r
form ed. Dewey D e ll, th e s o u l o f in n o ce n c e, r e tu r n s
prom ptly a t te n , and i s g iv e n more "m edicine" (talcu m
130
powder in c a p s u le s ); she i s ready now fo r th e r e s t o f th e
tr e a tm e n t:
"Where do I ta k e it ? " sh e s a y s .
"Down in th e c e l l a r ," I s a y s . (p. 236)
The t r ic k e r y marks, p erh ap s, th e end o f Dewey D e l l ’s in n o
c e n c e . A fterw ard, sh e s a y s , " It a i n ’ t g o in g to work. . . .
That son o f a b itc h " (p. 2 3 9 ). As th e n o v e l end s, w ith th e
fa m ily back a t th e farm , Dewey D e ll i s s t i l l p regn an t.
Faulkner does n o t a llu d e t o her f a t e .
Vardaman, th e y o u n g est c h ild , p la y s a more im portant
sym b olic r o le in th e n o v e l. He, more than any o th e r
c h a r a c te r , r e fu s e s to a c c e p t th e f a c t o f A d die’ s d e a th .
Not lon g b e fo r e h is m other d ie s , he c a tc h e s a r a th e r la r g e
f i s h , "Durn n ig h b ig a s he i s , " and w ants to show th e "gap
mouthed, g o g g le-e y ed " (p. 2 6 ) c a tc h to h is m other. She
d ie s , however (soon a f t e r Dr. Peabody a r r iv e s ) , and Varda
man a t f i r s t f e e l s th a t Peabody has " k ilt my maw!" (p. 4 9 ) .
More im p ortan t, how ever, i s Vardaman*s a s s o c ia t io n o f th e
dead and ea ten f i s h w ith th e image o f h i s m other. When he
h ears o f h er d ea th , he runs to th e back o f th e house and
b e g in s to cry :
I can f e e l where th e f i s h was in th e d u s t. I t i s cu t
up in t o p ie c e s o f n o t - f i s h now, n o t-b lo o d on my hands
131
and o v e r a lls . Then i t w a sn 't s o . I t h a d n 't happened
th en . . . . I f I jump o f f th e porch I w i l l be where th e
f i s h w as, and i t a l l cu t up in to n o t - f i s h now. (p. 4 8 )
His th ou gh ts are n o t u n lik e D a r i's , who sp eak s o f b ein g
and n o t-b e in g in r e la t io n s h ip t o p r e sen t and p a s t. P eter
Sw iggart p o in ts ou t t h e ir sym b olic k in s h ip , and t h e ir s im i
l a r i t y to c e r ta in o th e r F aulkner c h a r a c t e r s :
Dari and Vardaman su g g e s t th e p s y c h o lo g ic a l extrem es
o f madness and c h ild is h im a g in a tio n ; a t th e same tim e
th ey a re s e r io u s w itn e s s e s o f th e n a r r a tiv e a c tio n and
tr y in v a in to understand and e v a lu a te i t . D ari a s s o c i
a te s h is p e r so n a l in s e c u r it y w ith h i s m o th er's death and
th e e f f o r t to bury h er f a r away in J e ffe r s o n ; he t r i e s
a t a l l tim es t o h a lt or d e la y th e t r i p . Vardaman i s
a ls o absorbed in th e q u e s tio n o f p e r so n a l e x is t e n c e and
i t s r e la t io n to h is m other. . . . Dari i s s e lf-a b s o r b e d
in th e manner o f Q uentin Compson, but he has B en jy’ s
c a p a c ity fo r r e p o r tin g e v e n ts o b j e c t iv e ly . . . . Vardaman
s u g g e s ts a Benjy str ip p e d o f h is r o le o f o b j e c t iv e n a r
r a to r , even though th e boy i s f i e r c e l y im a g in a tiv e and
t w is t s th e f a c t s o f e x p e r ie n c e in t o p e r so n a l im ages o f
which th e i d i o t i s in c a p a b le . (pp. 113-114)
In Vardaman*s mind, a s th e f i s h was, so h i s Mother was, and
somehow, by jum ping in t o th e p a s t, h e can e lim in a te an
u n ten a b le p r e s e n t. He m ust keep h is m other a l i v e , and so
he b o res "breathing" h o le s in A ddie*s c o f f in ; sh e i s n ot
"dead" to Vardaman b ecau se th e a c tu a l Addie i s n o t in th e
c o f f in :
I t was n o t h e r . I was th e r e , lo o k in g . I saw . I
thought i t was h e r , b u t i t was n o t. I t was n o t my
m other. She went away when th e o th e r one la id down in
her bed and drew th e q u i l t up. She went away. "Did sh e
132
go a s fa r a s town?" She went fa r th e r than tow n. "Did
a l l th o se r a b b its and possums go fa r th e r than town?"
God made th e r a b b its and possum s. He made th e t r a in .
W hy must He make a d if f e r e n t p la c e fo r them t o go i f sh e
i s j u s t l i k e th e r a b b it. (p. 6 0 )
The t r a in a p p a r e n tly has been seen by Vardaman in J e f f e r
so n . I t i s red and g reen (or he i s th in k in g o f red and
g reen l i g h t s ) ; i t s a c q u is it io n , r a th e r than Addie*s b u r ia l,
i s an im portant m o tiv a tio n fo r him through out th e jou rn ey,
b eca u se h is m other, from h is p o in t o f v ie w , i s s t i l l
" a liv e ."
Faulkner r e in f o r c e s t h i s id ea in v a r io u s w ays. The
s h o r t e s t s e c t io n o f th e f i f t y - n i n e in th e n o v e l i s Varda-
man*s (S e c tio n N in e te e n ), w hich c o n ta in s one l i n e :
m other i s a f is h " (p. 7 6 ). In S e c tio n T h ir ty -F iv e , Varda
man n a r r a te s th e c r o s s in g o f th e r iv e r from h is p o in t o f
view ; he o b ser v es th e wagon and c o f f i n t i p in t o th e r iv e r ,
and a s s o c ia t e s th e con cep t o f sa v in g h is m other w ith c a tc h
in g a f is h th a t i s " fa s te r than a man or a woman" (p. 1 3 8 ).
He scream s f o r D ari to "catch her" b e c a u se D ari i s "the
b e s t g ra b b ler even w ith th e m ules in th e way" (p . 1 3 8 ).
D ari, in Vardaman*s c o n sc io u s mind, d oes n o t su cc ee d :
"Where i s ma, Dari?" I s a id . "You n ev er g o t h e r . You
knew she i s a f i s h but you l e t h e r g e t away. You n ever
g o t h er. D a ri. D ari. D a ri." I began t o run a lo n g th e
bank, w atch in g th e m ules d iv e up slo w a g a in and th en down
a g a in , (p . 139)
133
S u b c o n scio u sly , Vardaman seems r e lie v e d , as h is m other has
somehow been " r e le a s e d ” in th e w ater and thus l i v e s as
" f is h ." He d im ly p e r c e iv e s D a r i's co n cep t th a t " J ew el's
m other i s a h o r se ," and t h i s e n a b le s him t o c o n s tr u c t h is
unique image o f A d d ie:
M y m other i s a f i s h . D ari sa y s when we come to th e w ater
a g a in I m ight s e e h er and Dewey D e ll s a id . S h e's in th e
box; how cou ld sh e have g o t o u t? She g o t out through th e
h o le s I b ored , in t o th e w ater I s a id , and when we come
to th e w ater a g a in I am g o in g to s e e h e r . M y m other i s
n o t in th e b ox. M y m other d oes n ot sm e ll l ik e t h a t .
M y m other i s a f i s h . (p. 185)
In J e ffe r s o n , Vardaman fin d s h is "red and green" tr a in ,
in th e same s t o r e where Dewey D e ll i s sed u ced , but he i s
to ld to w a it u n t i l C hristm as. The image i s e n la r g e d , in
Vardaman's mind, through s e e in g two ap oth ecary j a r s (th e ir
s ig n if ic a n c e i s unknown t o Vardaman), in th e windows o f
th e s t o r e :
There i s a lig h t in th e s t o r e , f a r b ack . In th e w in
dow are two b ig g la s s e s o f so d a -w a te r, red and g reen .
Ttoo men co u ld n o t d rin k them. TVo m ules co u ld n o t. Two
cows co u ld n o t. (p . 238)
The n o v e l ends w ith Vardaman's f a i lu r e t o p o s s e s s th e
"red and g r e e n ," but he seem s to "succeed" in c o n v in c in g
h im s e lf th a t h is m other (d e s p ite th e appearance o f th e
second Mrs. Bundren) i s a l iv e as f i s h , as sh e i s a l i v e as
h o r se t o J ew el. Vardaman c r e a te s a v i s i o n o f a l i v e Addie,
134
or an Addie somehow l iv i n g e t e r n a lly in th e sym b olic r iv e r .
As a c h a r a c te r p e r c e iv in g tim e in th e n o v e l, he i s sym
b o l i c a l l y a lig n e d w ith J ew el, who a ls o r e fu s e s t o a ccep t
A d d ie's " d eath ." Both c h a r a c te r s e n fo r c e th e s u g g e s tio n in
th e t i t l e As I Lav Dying th a t Addie " la y d y in g ," but c a n
n o t, w i l l n o t, " lay dead."
As I Lav Dying r e l a t e s a s to r y w ith c e r t a in a l l e g o r i
c a l o v e rto n e s o f a t r i p from l i f e to d eath o r, p a ra d o x i
c a l l y in th e minds o f c e r t a in c h a r a c te r s , from apparent
d eath to l i f e . The n o v e l i s , as Faulkner s u g g e s ts , a to u r
de fo r c e , and an e x trem ely b r i l l i a n t on e. I t i s not
t o t a l l y a l l e g o r i c a l , as Faulkner does n o t s u s t a in sym b olic
v a lu e s to t h i s e x te n t; i t s r ic h n e s s l i e s in i t s te x tu r e ,
i t s m u lt i- le v e le d a e s t h e t ic s tr u c tu r e as a sim p le n a r r a tiv e
becomes e x c e e d in g ly com plex through th e d e v ic e o f f r a g
mented in t e r p r e t a tio n o f c h a r a c te r and a c tio n . The rea d er
i s n o t g iv e n an "overview " o f th e a c tio n ; r a th e r , he " sees"
b oth humans and e v e n ts in th e n o v e l as th ey th em selves
"see" and in te r p r e t r e a l i t y . The "sim p le jo u r n e y ," in th e
form o f a summation, b ea rs l i t t l e r e la t io n s h ip t o th e a e s
t h e t i c e x p e r ie n c e o f l iv i n g w ith and in th e m inds o f th e
c h a r a c te r s ; Addie and th e c h ild r e n in d iv id u a lly c o n s tr u c t
135
some form o f c o g n it iv e tim e p a tte r n th a t i s s u s t a in in g ,
th a t g iv e s some m eaning t o th e f a t e f u l e v en ts th a t occu r in
th e n a r r a tio n . T heir c o n c e p ts o f id e n t it y in tim e and
"meaning" in human l i f e v a ry im m ensely.
A ddie*s s e c t io n r e v e a ls a woman un able t o fr e e h e r s e l f
from a n e g a tiv e and d e f i le d p a s t; h er search fo r meaning in
tim e i s " v io le n t" and " t e r r ib le ," and sh e con clu d es th a t
purpose in l i f e i s lim ite d to p r e p a r a tio n fo r d eath .
B efore her p h y s ic a l d e a th , Peabody, th e community d o c to r ,
i s summoned by Anse, b u t he a r r iv e s to o l a t e . His s e c t io n ,
how ever, i s im p ortan t; he d is c u s s e s th e n a tu re o f d ea th ,
and seems to a g ree w ith Addie th a t Anse has been "dead" f o r
some tim e, and th a t d eath on e a r th i s p r im a r ily a fu n c tio n
o f th o u g h t:
I can remember how when I was young I b e lie v e d d ea th to
be a phenomenon o f th e body; now I know i t t o be m erely
a fu n c tio n o f th e m ind--and th a t o f th e minds o f th e ones
who s u f f e r th e bereavem ent. The n i h i l i s t s sa y i t i s th e
end; th e fu n d a m e n ta lists, th e b e g in n in g ; when in r e a l i t y
i t i s no more than a s i n g le te n a n t or fa m ily moving out
o f a tenem ent or a tow n. (p. 3 8 )
Anse*s id e n t it y i s q u it e c le a r ; he has l i t t l e d i f f i
c u lt y in a c c e p tin g h im s e lf as a k in d o f tw e n tie th -c e n tu r y
"Job," fa ced w ith a m u ltitu d e o f problem s, y e t w i l l i n g ,
b eca u se o f h is f a i t h , t o fa c e and overcome any o b s ta c le .
136
And he does su cceed in ca rr y in g ou t A d d ie1s b u r ia l w ish e s .
The f a c t th a t a m ajor a sp e c t o f h i s m o tiv a tio n i s t o "get
them te e th " i s n ot an is s u e th a t tr o u b le s him; he i s em i
n e n tly " p r a c t ic a l," and se n s e s no m oral or e t h i c a l is s u e
i n th e str a n g e j u x t a p o s it io n o f th e traged y o f h is w i f e ' s
d ea th and th e d e s ir e t o a cq u ir e " sto re-b o u g h t" t e e t h .
A lthough Addie does g a in her "revenge" in fo r c in g th e jo u r
n ey , Anse i s e q u a lly s u c c e s s f u l, n o t o n ly in p u rch asin g th e
t e e t h , but in b r in g in g back to th e farm an oth er Mrs. Bun
dren.
Cash appears e a r ly in th e n o v e l a s m e th o d ic a l, s t o l i d
and thorou gh . He a c c e p ts h im s e lf as A n se's so n , and i s
th e prim ary fig u r e in th e a c tu a l b u s in e s s o f th e farm .
L ater in th e n o v e l, how ever, he con veys a grow ing aw areness
th a t h is id e n t it y , or anyon e*s, i s r e l a t i v e to in d iv id u a l
p o in ts o f v ie w . His d is c u s s io n in S e c tio n F ifty -T h r e e p e r
haps comes c l o s e s t t o F a u lk n er's th em atic in t e n t , a s Cash
seem s t o t a l l y aware o f th e v a s t c o m p lex ity , b oth in tim e
and sp a ce , th a t c o n s t it u t e s th e "human b e in g ."
D ari and Jew el form an in t e r e s t i n g , e x trem ely str o n g
c o n tr a s t in th e n o v e l. D ari i s th e "unw anted," and d e
v e lo p s , in some f a t e f u l way, a p r o p h e tic , c la ir v o y a n t
n atu re th a t a lie n a t e s him from th e o th e r members o f th e
fa m ily . In a se n s e , h e i s th e c o n sc ie n c e o f th e fa m ily ,
b ecau se he "sees" e v e r y s e c r e t , can d e lv e in t o th e d e e p e st
r e c e s s e s o f m inds. He i s unique and, th e r e fo r e , h a s m ajor
d i f f i c u l t y in e s t a b lis h in g h is own id e n t it y in tim e . H is
tim e v i s i o n i s t o t a l - - h e can s e e backward a s w e ll a s f o r -
ward“-and he c o n s ta n t ly attem p ts to e s t a b l i s h h im s e lf in
some fa s h io n as som ething th a t was, b eca u se i f he was in
th e p a s t, th en he can be in th e p r e s e n t. H is dilemma i s
su g g e ste d by W illiam Van O’ Connor:
He g iv e s h im s e lf t o s p e c u la tio n s and se a r c h e s in t o th e
dark co rn ers o f o th e r p e o p le ’s m inds. Cash h o ld s f a s t
to th e p h y s ic a l w o rld , and so does J ew el. But D ari,
l ik e Q uentin Compson, lo s e s h is h old and g o e s mad.**-
The is s u e o f D a r i’s " s a n i t y ,” as Cash p o in ts o u t, i s n o t
c le a r - c u t ; from one p o in t o f v iew , he i s th e o n ly Bundren
”sane" enough t o attem p t to end th e macabre jo u r n e y through
tim e. Perhaps he w ould have su cceed ed in c o n s tr u c tin g an
id e n t it y fo r h im s e lf a s an i s , a som ething, in th e p r e se n t;
but s o c ie t y , fe a r in g h i s pow ers, fo r c e s him l i t e r a l l y in t o
a cage:
•^"W illiam F a u lk n e r ," Seven Modem American N o v e lis t s .
ed . W illiam Van O’Connor (M in n eap olis, 1 9 5 9 ), p. 130.
138
Our b ro th er D ari in a ca g e in Jackson w here, h is grim ed
hands ly in g l i g h t on th e q u ie t i n t e r s t i c e s , lo o k in g out
he foam s.
"Yes y es y es y e s yes y es y es y e s ." (p. 242)
J ew el— D arl*s own b r o th e r — p la y s th e m ajor r o le in
"caging" D ari, but Jew el a ls o f e e l s an in h e r e n t d i f f i c u l t y
in s tr u c tu r in g h is i d e n t i t y . His h atred o f D ari b ecau se
Dari knows th e s e c r e t o f Jew el*s c o n c e p tio n i s a m ani
f e s t a t io n o f h is com b in ation o f lo v e and h a te fo r h is
mother (and h im s e lf ) b eca u se he i s n o t f u l l y a Bundren.
His sym b olic a ttem p ts t o m aster str o n g and v i t a l h o r se s
are an a sp e c t o f h i s attem p ts to s tr u c tu r e i d e n t i t y . He
r e a liz e s th a t he i s th e r e s u l t o f th e " t e r r ib le b lo o d ," th e
p a ssio n o f l u s t f u l and in te n s e a c tio n , and h is a ttem p ts to
su b ju g a te h o r se s a r e attem p ts to match A ddie*s p a s s io n .
In one se n se in th e n o v e l, he i s s u c c e s s f u l in p r o te c tin g
th e body o f th e a liv e /d e a d Addie and in r id d in g h im s e lf and
the fa m ily o f D ari, but h is fu r y rem ain s. A product o f
p a ssio n and fu r y , he seem s d e s tin e d to rem ain c o n s t a n tly in
sea rch o f h im s e lf . P s y c h o lo g ic a lly , he appears in much th e
same p o s it io n a t th e end o f th e n o v e l as a t th e b e g in n in g .
Dewey D e ll and Vardaman (a lth o u g h Dewey D e ll i s s e v e n
te e n ) are c h ild r e n ; t h e ir n a iv e t e s e r v e s as an a e s t h e t ic
c o u n te r p o in t, p a r t ic u la r ly to th e r e l a t i v e s o p h is t ic a t io n
139
o f D ari and J ew el. Dewey D e ll i s s tr a n g e ly am b ivalen t
toward her m other; h er prim ary con cern i s to p reven t her
own body from producing an oth er l i f e . Her d e d ic a tio n to
t h is id e a t o t a l l y dom inates h er th in k in g ; sh e i s l ik e Anse
in n o t u n d erstan d in g "Why d id t h i s have t o happen to me,
and sh e f a i l s in her p e r so n a l q u e s t. A lthough sh e i s
se v e n te e n , h er n a iv e te i s immense; Vardaman, though a num
b er o f y ea rs youn ger, i s o f more i n t e r e s t . He lin k s h is
own id e n t it y to th a t o f h is m other; to p r e se r v e h im s e lf,
he must p r e se r v e A ddie, and he does t h i s by r e fu s in g to
a c ce p t th e f a c t o f h er d e a th . He p r e se r v e s h er by an a c t
o f m etam orphosis or tr a n s fig u r a tio n ; sh e l i v e s on in h is
mind b ecau se Vardaman can r e tu r n to what was and make i t
i s a g a in . T his he a cco m p lish es by b o r in g l i f e h o le s in th e
c o f f i n and m ixin g Addie w ith " fish " d u rin g th e c r o s s in g o f
th e r iv e r . Ih e n o v e l ends w ith Vardaman h o ld in g t i g h t l y
t o t h i s c o n c e p t.
The prim ary tim e s tr u c tu r e in As I Lav Dying i s
c h r o n o lo g ic a l, d e s p it e F aulkner*s u se o f f i f t y - n i n e se p a
r a te s e c t io n s , and th e r e fe r e n c e s in A ddie*s s e c t io n to
e v e n ts th a t occu rred many y ea rs p r e v io u s to th e b eg in n in g
o f th e n o v e l. The m ajor i n t e r e s t in tim e i s a g a in i t s
140
r e la t io n s h ip t o th e q u e st fo r in d iv id u a l i d e n t i t y . Each
c h a r a c te r in As X Lay Dying i s fa c e d w ith th e p r o sp ec t o f
embarking on a str a n g e o d y ssey o f r ev e n g e . Each, in h is
way, fin d s some ’’ meaning" through e v e n ts in th e jo u rn ey ;
each " liv e s " th e jou rn ey in a d i f f e r e n t way. F aulkner, in
As I Lay Dying, as in The Sound and th e Fury, does not so
much t e l l th e s to r y as h e does immerse u s in th e minds o f
th e v a r io u s c h a r a c te r s a s th ey r e l a t e th e s to r y to u s. The
a s to n is h in g range o f in t e r p r e ta tio n s s u g g e s ts , perhaps
above a l l o th e r c o n s id e r a tio n s , th a t Faulkner s e e s man as
a c r e a tu r e f u l l y a b le , through th e o p e r a tio n o f f r e e w i l l ,
to c o n s tr u c t th e " r e a lity " around him and, f i n a l l y , th e
in n er " r e a lity " o f s e l f . The s t r u g g le to a c h ie v e t h is
" r e a lity " i s th e consum ing i n t e r e s t o f th e n o v e l. As in
The Sound and th e Fury. Faulkner s u g g e s ts no f i n a l answ ers.
Both n o v e ls end w ith q u e s tio n s , a s th e se a rc h fo r id e n t it y
and m eaning c o n tin u e s to o b se ss man.
CHAPTER V
LIGHT IN AUGUST
L ight in August (1932) c o n tin u e s F aulkner*s e x p e r i
m en ta tio n w ith c o n c ep ts o f tim e and id e n t it y . Late in h is
c a r e e r , he was asked i f L ight in August r e f l e c t e d an
’'in e v it a b ly t r a g ic v iew o f l i f e . ” In h is answer Faulkner
s u g g e s ts th a t th e human b e in g , through h is c a p a c ity o f f r e e
w i l l , i s r e s p o n s ib le fo r h is ’V iew o f l i f e " :
That th e o n ly p erson in th a t book th a t a c ce p ted a t r a g ic
v iew o f l i f e was C hristm as b e c a u se he d id n 't know what
h e was and s o he d e lib e r a t e ly r ep u d ia te d man. He d id n 't
b elo n g to man any lo n g e r , he d e lib e r a t e ly rep u d ia te d
man. The o th e r s seemed to me to have had a v e r y f i n e
b e l i e f in l i f e , in th e b a s ic p o s s i b i l i t y fo r h ap p in ess
and g o o d n ess—Byron Bunch and Lena Grove, to have gone
t o a l l th a t tr o u b le . (Gwynn and B lo tn e r , p. 9 7 )
The b a s ic p lo t i s n o t com plex, alth ou gh th e s tr u c tu r e
o f the n o v e l a g a in e x h ib it s F a u lk n er 's i n t e r e s t in m ixin g
tim e p a tte r n s fo r c e r t a in a e s t h e t ic e f f e c t s . The n a r r a tiv e
l i n e b e g in s w ith th e attem p ts o f Lena Grove (who is p reg
n a n t) t o fin d th e fa th e r o f h er c h ild (Lucas Burch a l i a s
Joe Brown). As Lena, in her p r i s t i n e in n o ce n c e, approaches
141
142
J e ffe r s o n , sh e s e e s two colum ns o f smoke w hich r e p r e s e n t,
unknown to h er, v i t a l elem en ts in th e s t o r y . One column
marks th e s i t e o f th e saw m i l l where Lucas has been w orking
( c o in c id e n t a lly , Byron Bunch, h er tr a v e lin g companion a t
th e end o f th e n o v e l, i s a ls o w orking a t th e m i l l ) ; th e
o th e r marks th e bu rn ing o f th e dead Joanna B urden's h ou se,
an a c t e x p la in e d l a t e r in th e n o v e l. Joe C hristm as, an
e x tr a o rd in a r y F aulkner c h a r a c te r , i s f i r s t se e n as a worker
in th e saw m i l l w ith Byron and Lucas. C hristm as i s th e
c e n tr a l f ig u r e in th e n o v e l. The m ajor e v e n ts o f h is l i f e ,
from b ir th to d e a th , form th e prim ary a e s t h e t ic i n t e r e s t .
A lthough th e r e i s no f i n a l e v id e n c e in th e n o v e l, he s u s
p e c ts th a t he i s p a rt Negro, and t h i s id e a i s a "burden1 ’
he c a r r ie s w ith him t o th e g r a v e . In J e ffe r s o n , C hristm as
m eets Joanna Burden (an embodiment, in p a r t, o f th e C a l
v i n i s t c o n s c ie n c e ), and a v i o l e n t lo v e a f f a i r e n su e s,
ending in th e k i l l i n g o f Joanna, th e f i r i n g o f th e h ou se,
and th e ly n ch in g o f Christm as (by Percy Grimm). G a il H igh
tow er, a form er m in is te r (whose name s u g g e s ts h is r e t r e a t
from l i f e ) , fin d s h im s e lf enmeshed in th e a c tio n . He i s a
p e r so n a l fr ie n d o f Byron B u n ch 's, and i s fo r c e d back in t o
m ean in gfu l l i f e a c t i v i t y by B yron's in t e r e s t in Lena Grove
143
and C h ristm as's f a t e f u l dilemma n ear th e end o f h is l i f e .
The n a r r a tio n ends w ith Lena and Byron, to g e th e r w ith
L ena's baby, moving toward a prom ising fu tu r e .
The n o v e l i s con cern ed w ith th e co n cep t o f " r ig h te o u s
n ess" and th e v ic tim s o f " r e lig io u s and p a t r io t ic r ig id it y ."
I r o n ic a lly , th o se fig u r e s in th e n o v e l a lig n e d w ith
" r ig h te o u sn e ss" — Percy Grimm, Doc H in es, and Mr. M cEachem --
have l i t t l e or no a c tu a l f a i t h . Ih o se who have a c tu a l
f a i t h , such as Byron Bunch and Lena Grove, su cceed in
a c h ie v in g a m easure o f p e r so n a l s e r e n it y and h a p p in e ss.
There a re th r e e m artyred v ic tim s o f " r ig h teo u sn ess" in th e
n o v e l: Joe C hristm as, G a il H ightow er, and, in a s e n s e ,
Joanna Burden.
S tr u c tu r a lly , L ig h t in August a g a in e x h ib it s
F a u lk n er's tec h n iq u e o f a lt e r in g c h r o n o lo g ic a l form in
order to g a in c e r t a in e f f e c t s . Hie n o v e l i s d iv id e d in t o
tw enty c h a p te r s, w ith th r e e m ajor l e v e ls o f tim e . A lthough
th e Joe Christm as s t o r y i s dom inant, a number o f su b o r d i
n a te s t o r i e s are d e v e lo p e d . The b a s ic n a r r a tiv e tim e
s tr u c tu r e has been c a r e f u l ly d e sc r ib e d by Bruce R.
M cElderry, J r . :
C lu stered about th e Joe Christm as s t o r y a r e th e fo u r
s t o r i e s or s u b s t o r ie s o f (1 ) J o e 's p a rtn er Brown (or
B urch), o f (2 ) Joanna Burden, th e b e n e fa c tr e s s and
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m is tr e s s murdered by Joe C hristm as, o f (3 ) th e H in eses,
gran d p aren ts o f Joe, and o f (4 ) H ightow er, th e unem
p lo y e d , d is c r e d it e d p rea ch er. Three l e v e l s o f tim e are
u sed . There i s th e p r e s e n t, w hich b e g in s w ith th e r ep o rt
o f Joanna Burden, s murder (Ch. 4 ) . T his p r e se n t a c tio n
i s co n tin u ed by th e s h e r i f f ’s in v e s t ig a t io n o f th e crim e,
C h ristm as’s a r r e s t , esca p e and d eath (Chs. 1 3 -1 9 ). By
tim e and c o in c id e n c e th e m ajor a c tio n co n cern in g C h r is t
mas i s r e la t e d t o th e Lena-Byron a c tio n , through Byron’s
fr ie n d H ightow er. The second tim e l e v e l i s th e im m ediate
p a st in w hich C hristm as com m itted th e crim e: p a r t o f
Ch. 2 e x p la in s Brown’ s (or Burch’ s ) a s s o c ia t io n w ith
C hristm as; Ch. 5 t e l l s th e q u a r r e l betw een Brown and
C hristm as on th e n ig h t o f th e murder; Chs. 10, 11, and 12
t e l l th e s t o r y o f C h ristm as’ s r e la t io n s h ip w ith Joanna
o v er a p erio d o f th r e e y e a r s, in c lu d in g th e murder and
C h ristm as’s f l i g h t . The th ir d l e v e l o f tim e i s th e
rem ote p a s t, w hich g iv e s d is ta n c e and p e r s p e c tiv e to our
know ledge o f th r e e c h a r a c te r s . The e a r ly l i f e o f H igh
tow er, th e u n frocked p reach er, i s g iv e n in Chs. 3 and 20,
th e boyhood o f C hristm as in Chs. 6 -9 ; and th e s to r y o f
Joanna Burden’s a b o l i t i o n i s t fa m ily i s in t e r j e c t e d in to
C h ristm as’s e a r ly a cq u a in ta n ce w ith h er in Ch. 11.
Through th e H in eses th e c ir cu m sta n c es o f C h ristm as’ s
b ir t h are brought out in Chs. 15-16.^-
F aulkner u t i l i z e s t h is r a th e r v a s t ta b le a u o f c h a r a c
t e r s and a c tio n s t o in v e s t ig a t e man in r e la t io n s h ip t o tim e
and id e n t i t y . The t i t l e , L igh t in A ugust, s u g g e s ts a
q u a lit y o f lig h t (to some, "Light" or know ledge in
"A ugust," t im e ) . F aulkn er, in r e sp o n se to a q u e s tio n
*"The N a r ra tiv e S tr u c tu r e o f L ight in A u g u st." C o lle g e
E n g lish . XIX (February 1 9 5 8 ), 201.
2
Another in t e r e s t in g in t e r p r e t a t io n o f th e t i t l e i s
su g g e ste d by Beekman W . C o t t r e ll: "Lena s e e s th e l ig h t in
th e August sk y w hich th e burning Burden home m akes. . . . "
" C h r istia n Symbols in L ight in A ugust. '* Modern F ic t io n
S tu d ie s . I I (W inter 1 9 5 6 -5 7 ), 209.
145
co n cern in g th e sym b olic meaning o f th e t i t l e , su g g ested a
c l a s s i c a l a llu s io n :
. . . in August in M is s is s ip p i t h e r e ’ s a few days some
where about th e m id d le o f th e month when su d d en ly t h e r e 's
a f o r e t a s t e o f f a l l , i t ' s c o o l, t h e r e 's a lam bence, a
lum inous q u a lit y t o th e l i g h t , as though i t came not from
j u s t tod ay but from back in th e o ld c l a s s i c tim e s. I t
m ight have been fauns and s a ty r s and th e gods and --from
G reece, from Olympus in i t somewhere. I t l a s t s j u s t fo r
a day or tw o, th e n i t ' s gon e, b u t ev ery year in August
th a t occu rs in my co u n try , and t h a t ' s a l l th a t t i t l e
m eant, i t was j u s t t o me a p le a sa n t e v o c a tiv e t i t l e
b ecau se i t reminded me o f th a t tim e, o f a lu m in o sity
o ld e r than our C h r istia n c i v i l i z a t i o n . (Gwynn and
B lo tn e r, p . 199)
In h is e x p la n a tio n , he in c lu d e s Lena, h er "pagan
q u a lit y o f b e in g a b le to assume e v e r y th in g , t h a t ' s — th e
d e s ir e fo r th a t c h i ld , she was n ev er ashamed o f th a t
c h ild . . . . " (Gwytm and B lo tn e r , p. 1 9 9 ).
Lena i s a rem arkable woman. She i s a c h a r a c te r in
F a u lk n er's work who has a c o m p le te ly s a t i s f a c t o r y co n cep t
o f her id e n t it y and d e s t in y . R eg a rd less o f h er s it u a t io n
in tim e, h er t r i a l s and t r ib u la t io n s , sh e r e t a in s a calm
and se r e n e f a i t h th a t a l l w i l l somehow "work o u t." There
i s l i t e r a l l y n o th in g on e a r th th a t can d e s tr o y h er c o n sta n t
a ccep ta n ce o f th e id e a th a t human l i f e i s o f g r e a t v a lu e ,
and th a t sh e , somehow, w i l l alw ays c o n tin u e t o l i v e in an
ord ered , m ean in gfu l fa s h io n .
146
As th e n o v e l op en s, Lena i s on th e road (even though
p reg n a n t), t r a v e lin g from Alabama to M is s is s ip p i to fin d
Lucas Burch, th e fa th e r o f th e c h ild . She b ears him no i l l
w i l l fo r le a v in g Alabama; sh e has a ccep ted h is sta te m en t
th a t he must le a v e fo r b u s in e s s r e a so n s, and w i l l "send fo r
h e r ." He has n ot se n t fo r h e r , but sh e h ea rs th a t he i s in
J e ffe r s o n , and b e g in s h er t r i p . The jo u rn ey , c e r t a in ly
view ed as arduous by m o st, i s a v iv id adventure f o r Lena:
"My, my," she sa y s ; "here I a in t been on th e road but four
w eeks, and now I am in J e ffe r s o n a lr e a d y . My, my. A body
3
does g e t around."
During th e jo u rn ey , Lena r e f l e c t s on p a st d i f f i c u l t i e s
in h er l i f e , b u t sh e alw ays s u g g e s ts , o fte n in a l ig h t
com edic to n e , com p lete a c ce p ta n c e o f h er " lu ck ." She
th in k s back, fo r in s ta n c e , to th e e v e n ts le a d in g up t o her
p regn an cy:
She had liv e d th e r e [ i n a le a n to room a t her b r o th e r ’ s
h ou se] e ig h t y ea rs b e fo r e sh e opened th e window fo r th e
f i r s t tim e. She had n o t opened i t a dozen tim es h a rd ly
b e fo r e sh e d isc o v e r e d th a t sh e sh ou ld n o t have opened i t
a t a l l . She s a id to h e r s e l f , "That’ s j u s t my lu c k ."
(p* 5)
^L ight in August (New York, 1 9 5 0 ), p. 26.
147
Through L en a's r e f l e c t i o n s e a r ly in th e n o v e l, F au lk
n er su g g e s ts th e c lo s e human c o r r e la t io n betw een p a s t,
p r e se n t and fu tu r e . Lena h ea rs a wagon app roachin g, and
n o te s th a t th e wagon i s heard in tim e b e fo r e i t i s se e n .
She im agin es h e r s e l f in th e wagon, and r e f l e c t s th a t th e
wagon w i l l e x i s t in p r e se n t tim e as w e ll a s fu tu r e tim e
somehow s t i l l c a r r y in g an a sp e c t o f h e r s e l f :
"That fa r w ith in my h e a r in g b e fo r e my s e e i n g ," Lena
th in k s . She th in k s o f h e r s e l f as a lr e a d y m oving, r id in g
a g a in , th in k in g th e n i t w i l l be as i f I were r id in g fo r
a h a lf m ile b e fo r e I even g o t in t o th e wagon, b e fo r e th e
wagon even g o t to where I was w a itin g , and th a t when th e
wagon i s empty o f me a g a in i t w i l l go on fo r a h a lf m ile
w ith me s t i l l in i t . . . . (p. 7)
She s e e s a r e la t io n s h ip in tim e betw een r e a l i t y and th e
wagon, and h er approach to Lucas Burch:
I w i l l be r id in g w ith in th e h e a r in g o f Lucas Burch b e fo r e
h is s e e in g . He w i l l h ear th e wagon, b u t he wont know.
So th e r e w i l l be one w ith in h is h e a r in g b e fo r e h is s e e
in g . And th en h e w i l l s e e me and he w i l l be e x c it e d .
And so th e r e w i l l b e two w ith in h is s e e in g b e fo r e h is
rem em bering. (p. 8 )
In L ena's f i r s t c h a p te r , Faulkner s u g g e s ts a theme
co n cern in g tim e th a t w i l l be o f m ost im portance t o C h r is t
mas and h is a ttem p ts t o s tr u c tu r e a m ea n in g fu l id e n t it y in
tim e . Knowledge o f th e p a s t , or memory, s u g g e s ts F aulkn er,
p reced es and forms p r e se n t id e n t it y ; r e c o g n itio n in p r e se n t
tim e a n t ic ip a t e s c h a r a c te r and a c tio n in th e fu tu r e . Lena,
148
u n lik e C hristm as, has an enduring f a i t h th a t o b v ia te s worry
over i d e n t it y in tim e; sh e "knows” th a t th e fu tu r e w i l l
"work out" b eca u se sh e has a s a t i s f a c t o r y id e n t it y in th e
p r e s e n t. She i s n e it h e r running from u n ten a b le e v e n ts in
th e p a s t nor running toward an im agined fu tu r e . She
a c c e p ts th e p r e s e n t; sh e r e c o g n iz e s th a t l i f e must be liv e d
in now or n ot liv e d a t a l l . She s e r v e s in th e n o v e l as th e
s in g le c h a r a c te r who m ost c o m p le te ly a c c e p ts a c o g n it iv e
tim e p a tte r n th a t g iv e s l i f e a p r e se n t m eaning. She
sta n d s , th e r e fo r e , in v e r y str o n g c o n tr a s t t o m ost o f th e
o th e r c h a r a c te r s , p a r t ic u la r ly Joe C hristm as and Reverend
H ightow er.
In Chapter Two, Lena rea c h e s th e lumber m i l l where sh e
e x p e c ts t o fin d Lucas Burch. There sh e m eets Byron Bunch,
who i s im m ed iately tak en w ith h er; th e f i r s t exchange
betw een them i s humorous as w e ll as p o ig n a n t:
"You a in t h im ," sh e sa y s b eh in d h er fa d in g s m ile ,
w ith th e grave a sto n ish m en t o f a c h ild .
"No, ma'am, " Byron s a y s . He p a u se s, h a l f tu rn in g w ith
th e b alan ced s t a v e s . "I don t reckon I am. Who i s i t
I a in t? " (pp. 4 3 -4 4 )
Byron " ain t" Lucas Burch, but a lr e a d y , Faulkner in d ic a t e s ,
"Byron i s . . . in lo v e , though h e does n o t y e t know i t "
(p. 4 8 ) . Byron d o e s, how ever, g iv e away th e f a c t th a t
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Lucas works a t th e m i ll (and does n o t want to become i n
v o lv e d w ith Lena a g a in ). Byron d e s c r ib e s Joe Brown, a l i a s
Lucas Burch, t o Lena:
"Joe Brown," sh e s a y s . "Has he g o t a l i t t l e w h ite
sc a r r ig h t h e r e by h is mouth?"
And he [Byron] cannot lo o k a t h e r , and he s i t s th e r e
on th e sta c k e d lumber when i t i s to o l a t e , and he cou ld
have b i t t e n h is tongue in tw o. (p. 48)
In Chapter Four, Byron t e l l s H ightow er, th e d efrock ed
m in is te r , th e s t o r y o f Lena, and Byron*s f e e l in g o f r esp o n
s i b i l i t y toward h er:
It j u s t seemed to him th a t i f he co u ld o n ly g e t a c ro ss
th e sq uare and in to a h ou se h is r e s p o n s ib i li t y would be
d isc h a r g e d . Not r e s p o n s ib i li t y fo r th e e v i l to w hich
he h e ld h im s e lf fo r no o th e r r e a so n than th a t o f h avin g
sp en t th e a fte r n o o n w ith h er w h ile i t was happening,
h avin g been ch osen by c ir cu m sta n c es to r e p r e se n t J e f f e r
son to h er who had come a fo o t and w ith o u t money fo r
t h ir t y days in order t o rea ch th e r e . He d id n ot hope
nor in ten d t o avoid th a t r e s p o n s i b i l i t y . I t was j u s t to
g iv e h im s e lf and h er tim e t o be shocked and s u r p r is e d .
(p. 72)
Byron t e l l s H ightower th a t Lena does n o t y e t know th e
t r a g ic e v en ts th a t have occu rred in J e ffe r s o n , or Luca’ s
r e j e c t io n o f h e r :
"I a in t t o ld h e r . . . . sh e dont know y e t , no more
than sh e knowed y e ste r d a y when sh e g o t down from th a t
wagon on th e sq u are . . . t e l l i n g h e r s e l f w ith a kin d o f
q u ie t a sto n ish m en t, o n ly I don t reck on i t was any a s
ton ish m en t in i t , b eca u se sh e had come slo w and a fo o t
and t e l l i n g n ev er b o th ered h e r : *My, my. Here I have
come c le a n from Alabama, and now I am in J e ffe r s o n a t
l a s t , su r e enough.*" (p. 8 8 )
150
Her needs are a tten d ed t o by Byron and o th e r s . Byron
d e c id e s to ta k e her from th e b oard in g house where sh e has
been s ta y in g to a c a b in n ear Joanna Burden’ s h ou se. In th e
c a b in , Byron th in k s, Lena w i l l fin d "a p la c e where i t w i l l
be kind o f home to h e r . She a in t g o t a w hole l o t more
tim e, and in a boardin g h o u se, where i t ’ s m o stly j u s t
men . . . " (p. 2 6 2 ). Byron has n o t been a b le to b r in g him
s e l f to t e l l th e tr u th about Lucas Burch to Lena, but sh e
i s one o f F a u lk n er's r a th e r i n t u i t i v e c h a r a c te r s . Byron
e x p la in s t h i s phenomenon to H ightow er:
"I n ev er even had any need t o keep i t from h e r , to l i e
i t sm ooth. I t was l i k e sh e knew b eforehan d what I would
sa y , th a t I was g o in g t o l i e t o h e r . Like sh e had a l
ready thought o f th a t h e r s e l f , and th a t sh e a lre a d y
d id n ’t b e lie v e i t b e fo r e I even s a id i t , and th a t was a l l
r ig h t to o . But th e p a rt o f her th a t knew th e tr u th , th a t
I co u ld n ot have fo o le d anyway. . . . " (pp. 2 6 3 -2 6 4 )
Lena’ s baby i s born in th e c a b in , and a f i n a l c o n fr o n
t a t io n w ith Lucas i s arranged by Byron and th e s h e r i f f .
Byron w a tch es, h id d en , u n t i l he s e e s Lucas e n te r th e ca b in ;
Byron th en le a v e s , d e s p ite h is lo v e fo r Lena, b ecau se he
assum es Lucas w i l l now a c ce p t h is proper r e s p o n s ib i li t y .
Suddenly, how ever, he s e e s Lucas run from th e c a b in .
Faulkner la t e r s t a t e s what has happened in th e c a b in :
Lucas l i e s to Lena, but does n o t, in any s e n s e , co n v in ce
151
h er; sh e i s n o t su r p r ise d when he d ashes ou t:
From beyond th e window sh e heard a s i n g le f a in t sound as
he began to run. Then o n ly d id sh e move, and th en but
to s ig h on ce, p rofo u n d ly.
"Now I g o t to g e t up a g a in ," sh e s a id , a lo u d .
(p . 37 9 )
Her calm a ccep ta n ce o f L u cas's a c tio n and her im m ediate
d e c is io n to go on w ith her l i f e are c le a r . Lucas has n ot
d e fe a te d Lena; r a th e r , th e s i t u a t i o n i s r e v e r s e d , as Lucas
soon fin d s h im s e lf in a f ig h t w ith Byron over h is own
co w a rd ice. Ih e f a c t th a t Lucas i s much str o n g e r than Byron
and "wins" th e p h y s ic a l f ig h t i s im m a teria l; Lucas le a v e s
town by jum ping a f r e ig h t t r a in and v a n is h e s , n ev er to
c la im th e reward money he f e e l s due him b eca u se he knows
th e d e t a i l s o f th e Burden m urder. He runs from r e s p o n s i
b i l i t y h e r e , as he had run many tim es in th e p a s t . Byron
s u c c in c t ly sum marizes L u cas's sym b olic v a lu e in th e n o v e l
when d e s c r ib in g L u cas's esca p e from " l i f e " : "Great God in
th e m o u n ta in ," he sa y s w ith c h i l d l i k e and alm ost e c s t a t i c
aston ish m en t; "he sh o knows how to jump a t r a in . H e's sho
done th a t b e fo re " (p . 3 8 6 ).
Lena i s l a s t ob served in th e f i n a l c h a p te r o f th e
n o v e l. The c h a p te r i s n a rra ted by a t r a v e lin g fu r n itu r e
d e a le r who a ttem p ts t o e x p la in t o h is w if e c e r ta in
152
"stran ge" sc e n e s h e has w itn e s s e d . He has p ick ed up Lena,
Byron, and th e baby in h is tru ck (he assumes a t f i r s t th a t
Lena and Byron are m a rried ), and, when n ig h t a r r iv e s ,
o f f e r s them th e tru ck to s le e p in . They are g r a te f u l;
Byron h e lp s Lena and th e baby g e t s e t t l e d , and th e n clim b s
up and e n te r s th e tru ck . The fu r n itu r e d e a le r d e s c r ib e s
th e sc en e to h is w if e :
I j u s t w atched him clim b slo w and ea sy in t o th e tru ck and
d isa p p ea r and th en d id n 't a n y th in g happen fo r about w h ile
you cou ld count maybe f i f t e e n slo w , and th en I heard one
kind o f a sto n is h e d sound sh e made when sh e woke up, l ik e
sh e was j u s t su r p r ise d and th en a l i t t l e put out w ith o u t
b e in g sca red a t a l l , and sh e s a y s , not loud n e ith e r :
"Why, Mr. Bunch. A int you ashamed. You m ight have woke
th e baby, t o o . " Then he come ou t th e back door o f th e
tr u c k . Not f a s t , and n o t c lim b in g down on h is own le g s
a t a l l . I be dog i f I dont b e lie v e sh e p ick ed him up
and s e t him back o u ts id e on th e ground l i k e sh e would
th a t baby i f i t had b een about s i x years o ld , sa y , and
sh e sa y s , "You go and la y down now, and g e t some s le e p .
W e g o t an oth er fu r p ie c e t o go tom orrow." (p. 4 4 1 )
Lena i s in d o m ita b le; sh e does n ot r e j e c t Byron; sh e sim p ly
r e j e c t s him now b eca u se sh e i s p s y c h o lo g ic a lly in c o n tr o l
o f a l l tim e and now i s n o t th e proper tim e. The n e x t day,
as th e tru ck moves r a th e r s lo w ly down th e road, Byron
a p p e a r s:
He was sta n d in g a t th e s id e o f th e road when we come
around th e c u rv e. Standing th e r e , fa c e and no fa c e ,
hangdog and determ ined and calm t o o , l ik e he had done
d esp era ted h im s e lf u p fo r th e l a s t tim e, to ta k e th e
l a s t chance, and th a t now h e knew he w o u ld n 't ev er have
t o d e sp e r a te h im s e lf a g a in . (p. 44 3 )
153
"I done crane to o fa r now," Byron s a y s , " I be dog i f I'm
goin g to q u it n ow ." Lena, " lo o k in g a t him lik e sh e had
known a l l th e tim e what he was g o in g to d o ," sa y s , "Aint
nobody n ever s a id fo r you t o q u it" (p. 4 4 3 ) and thus sh e
su g g e sts a p o s s ib le fu tu r e fo r b oth o f them.
The l a s t l in e s in th e n o v e l b elo n g to Lena, who r e
p ea ts h er e a r l ie r comment on tim e and l i f e :
"£fy, my. A body does g e t around. Here we a in t been
coming from Alabama but two m onths, and now i t ' s a lre a d y
T en n essee." (p. 4 4 4 )
Lena seems t o t a l l y se c u r e in h e r s e l f d e s p ite th e p er
so n a l o ccu rren ces in h er l i f e (her pregnancy, th e long
jou rn ey to J e ffe r s o n , and L uca's d e s e r t io n ) , and th e f r e n
z ie d a c tio n around her in v o lv in g H ightow er, Joanna Burden,
Joe C hristm as, and Percy Grimm. She i s s im ila r to D ils e y
in The Sound and th e Fury in th a t sh e to o rem ains un
d e fe a te d by tim e. John W . Hunt comments on th e sym b olic
a f f i n i t y betw een Lena and D ils e y :
[For them] tim e as such p r e se n ts no problem . It i s not
a tomb fo r th e dead w eig h t o f th e p a s t, but th e te x tu r e
o f e x p e r ie n c e , th e c o n te x t in w hich th e c o n c r e te f a c t s
o f l i f e are met and made m ea n in g fu l, are endured and
found red em p tiv e. (p. 9 )
Through h er f a i t h , her u n d erstan d in g th a t p a st and fu tu r e
are to be a ccep ted in now. Lena knows how to d e a l w ith any
154
contem porary s it u a t io n .
I t i s e v id e n t th a t F aulkner, in some s e n s e , sy m b o li
c a l l y a lig n s Joe C hristm as in th e n o v e l w ith Jesu s C h r ist.
In a p a r a l le l p a tte r n o f im agery (a lth ou gh n o t c o m p le te ly
worked out by F a u lk n er), Lena i s se e n e a r ly in th e n a r r a
t i v e c a r r y in g her "unm istakable b u rd en ," d r e sse d in a
" sh a p eless garment o f faded b lu e , ca rr y in g a p a lm lea f fan"
(p. 8 ) . There i s a s u g g e s tio n o f th e b i b l i c a l Mary h e r e
who triu m p h an tly c a r r ie s w ith in h er th a t one' Who i s to
a l t e r h is t o r y . Lena, l i k e Mary, a c c e p ts w ith s e r e n it y ,
n ot o n ly th e "burden" o f th e pregnancy, but th e h a r d sh ip s,
both p h y s ic a l and p s y c h o lo g ic a l, th a t accompany th e p r e g
nancy.
In a d d itio n , n o t o n ly i s F a u lk n er's d e s c r ip tio n o f th e
" lig h t" in L ight in August c l a s s i c a l in i t s im p lic a tio n s ,
but Lena Grove eu p h o n io u sly and s e m a n tic a lly s u g g e s ts both
F au lk n er’ s " lu m in o sity o ld e r than our C h r istia n c i v i l i z a
tio n " and h is co n cep t o f th e c l a s s i c a l p a s to r a l. Lena,
d e s p it e th e v io le n c e and fu r y surroun din g h e r , rem ains a
p a s to r a l f ig u r e , in a c l a s s i c a l " grove." Edwin N. M oseley
adds an in t e r e s t in g n o te on th e im p lic a tio n s o f L ena's name
and c h a r a c te r :
155
Understand h er name, and you know th a t sh e w i l l move
through th e d r y la n d s, r e v iv in g th o s e who are dead in th e
many ways th e word can s u g g e s t. The men h e lp her in her
jou rn ey fo r rea so n s th e y c a n 't d e fin e ; th e women, l ik e
th e s i g n i f i c a n t l y named hard-w orking Martha, fee d her
even when th ey d o n 't want t o . . . . F in a lly , Lena moves
fa r th e r n o rth as any sp rin g goddess must do when th e
se a so n demands i t .
Lena exudes th e calm n ess and a c ce p ta n c e, th e b eau ty and
atm ospheric t r a n q u i ll i t y , th a t th e t r a d it io n a l p a s to r a l
s u g g e s t s .
Byron i s L ena's c o n sta n t p r o te c to r . Faulkner does n ot
p r e sen t a f u l l y d ev elo p ed sym b olic p o r t r a it o f th e b i b l i c a l
Joseph, y e t Byron, l i k e Joseph , makes h is liv i n g w ith wood,
a c ce p ts a c h ild n o t h is own, and p r o te c ts and p ro v id es fo r
h is "Mary." There a re p a r a l le l s , to be su r e , but th e y are
not e x p l i c i t in th e n o v e l.
Byron i s a man o f g r e a t in t e g r i t y ; i f he i s working
a lo n e a t th e lumber m i l l , he keeps " h is own tim e t o th e
f i n a l secon d o f an im aginary w h is tle " (p. 41). Each w eek
end, Byron’s a c t i v i t y i s th e same:
. . . Bunch r id e s t h ir t y m ile s in to th e co u n try and
spends Sunday le a d in g th e c h o ir in a cou n try ch u rch —a
s e r v ic e w hich l a s t s a l l day lo n g . Then san e tim e around
m id n igh t he sa d d le s th e m ule a g a in and r id e s back to
4
Pseudonyms of Christ in the Modern Novel (Pittsburgh,
1962), pp. 140-141.
156
J e ffe r s o n a t a ste a d y a lln ig h t jo g . And on Monday
m orning, in h is c le a n o v e r a lls and s h i r t he w i l l be on
hand a t th e m i l l when th e w h is t le b lo w s. (p. 4 2 )
Only H ightow er, th e form er m in is te r , knows o f t h i s w eek ly
s a c r i f i c e ; in f a c t , H ightow er, an a lie n fig u r e to m ost o f
th e r e s id e n ts o f J e ffe r s o n , i s B yron's o n ly fr ie n d and
c o n fid a n t. He i s th e o n ly person to know o f B yron's e a r ly
m eetin g w ith Lena a t th e m i l l and h is im m ediate attem p ts to
h e lp h e r :
And o p p o site Byron, H ightower does n o t y e t th in k l o v e .
He remembers o n ly th a t Byron i s s t i l l young and has le d
a l i f e o f c e lib a c y and hard la b o r , and th a t by B yron's
t e l l i n g th e woman whom he has n ever se e n p o s s e s s e s some
d is tu r b in g q u a lit y a t l e a s t , even though Byron s t i l l
b e lie v e s th a t i t i s o n ly p i t y . (p. 71)
Hightower does n o t y e t th in k " lo v e ," b u t B yron's lo v e
fo r Lena i s f u l l and f i n a l a t f i r s t s i g h t , even "though he
does not y e t know i t . " For th e f i r s t tim e in h i s l i f e ,
Byron l i e s by m isin fo rm in g Lena o f L u cas's w h ereab ou ts.
He arran ges fo r h er to spend th e n ig h t a t Mrs. B eard 's
boarding h o u se, and l a t e r ta k e s h er t o th e c a b in on th e
Burden e s t a t e , where sh e can have th e baby w ith some p eace
and d ig n it y . A lthough H ightower has been " r e tir e d " from
l i f e fo r tw e n ty -fiv e y e a r s , Byron p le a d s f o r and r e c e iv e s
h e lp from H ightower when th e baby i s d u e. H ightower go es
g r u d g in g ly w ith Byron to th e c a b in to d e liv e r th e baby,
157
but afterw ard F aulkner in d ic a t e s th a t Byron has been an
e f f e c t i v e c a t a l y s t in once a g a in engaging H ightower in
l i f e :
And as he [H ightow er] sta n d s , t a l l , m issh apen, lo n e ly
in h is lo n e ly and i l l k e p t k itc h e n , h o ld in g in h is hand
an ir o n s k i l l e t in w hich y e s te r d a y ’s o ld g r e a se i s
b le a k ly caked, th e r e go es through him a glow , a wave,
a su rg e o f som ething alm ost h o t, alm ost trium phant.
"I showed them!" he th in k s . " L ife comes t o th e o ld man
y e t . . . . " He moves l ik e a man w ith a purpose now,
who f o r tw e n ty -fiv e y ea rs has been d oin g n o th in g a t a l l
betw een th e tim e t o wake and th e tim e to s le e p a g a in .
(pp. 3 5 4 -3 5 5 )
Byron’s f i n a l sc e n e w ith Lena in w hich he e x p r e sse s
h is d e te r m in a tio n t o s t a y w ith h er ( ”I be dog i f I'm g o in g
to q u it now") i s em blem atic o f h i s w hole l i f e . He has
liv e d a good l i f e , from any p o in t o f v iew ; alth ou gh a t
tim es he i s n o t a p a r t ic u la r ly p r e p o s s e s s in g c h a r a c te r , h is
se n se o f id e n t it y and d e d ic a tio n i s c le a r . Robert L.
Dorsch s u g g e s ts th e " r e a l str e n g th " o f Byron Bunch:
The r e a l s tr e n g th o f Byron Bunch comes from th e u n d er
sta n d in g w ith w hich he le a v e n s h is b e l i e f . He i s a b le
to s e e th a t a l l i s n o t as i t sh o u ld b e in th e w orld even
w h ile h e b e lie v e s in th e p r e sen ce o f good .*
Byron " d efe a ts" Lucas, who le a v e s town; he h e lp s H ightower
■*"A n I n te r p r e ta tio n o f th e C en tra l Themes in th e Work
o f W illiam F au lk n er," The Emporia S ta te R esearch S tu d ie s.
XI (Septem ber 1 9 6 2 ), 1 4 -1 5 .
158
r e j o in a hum anity r e je c te d by th e m in is te r fo r a q u a rter
o f a cen tu ry ; and he g a in s L ena's hand. He i s an in n o cen t
fig u r e , and forms w ith Lena a p a s to r a l ta b le a u o f in n o
cen ce th a t somehow su r v iv e s in t a c t in th e m id st o f t e r r i b ly
d e s t r u c t iv e f o r c e s . They a r e , in a m ajor s e n s e , a " b lessed "
c o u p le b ecau se th e y e s t a b lis h a ta n g ib le and b e lie v a b le
r e a l i t y f o r th em selv es th a t trium phs over a l l " earth ly"
o b s t a c le s .
The c h r o n o lo g ic a l s to r y o f Byron and Lena i s a f a s c i
n a tin g one, and i s c e r t a in ly o f b a s ic im portance in L ight
in A ugust, but i t i s secon d ary, a e s t h e t i c a l l y , to th e
prim ary s to r y o f C h ristm as—a s t o r y t o ld , in M cE lderry's
w ords, "in v i o l e n t l y n o n -c h r o n o lo g ic a l order" (p. 2 0 1 ).
The f u l l s to r y o f C hristm as m ust be p ie c e d to g e th e r from
b i t s and fragm ents s c a tte r e d in tim e through out th e n o v e l.
The fragm ented s tr u c tu r e seem s q u it e in t e n t io n a l and appro
p r ia t e , b eca u se C hristm as v i o l e n t l y and d e s p e r a te ly
attem p ts t o 'see" h im s e lf, to fin d out who h e is.. I t i s
t h i s agon ized q u e st fo r id e n t it y , en d in g t r a g i c a l l y , th a t
c o n s t it u t e s th e C hristm as sa g a in th e n o v e l.
The " fa c ts" o f h is b ir t h (n ever r e a liz e d by C h ristm as)
are found l a t e in th e n o v e l a f t e r C hristm as has been
159
cap tu red in M ottstown and charged w ith th e murder o f Joanna
Burden. Eupheus H in es, a r e l ig i o u s fa n a tic p reach in g w h ite
supremacy (co n sid ered "a l i t t l e touched" [p . 298] by th e
p eo p le o f M ottstow n), r e a l i z e s th a t Christm as i s a c tu a lly
h is grandson, th e r e s u l t o f a u n ion t h ir t y - t h r e e years ago
betw een h is dau ghter and a man b e lie v e d by H ines t o b e p a rt
Negro (alth ou gh th e man may have been M exican). In h is
p a st ra g e (co n tin u ed t o th e p r e s e n t), Eupheus k i l l e d th e
fa th e r and s e n t th e baby away to a w h ite orphanage. H ines
has sp en t th e in te r v e n in g y ea rs p reach in g a v i o le n t m essage
o f Negro i n f e r i o r i t y , many tim es g o in g " sin g le-h a n d ed in to
rem ote Negro churches and in te r r u p tin g th e s e r v ic e to . . .
preach to them h u m ility b e fo r e a l l sk in s lig h t e r than
t h e ir s , p reach in g th e s u p e r io r it y o f th e w h ite race"
(p. 3 0 1 ). The enormous iro n y o f H in es’ s l i f e i s th a t he
cannot be su re (nor i s Faulkner s p e c i f i c on t h i s v i t a l
p o in t) th a t C h ristm as’ s fa th e r a c t u a lly had Negro " b lood ."
The is s u e i s in t e n t io n a lly l e f t in d ou bt, and i s a prim ary
f a c to r in C h ristm as’s f a i lu r e to s tr u c tu r e m ean in gfu l
id e n t i t y .
C h ristm a s's ch ild h o o d , a d o le sc e n c e , and young manhood
are d e sc r ib e d in C hapters 6 -9 in th e n o v e l. The accou n t
160
o f h is p a st ends in Chapter 10; he fin d s h im s e lf in J e f f e r
son , s e t s up a b o o tle g g in g o p e r a tio n , and b e g in s h is a f f a i r
w ith Joanna Burden. The opening l in e s o f Chapters 6, 7,
and 10 are o f p a r tic u la r i n t e r e s t b eca u se th e y r e v e a l
C h ristm as’s in te n s e d e s ir e t o s tr u c tu r e a m ean in gfu l
p resen t image o f h im s e lf through e f f e c t i v e memory o f th e
p a s t :
Chapter 6 Memory b e lie v e s b e fo r e knowing remembers.
B e lie v e s lo n g er th an r e c o l l e c t s , lo n g er
th an knowing even w onders. Knows remem
b e r s b e lie v e s . . . (p. 104)
Chapter 7 And memory knows t h i s ; tw en ty y ea rs la t e r
memory i s s t i l l t o b e lie v e . . . (p. 128)
Chapter 10 Knowing n o t g r ie v in g remembers a thousand
sa v a g e and lo n e ly s t r e e t s . (p. 192)
I t i s d i f f i c u l t , i f n o t im p o s s ib le , fo r C hristm as to
"know h im s e lf," as h e i s g iv e n no s a l i e n t f a c t s p e r tin e n t
t o h is own background. He i s a c h a r a c te r str u c tu r e d
t o t a l l y by h is in d iv id u a l memory. He a tte m p ts, throughout
h is l i f e , to e s t a b lis h th e f a c t th a t he i s e it h e r w h ite or
b la ck ; he a g o n iz es f o r a f i n a l d e f i n i t i v e sta te m en t on h is
" b lood ." He has known no lo v e , has been shown l i t t l e
a f f e c t io n ; h is own n e g a tiv e r e a c tio n t o l i f e seems to b e an
outgrow th o f h is n e g a tiv e p a s t .
161
There seems l i t t l e q u e s tio n th a t in some se n s e s he i s
a C h r ist f ig u r e . His name i s Joe C hristm as; he l i v e s a
torm ented l i f e , and d ie s a t age t h ir t y - t h r e e a f t e r b ein g
" r ig h te o u sly " sh o t and c a s tr a te d by th e r e lig io u s " p a tr io t,"
Percy Grimm. C h ristm as’s l i f e , how ever, p a r a lle ls C h r is t's
o n ly i r o n ic a l ly . H yatt H. Waggoner f e e l s t h is i s th e m ajor
rea so n fo r th e sym b olic j u x t a p o s it io n o f C h rist and C h r is t
mas :
. . . we are asked to s e e C h ristm as’s death as a c r u c i
f i x io n d e s p ite th e f a c t th a t C hristm as i s in every
im agin ab le way d if f e r e n t from J e s u s . To make us p it y a
C h r is t - lik e f ig u r e would be e a sy , b u t th e n o v e l n ev er
attem p ts to do t h i s . I t ask s p it y fo r Christm as by
making us s e e th a t th e t e r r i b l e th in g s we do and become
are a l l f i n a l l y in s e l f d e fe n s e . W e are asked to f e e l
n ot th a t Christm as i s r e a l l y good or n ic e b u t th a t he
e p ito m iz e s th e human s i t u a t i o n . To do t h i s i s d i f f i c u l t
fo r p r e c is e ly th e rea so n g iv e n by H ightow er: i t must be
preceded by a p e r so n a l c o n fe s s io n o f s i n and a f e l t need
fo r p it y , fo r g iv e n e s s . (p. 103)
C h ristm as's f i r s t m ajor memory co n c er n s, t y p i c a ll y , an
i n j u s t i c e done to him. He i s a c h ild o f f i v e in a w h ite
orphanage, and a c c id e n t a lly overh ears a d i e t i t i a n and a man
making lo v e . They d is c o v e r th e boy; th e d i e t i t i a n v e r b a lly
a tta c k s him fo r h is "sin" o f sim p ly b e in g th e r e :
When th e c u r ta in f le d back he d id n o t look up. When
hands dragged him v i o l e n t l y ou t o f h is vom it he d id n o t
r e s i s t . He hung from th e hands lim p, lo o k in g w ith s la c k -
jawed and g la s s y id io c y in to a fa c e no lo n g e r smooth
p in k -a n d -w h ite, surrounded now by w ild and d is h e v e lle d
162
hair whose smooth bands once made him think of candy.
"You little rat!" the thin, furious voice hissed; "you
little rat! Spying on me! You little nigger bastard!"
(p. 107)
Partially as a result of this (with help from Eupheus
Hines, who works at the orphanage but never identifies him
self to the boy), Joe is adopted by Simon McEachern, who
prophetically states that Christmas "will eat my bread
and . . . observe my religion" (p. 127).
The older matured Christmas thinks back to this event
in his life:
Perhaps memory knowing, knowing beginning to remember;
perhaps even desire, since five is still too young to
have learned enough despair to hope. Perhaps he remem
bered suddenly the train ride and the food, since even
memory did not go much further back than that. (p. 123)
Simon McEachern is an extreme example of Faulkner’s
"rigid" religious fundamentalists. Simon’s efforts to
bring up the boy "properly" consist of constant attempts to
indoctrinate Joe with Simon’s religious formalism. He
forces Joe to memorize the Presbyterian catechism, but the
boy finally revolts. He is whipped for his revolt; Faulk
ner’s description of the scene obliquely suggests the
scourging of Christ:
When the strap fell he did not flinch, no quiver passed
over his face. He was looking straight ahead, with a
rapt, calm expression like a monk in a picture.
163
McEachern began to strike methodically, with slow and
deliberate force, still without heat or anger. It would
have been hard to say which face was the more rapt, more
calm, more convinced. (p. 131)
The parallel between Christmas and Christ is ironic.
Christ's scourging and crucifixion produce a final in
carnation, a glorification of man-God; Christmas, however,
after his beating, elects to be something less than human.
Mrs. McEachern brings him a tray of food:
While she watched him he rose from the bed and took the
tray and carried it to the corner and turned it upside
down, dumping the dishes and food and all onto the floor.
Then he returned to the bed, carrying the empty tray as
though it were a monstrance [a religious vessel holding
the consecrated host] and he the bearer, his surplice the
cut-down undergarment. (p. 135)
The religious imagery noted in the quotation is quite
pertinent to Christmas's "baptism" to a "religion" or world
of the animal:
He was just eight then. It was years later that
memory knew what he was remembering; years after that
night when, an hour later, he rose from the bed and went
and knelt in the corner as he had not knelt on the rug,
and above the outraged food kneeling, with his hands
ate, like a savage, like a dog. (p. 136)
Joe, at the age of fourteen, decides to "leave his
cage":
When he went to bed that night his mind was made up
to run away. He felt like an eagle: hard, sufficient,
potent, remorseless, strong., But that passed, though he
did not then know that, like the eagle, his own flesh as
well as all space was still a cage. (p. 140)
164
He has more time, however, to spend with the McEacherns;
he does not actually leave the farm until the climax of
his affair with Bobbie Allen. He is seventeen years old;
she, like the Barbara Allan in the Scottish ballad, con
tributes to his "death in life":
And slowly, slowly raise she up,
And slowly, slowly left him,
And sighing said she could not say,
Since death of life had reft him.^
B obbie A lle n e v e n tu a lly le a v e s Joe a s one " b e r e f t o f l i f e "
because, in part, he attempts to tell her the "truth," as
he understands it, about his identity:
. . . "You noticed my skin, my hair," waiting for her
to answer, his hand slow on her body.
She whispered also. "Yes. I thought maybe you
were a foreigner. That you never come from around
here." . . .
Then he told her. "I got some nigger blood in me."
• • •
"I don't believe it," her voice said in the dark
ness. (p. 171)
The affair reaches a climax in the novel when Simon
McEachern discovers Joe and Bobbie at a dance hall. Simon,
in an outburst of "religious" fervor, denounces Bobbie as
a "Jezebel" and "harlot." Joe, enraged because of the
attack on his "girl," hits, perhaps kills, Simon with
fl
An Introduction to Poetry, ed. X. J. Kennedy (Boston,
1966), p. 6.
165
a chair:
. . . Joe swung [a chair] at his head, and into nothing
ness. Perhaps the nothingness astonished him a little,
but not much, and not for long. (p. 178)
Joe rides "home" for the last time, and returns to Bobbie;
he plans to marry her and take her away. He is astonished
when she refuses him. She screams at him:
"Bastard! Son of a bitch! Getting me into a jam, that
always treated you like you were a white man. A white
man!" (p. 189)
Joe's final thoughts, before Bobbie's friends beat him
severely, reflect a tortured recognition and amazement at
the capacity of man to reject his fellowman; it is a lesson
that forms a vital part of his future concept of identity:
But very likely to him even yet it was just noise,
not registering at all: just a part of the long wind.
He just stared at her, at the face which he had never
seen before, saying quietly (whether aloud or not, he
could not have said) in a slow amazement: Why. I com
mitted murder for her. I even stole for her as if he
had just heard of it, thought of it, been told that he
had done it. (p. 189)
It is difficult to imagine a childhood and adolescence
more bereft of human values. Joseph, in almost every
sense, is an alien, thrust out of "human" time; he is first
rejected by his own family because, with his "Negro blood,"
he isn't fully human; his experience at the white orphanage
is almost totally negative; his adoption by the McEacherns
166
re-emphasizes, in his own mind, the cruelty and rigidity
that can be man. Bobbie's final rejection "proves" to Joe
that he is alien, neither white nor black, scorned by both
groups. His life, from this point on, is an aimless search
for means both to inflict and receive pain.^ He is an
everyman figure, sadist and masochist, found everywhere,
always trying to identify the "black" or the "white" which
forms him:
From that night the thousand streets ran as one street,
with imperceptible comers and changes of scene, broken
by intervals of begged and stolen rides, on trains and
trucks, and on country wagons with he at twenty and
twentyfive and thirty sitting on the seat with his still,
hard face and the clothes (even when soiled and worn) of
a city man and the driver of the wagon not knowing who
or what the passenger was and not daring to ask. The
street ran into Oklahoma and Missouri and as far south
as Mexico and then back north to Chicago and Detroit and
then back south again and at last to Mississippi. It was
fifteen years long ... he was in turn laborer, miner,
prospector, gambling tout; he enlisted in the army,
served four months and deserted and was never caught.
Richard Chase suggests an interesting psychological
motive for Joe's actions: "The quality of Joe's action is
simply a willed translation of his separateness. Whenever
he is in motion, in fantasy or actuality, he is in flight;
and this is true even in his many connections with women—
these also he must turn into the pattern of flight when
ever they threaten to bring him too close to the kind of
central and holistic place represented by Lena." "The
Stone and the Crucifixion: Faulkner's Light in August."
The Kenyon Critics, ed. John Crowe Ransom (Cleveland,
1951), p. 117.
167
And always, sooner or later, the street ran through
cities, through an identical and well-nigh interchange
able section of cities without remembered names, where
beneath the dark and equivocal and symbolical archways
of midnight he bedded with the women and paid them when
he had the money, and when he did not have it he bedded
anyway and then told them that he was a Negro. For a
while it worked; that was while he was still in the
south. It was quite simple, quite easy. Usually all
he risked was a cursing from the woman and the matron of
the house, though now and then he was beaten unconscious
by other patrons, to waken later in the street or in the
jail. (pp. 195-196)
In a particularly revealing scene, Joe is living with
a woman "who resembled an ebony carving" (p. 197); his
attempt to identify with her is poignant— and futile:
At night he would lie in bed beside her, sleepless,
beginning to breathe deep and hard. He would do it
deliberately, feeling, even watching, his white chest
arch deeper and deeper within his ribcage, trying to
breathe into himself the dark odor, the dark and in
scrutable thinking and being of Negroes, with each
suspiration trying to expel from himself the white
blood and the white thinking and being. And all the
while his nostrils at the odor which he was trying to
make his own would whiten and tauten, his whole being
writhe and strain with physical outrage and spiritual
denial. (p. 197)
The "street" which is Christmas's life runs on, and pro
vides no peace.
In accidental fashion, he arrives in Jefferson, takes
a job at the mill, eventually sets himself up as a boot
legger, and becomes fatally involved in an affair with his
final tragic "burden"— Joanna Burden.
168
A knowledge of Joanna is vital to a final understand
ing of Christmas. Her personal history, and that of her
family, indicates a certain parallelism to Christmas's
background. Joanna, too, is, in a very real sense, an
"outcast," because she embodies abolitionist views in
herently at odds with the "correct" white supremacy views
held by the majority of the southern white population. Her
family history is rich with fascinating ancestors and
events: Nathaniel (Burrington) Burden, a minister, is the
progenitor of the family; he had ten children, the youngest
of whom is Calvin (Joanna's grandfather). Calvin, who died
in 1874, was known as one who continually cursed "slavery
and slaveholders" (p. 212). He was shot (with Joanna's
brother, Calvin II) by Colonel Sartoris as they attempted
to protect Negro voting rights in Jefferson. Calvin had
one son, Nathaniel II (1836-?), who fathered Joanna, bom
in 1888.
Joanna, in explaining the family genealogy and social
philosophy to Christmas, indicates quite clearly the alien
ation felt by the remaining members of the Burden clan:
"They hated us here. We were Yankees. Foreigners.
Worse than foreigners: enemies. Carpetbaggers. And
it— the War— still too close for even the ones that
got whipped to be very sensible. Stirring up the
169
Negroes to murder and rape, they called it. Threatening
white supremacy. So I suppose that Colonel Sartoris
was a town hero because he killed with two shots from
the same pistol an old onearmed man and a boy who had
never even cast his first vote. Maybe they were right.
I dont know." (p. 218)
Joe's response is both prophetic and symbolically respon
sive to the question of his own identity: "Just when do
men that have different blood in them stop hating one
another ?" (p. 218).
Joanna’s father, throughout the girl's growing years,
continually reminded her of the "white race's doom and
curse for its sin [of slavery]" (p. 221). She tells
C h ristm a s t h i s , fo re sh a d o w in g th e t r a g i c e v e n ts t o f o llo w :
I thought of all the children coming forever and ever
into the world, white, with black shadows already falling
upon them before they drew breath. And I seemed to see
the black shadow in the shape of a cross. And it seemed
like the white babies were struggling, even before they
drew breath, to escape from the shadow that was not only
upon them but beneath them too, flung out like their
arms were flung out, as if they were nailed to the cross.
I saw all the little babies that would ever be in the
world, the ones not yet born--a long line of them with
their arms spread, on the black crosses. (pp. 221-222)
Joe, in answer to Joanna's question of his parentage,
states he knows nothing, except "one of them was part
nigger" (p. 222). Joanna says, "How do you know that?"
and after a long pause, Christmas admits, "I dont know
i t " (p. 2 2 2 ).
170
After Christmas's initial seduction of Joanna, the
affair grows rapidly in intensity:
During that period (it could not be called a honey
moon) Christinas watched her pass through every avatar of
a woman in love. Soon she more than shocked him: she
astonished and bewildered him. She surprised and took
him unawares with fits of jealous rage. ... he would
find her naked, or with her clothing half tom to ribbons
upon her, in the wild throes of nymphomania, her body
gleaming in the slow shifting from one to another of such
formally erotic attitudes and gestures as a Beardsley of
the time of Petronius might have drawn. (pp. 226-227)
Joe begins to be afraid; again, he is involved with a
female whose domination over him grows. Joanna enters a
religious phase, but does not yet want to be "saved" from
the "sin" of the affair. Her relationship with Joe has
established a new, a fresh identity that she fears to lose:
"Dont make me have to pray yet. Dear God, let me be
damned a little longer, a little while." She seemed to
see her whole past life, the starved years, like a gray
tunnel, at the far and irrevocable end of which, as
unfading as a reproach, her naked breast of three short
years ago ached as though in agony, virgin and cruci
fied; "Not yet, dear God. Not yet, dear God." (p. 231)
She wants Joe to become active in her social work, particu
larly with Negro schools, and Joe, violently opposed to
such plans, listens to her in "outraged amazement" (p. 235).
The concept of "helping" the Negro--helping anyone--i,s
totally alien to Joe, who still seeks desperately to "help"
himself in a world that has frustrated him. His tenuous
171
identity in time is based solely on his constructed past
memories, and these memories, for him, do not produce a
satisfactory present "I." He cannot extend himself through
and beyond his ego because his ego, his central cognitive
image of self, is an exotic amalgam of fragmented bits and
pieces of remembrance. Through his memory, he is a part
of all men, yet, paradoxically, not a single tangible
human. He has been rejected by the "black" and the
"white"; it is not surprising that he thinks of himself as
"inhuman," or something less than human. There is no one
like Joe; he stands as a solitary, constantly tormented,
figure in the novel.
Joanna1s attempt to "drag" Joe into her world of
social activism marks, in a sense, her death warrant. Joe
realizes that "This is not mv life. I dont belong here"
(p. 225), and Joanna dimly perceives that there is no mean
ingful future ahead for either of them: "Maybe it would
be better if we both were dead" (p. 243). Peter Swiggart
effectively comments on the futility of their relationship:
Joe is bound to his former mistress just as he is bound
to his own destiny. Their conflict over his future
becomes a stalemate in which neither party can surrender
or escape, (p. 138)
172
Before Joanna dies, Joe, like Quentin in The Sound and
the Fury and Dari, in As I Lav Dying, merges past, present,
and future, and somehow "sees” the act of death before it
occurs in time:
"Maybe I have already done it," he thought. "Maybe it
is no longer now waiting to be done." (p. 97)
Something is going to happen. Something is going to
happen to me. (p. 103)
The pattern of time imagery continues to the evening
of Joanna*s death:
And as he [Joe] sat in the shadows of the ruined garden
on that August night three months later and heard the
clock in the courthouse two miles away strike ten and
then eleven, he believed with calm paradox that he was
the volitionless servant of the fatality in which he
believed that he did not believe. He was saying to him
self I had to do it. already in the past tense; I had
to do it. She said so herself. (pp. 244-245)
Joe, the "volitionless servant of . . . fatality," ascends
the stairs to her bedroom (with razor in hand), enters
(putting the razor down on the table), and finds Joanna
waiting for him. Her hands are hidden from sight in the
dim light of this August evening; suddenly the right hand
emerges, holding an old cap-and-ball revolver. She plans
to kill both Joe and herself; Joe, transfixed, stares at
th e r e v o lv e r and i t s shadow:
173
But the shadow of it and of her arm and hand on the wall
did not waver at all. And her eyes did not waver at all.
They were as still as the round black ring of the pistol
muzzle. But there was no heat in them, no fury. They
were calm and still as all pity and all despair and all
conviction. But he was not watching them. He was watch
ing the shadowed pistol on the wall; he was watching
when the cocked shadow of the hammer flicked away.
(p. 247)
The reader must reconstruct what occurs in the novel imme
diately after Joanna’s attempt to kill Joe, but it is im
portant to note that it is she--not Joe--who first attempts
killing. Joe has put the razor down on the table, and, by
his inaction, gives Joanna time to pull the trigger. The
gun misfires, and it is after this act that Christmas kills
Joanna; the word "murderer," therefore, so often applied
g
to Christmas, is debatable. After he kills Joanna, Joe
picks up the gun, sets the house on fire, and leaves.
Later, he wonders why he has the gun, and examines it:
. . . [he sees] the ancient thing with its two loaded
chambers: the one upon which the hammer had already
fallen and which had not exploded, and the other upon
g
C. Hugh Holman’s detailed study of the unity of Light
in August concludes that Joe shot Joanna in self-defense:
"It is then that he kills her in act of self-defense, for
she had tried to shoot him; and in an act of spiritual
self-preservation, for he could live only by refusing to
pray with her; but in an act of suicide, for he could not
himself long survive her killing." "The Unity of Faulk
ner’s Light in August." PMIA, IXXIII (March 1958), 160.
174
which no hammer had yet fallen but upon which a hammer
had been planned to fall. "For her and for me," he
said. . . . "For her and for me." (p. 250)
Joe escapes into the countryside; the killing is dis
covered, and a thousand-doliar reward is posted. Christmas
is the prime suspect, primarily because of information sup
plied by Lucas Burch, who, typically, acts only in self
9
interest. He has been Joe's associate in the bootlegging
operation, knows something of the intimate relationship
between Joe and Joanna, and informs the authorities that
Joe is "Negro."
Joe's activities after the killing illustrate his
feeling of rejection. Apparently, his last symbolic
attempt to establish his identity as "human" occurs in a
Negro church. Joe enters the building with violent force,
attacks the minister, the then "cursed God louder than the
women screeching" (p. 283). Joe, in symbolically opposing
David L. Frazier outlines a vital difference between
Joe and Lucas: . . Burch's aping of Christmas's manner
isms, his co-involvement in crime, the track to which he
is finally committed as Christmas is all his life to the
street, all point up vividly the great underlying differ
ence in them: that all Christmas does, he is driven to;
that all Burch does, he does from his own ineradicable and
almost unspeakable folly." "Lucas Burch and the Polarity
of Light in August." Modem Language Notes. DCXIII (June
1958), 418.
175
the "God" that he has heard of all his life--a harsh,
demanding, and white God--thus leaves his final testament.
In the remaining period before his death,, he wanders aim
lessly through the countryside, irrevocably lost in both
time and space. He finally, however, after a lifetime
search, has achieved some identity--even though, to him,
it is the identity of a "black murderer":
It seemed to him that he could see himself being hunted
by white men at last into the black abyss which had been
waiting, trying, for thirty years to drown him and into
which now and at last he had actually entered, bearing
now upon his ankles the definite and ineradicable gauge
of its upward moving. . . .
"That was all I wanted," he thinks in a quiet and slow
amazement. "That was all, for thirty years. That didn't
seem to be a whole lot to ask in thirty years." (p. 289)
The situation is ironic and poignant: Joe Christmas,
now being hunted down as something akin to an animal, is
almost tranquil in finally accepting a cognitive pattern of
himself that successfully constructs a personal identity.
He reviews his past life, thinking particularly about time:
When he thinks about time, it seems to him now that for
thirty years he has lived inside an orderly parade of
named and numbered days like fence pickets, and that one
night he went to sleep and when he waked up he was out
side of them. . . . I have not eaten since I have not
eaten since trying to remember how many days it had been
since Friday in Jefferson. . . .
Time, the spaces of light and dark, had long since
lost orderliness. (pp. 290-291)
176
He finally decides to allow his capture ("Yes I would
sav Here I am I am tired I am tired of running of having
to carry my life like it was a basket of eggs" [p. 294]),
hitches a ride on a wagon to Mottstown, and summarizes what
he has finally learned about his identity:
... he is entering it again, the street which ran for
thirty years. It had been a paved street, where going
should be fast. It had made a circle and he is still
inside of it. Though during the last seven days he has
had no paved street, yet he has travelled farther than
in all the thirty years before. And yet he is still in
side the circle. "And yet I have been farther in these
seven days than in all the thirty years," he thinks.
"But I have never got outside that circle. 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
tide creeping up his legs, moving from his feet upward
as death moves. (pp* 296-297)
Joe is jailed in Mottstown, but escapes once more into
the countryside. At this point in time, Percy Grimm, the
"grim" embodiment of southern religious and patriotic
rigidity, enters the novel to serve as Christmas's final
executioner:
[Grimm has] a sublime and implicit faith in physical
courage and blind obedience, and a belief that the white
race is superior to any and all other races and that the
American is superior to all other white races and that
the American uniform is superior to all men, and that all
that would ever be required of him in payment for this
belief, this privilege, would be his own life. (p. 395)
177
Grimm tracks down Christmas with imagination and
skill, his face "serene [with the] unearthly luminousness
of angels in church windows" (pp. 404-405). He is not, in
his mind, attempting to capture and kill a human being;
he is playing his part in a pre-ordained "game" in which
his unworthy opponent must, for the "good of society," be
eliminated. He serves as juror, judge and executioner; his
final act of killing and castrating Joe Christmas is his
"duty" to those white southern Christian American citizens
he feels he represents. William Van O'Connor accurately
d e s c r ib e s Grimm’ s r o l e in th e n o v e l:
Percy Grimm, another of the avatars of self-righteous
ness, is the town’s instrument in the killing of Joe
Christmas. He does not act in the name of deity, but he
moves with the same aura of assured virtue. He sees
himself as the agent of pure patriotism— which in the
context means the protection of each detail of the mores,
whatever its source. (The Tangled Fire, p. 82)
Grimm finally corners Christmas, crouched behind a table,
in Hightower's house:
Grimm emptied the automatic’s magazine into the table;
later someone covered all five shots with a folded
handkerchief.
But the Player was not done yet. When the others
reached the kitchen they saw the table flung aside now
and Grimm stooping over the body. When they approached
to see what he was about, they saw that the man was not
dead yet, and when they saw what Grimm was going one of
the men gave a choked cry and stumbled back into the
178
wall and began to vomit. Then Grimm too sprang back,
flinging behind him the bloody butcher knife. "Now
you’ll let white women alone, even in hell," he said.
(pp. 406-407)
Christmas’s final living response (he is still con
scious), is beautifully constructed by Faulkner. Christ
mas, aligned here in some sense with the image of the
crucified Christ, not only reflects the horror of what is
happening to him, but implants forever, in the minds of
those around him, a sense of the enormous error of their
act, the extraordinary capacity of man to be inhuman toward
his fellowman. No one in the room, looking down at Christ
mas’s eyes, will ever forget the import of his message;
no one, so long as he lives, will be able to put out of his
mind his sense of tortured guilt for the part he played in
the tragedy:
[Christmas] just lay there, with his eyes open and empty
of everything, save consciousness, and with something,
a shadow, about his mouth. For a long moment he looked
up at them with peaceful and unfathomable and unbearable
eyes. Then his face, body, all, seemed to collapse, to
fall in upon itself, and from out the slashed garments
about his hips and loins the pent black blood seemed to
rush like a released breath. It seemed to rush out of
his pale body like the rush of sparks from a rising
rocket; upon that black blast the man seemed to rise
soaring into their memories forever and ever. They are
not to lose it, in whatever peaceful valleys, beside
whatever placid and reassuring streams of old age, in the
mirroring faces of whatever children they will contem
plate old disasters and newer hopes. It will be there,
179
musing, quiet, steadfast, not fading and not particularly
threatful, but of itself alone serene, of itself alone
triumphant. (p. 407)
Gavin Stevens (a character who appears in other works
by Faulkner), is the district attorney, and in a conversa
tion with a friend, provides his final statement about the
Christmas saga. He theorizes metaphorically about the
basic bifurcation noted in Christmas's character:
But his [Christmas's] blood would not be quiet, let him
save it. It would not be either one or the other and
let his body save itself. ... it was the black blood
which snatched up the pistol and the white blood which
would not let him fire it. ... It was the black blood
which swept him by his own desire beyond the aid of any
man, swept him up into that ecstasy out of a black jungle
where life has already ceased before the heart stops and
death is desire and fulfillment. And then the black
blood failed him again, as it must have in crises all
his life. (p. 393)
The remaining character whose sense of identity is
vital to Light in August is Hightower, the defrocked
minister. His final role as "victim" of southern righteous
ness is central in both his own and Christmasfs sense of
identity. Faulkner, in Chapters Three and Twenty, narrates
the story of Hightower's ancestry.
The Reverend Gail Hightower, D. D., arrived (some
twenty-five years before the fictive present in Light in
August), in Jefferson directly from the seminary. He has
a young wife and a promising future in the town, but finds
180
it difficult, if not impossible, to accept a cognitive
time pattern that gives meaning to the present:
He can remember how when he was young, after he first
came to Jefferson from the seminary, how that fading
copper light would seem almost audible, like a dying
yellow fall of trumpets dying into an interval of silence
and waiting, out of which they would presently come.
Already, even before the falling horns had ceased, it
would seem to him that he could hear the beginning
thunder not yet louder than a whisper, a rumor, in the
air. (p. 408)
He is the grandson of Gail Hightower I, and is obsessed
with both the grandfather's life and death, because only in
his grandfather's time can he find meaningful (and glorious)
values. These moral and ethical values are constantly
mixed in Hightower's mind with visions of the cavalry,
sounds of horses and battles, imagined victories of high
moral import. The past, reconstructed in all its "glory,"
remains his constant interest, and prevents him from estab
lishing a purposeful identity in present time.^®
Edwin T. Bowden effectively comments on the "detach
ment" of Hightower and Christmas: "In contrast to the mute
rage of Joe Christmas the equally mute detachment from the
outer world of the Reverend Gail Hightower shows even more
clearly. He too is isolated from the world, but, unlike
Joe Christmas, he enjoys his state of isolation and care
fully cultivates it. He even thinks of himself as dead to
the world. ... He lives only in the memory of the past--
for he too is controlled by the past— . . . Like Joe
Christmas, he is alone and exists only for himself; all
others are of a different race." Hie Dungeon of the Heart.
pp. 129-130.
181
The grandfather is the central figure; Hightower
thinks of his own father as relatively unimportant. In
effect, Hightower has refused to accept a tangible reality
in two generations--his own and his parents*. He has re
treated from cogent action in the time of the present
generation, and skipped the previous generation in order
to dwell continually upon the grandfather, and the death of
that grandfather (who, ignominiously, was killed while
robbing a chicken roost in Jefferson):
"So it's no wonder," he thinks, "that I skipped a gener
ation. It's no wonder that I had no father and that I
had already died one night twenty years before I saw
light. And that my only salvation must be to return to
the place to die [Jefferson] where my life had already
ceased before it began.” (p. 418)
His wife, baffled in her attempts to understand Gail,
finally leaves him, and some months later dies (perhaps by
her own hand), while having an affair with someone "real"
to her. But she was never an entity in present time to
Hightower; she was emblematic of the past, "because he had
heard of her before he ever saw her and when he did see her
he did not see her at all because of the face which he had
already created in his mind" (p. 420). Hightower finds it
impossible to separate religion from the "galloping cavalry"
and meaningful time of his grandfather:
182
It was if he couldn’t get religion and that galloping
cavalry and his dead grandfather shot from the galloping
horse untangled from each other, even in the pulpit.
And that he could not untangle them in his private life
at home, either, perhaps. (p. 53)
After his wife's death and the resultant scandal, Hightower
is asked to resign and leave Jefferson. He refuses,
preaching "to them, as he had always preached: with that
rapt fury, which they had considered sacrilege and which
those from other churches believed to be out and out in
sanity” (p. 59). Despite being beaten unconscious by the
local K.K.K. group, he remains:
Then all of a sudden the whole thing seemed to blow away,
like an evil wind. It was as though the whole town
realized at last that he would be a part of its life
until he died, and that they might as well become recon
ciled. (p. 62)
Hightower succeeds in staying in Jefferson, but he
stays, for a quarter of a century, quiet and remote on a
"high tower," above and beyond the present events of the
town:
... he wouldn't go away. He has lived out there on
what used to be the main street ever since, by himself.
At least it aint a principal street any more. That's
something. But then he dont worry anybody any more, and
I reckon most folks have forgot about him. Does his own
housework. I dont reckon anybody's even been inside
that house in twenty-five years. (p. 51)
Hightower, in Light in August, is forced into action
in present time by his friend and only confidant, Byron
183
Bunch, who first seeks counsel and help on behalf of Lena
Grove. In a moving scene, Hightower, in his usual posture,
sits in reverie of the past--a reverie finally and irre
vocably broken by the entrance of Byron:
[Hightower] thinks quietly how right the ancients were
in making the horse an attribute and symbol of warriors
and kings, when he sees the man in the street pass the
low sign and turn into his gate and approach the house.
He sits forward then, watching the man come up the dark
walk toward the dark door; he hears the man stumble
heavily at the dark bottom step. "Byron Bunch," he says.
"In town on Sunday night. Byron Bunch in town on Sun
day." (p. 66)
After helping Byron find a place for Lena to stay, and
later (because of Byron’s plea for help), delivering Lena's
baby, Hightower finds himself catapulted into present time.
His most vital action, however, concerns Christmas and
Christmas's grandmother, Mrs. Hines.
After the killing of Joanna, with Christmas in custody,
Mrs. Hines (again, through the intercession of Byron)
pleads with Hightower to furnish an alibi for her grandson.
She tells Hightower the story of Christmas as she has
finally learned it; and, in her rather desperate effort to
save her grandson, gathers the courage to ask Hightower
to provide, in effect, an alibi that would injure High
tower's reputation in the town. Hightower listens to their
184
dramatic plan:
You could say he was here with you that night. Every
night when Brown said he watched him go up to the big
house and go in it. Folks would believe you. They
would believe that, anyway. They would rather believe
that about you than to believe that he lived with her
like a husband and then killed her. And you are old now.
They wouldn’t do anything to you about it that would hurt
you now. And I reckon you are used to everything else
they can do. (pp. 341-342)
Hightower’s reaction is electric:
He is shaking, steadily; . . . "It's not because I cant,
dont dare to," he says; "it’s because I wont! I wont!
do you hear?" . . . "It's because I wont do it!" . . .
[Byron thinks] it aint me he is shouting at. It’s like
he knows there is sanething nearer him than me to con
vince of that . . . Hightower is shouting, "I wont do it!
I wont!" . . . Suddenly his voice rises higher yet. "Get
out!" he screams. "Get out of my house! Get out of my
house!" . . . Byron looks back from the door, he sees
that Hightower has not moved, his bald head and his ex
tended and clenchfisted arms lying full in the pool of
light from the shaded lamp. (pp. 342-343)
Hightower’s hysterical outburst suggests most strongly
his realization (emphasized by Byron’s italicized thoughts
in the quotation) that events are irresistibly propelling
him into action in the present. His adamant refusal of
Mrs. Hines’s request, psychologically, is buttressed by a
quarter century of his rejecting the present to find "mean
ing" only in a "glorified" and "furious" past. He is being
asked to climb down from the high tower and join his fel-
lowmen in the now, the reality of the present.
185
H is mood o f d e f i a n t r e f u s a l c o n tin u e s u n t i l th e
c li m a c ti c sc e n e w here C h ristm a s, a f t e r e s c a p in g from c u s -
11
tody, seeks refuge in Hightower's house. The symbolic
patterns of Christmas, the betrayed "outsider," and High
tower, the rebuked and ignored alien, converge to form a
furious symbolic crescendo.
C h ristm a s ru n s i n t o th e h o u se , h i t s H ig h to w er, and
f in d s tem p o rary r e f u g e i n th e k itc h e n b e h in d an o v e rtu rn e d
t a b l e . P ercy Grimm and h i s " r ig h te o u s " fo llo w e r s e n te r th e
h o u se a moment l a t e r :
It was upon them, of them: its shameless savageness.
Out of it their faces seemed to glare with bodiless
suspension as though from haloes as they stooped and
raised Hightower, his face bleeding, from the floor where
Christmas, running up the hall, his raised and armed and
manacled hands full of glare and glitter like lightning
bolts, so that he resembled a vengeful and furious god
pronouncing a doom, had struck him down. They held the
old man on his feet. (pp. 405-406)
The scene is one of violent symbolic juxtaposition.
Christmas, "a vengeful and furious god," is avoiding death
in the house of a "disgraced" minister of God. The final,
The symbolism in Hightower's refusal is examined by
Frederick Hoffman, who feels that "Since he has been a
minister, a defrocked man of the pulpit, Hightower's act
of refusal may be called another criticism of doctrinal
Christianity." William Faulkner, p. 72.
186
almost unbearable, irony is that Grimm and his men think
of themselves as ordained avengers--protectors of "God's
order" in the South. It is at this point that Hightower
fully ends his self-imposed isolation from the activities
of men in present time. In strong contrast to his previous
obsession with the time of his grandfather, he attempts to
provide an alibi for Christmas, realizing not only that
the alibi is false, but that it will rekindle the antago
nism felt towards him by the townspeople:
"Men!" he cried. "Listen to me. He was here that night.
He was with me the night of the murder. I swear to
God--" (p. 406)
Hightower’s selfless lie for Christmas ends his
twenty-five year exile from present time. He has acted
responsibly and positively in the present, yet Percy Grimm,
in his extraordinary ironic response, cries his furious
outrage as "a young priest":
"Jesus Christ!" Grimm cried, his young voice clear and
outraged like that of a young priest. "Has every
preacher and old maid in Jefferson taken their pants
down, to the yellowbellied son of a bitch?" (p. 406)
The scene ends, inevitably, with Christmas's murder and
castration. Hightower's effort, in one sense, has been in
vain, but his courageous act enables him to reinterpret his
past. He thinks back to bis early actions, and the result
187
of those actions, in Jefferson:
I brought with me one trust, perhaps the first trust of
man, which I had accepted of my own will before God;
I considered that promise and trust of so little worth
that I did not know that I had even accepted it. And if
that was all I did for her [his wife], what could I have
expected? What could I have expected save disgrace and
despair and the face of God turned away in very shame?
Perhaps in the moment when I revealed to her not only
the depth of my hunger but the fact that never and never
would she have any part in the assuaging of it; perhaps
at that moment I became her seducer and her murderer,
author and instrument of her shame and death. After all,
there must be some things for which God cannot be accused
by man and held responsible. (p. 427; italics mine.)
Although his developing insights cause considerable mental
anguish, he continues:
Motionless, unbreathing, there ccanes upon him a conster
nation which is about to be actual horror. He is aware
of the sand now; with the realisation of it he feels
within himself a gathering as though for some tremendous
effort. Progress now is still progress, yet it is now
indistinguishable from the recent past like the already
traversed inches of sand which cling to the turning
wheel, raining back with a dry hiss that before this
should have warned him: ". . . revealed to my wife my
hunger, my ego . . . instrument of her despair and
shame ...” and without his having thought it at all,
a sentence seems to stand fullsprung across his skull,
behind his eyes: I dont want to think this. I must not
think this. I dare not think this. (p. 429)
Faulkner, in discussing Light in August, states that
Hightower does not die:
He didn’t die. He had wrecked his life. He had failed
his wife. He had failed himself, but there was one
thing that he still had--which was the brave grandfather
that galloped into the town to burn the Yankee stores,
188
and at least he had that. Everything else was gone, but
since he had been a man of God he still tried to be a
man of God and he could not destroy his own life. He
had to endure, to live, but that was one thing that was
pure and fine that he had--was the memory of his grand
father, who had been brave. (Gwynn and Blotner, p. 75)
His future, to be sure, is uncertain; he is last seen
listening to "the wild bugles and the clashing sabres and
the dying thunder of hooves" (p. 432). It seems highly
improbable that the single incident of the alibi will pro
duce a drastic change in Hightower*s pattern of living, but
the violent scene of the murder and Hightower*s part in the
action have certainly forced him to ponder the issue of his
identity and, most important, forced him to examine the
past and reevaluate the central events in his life. The
result, as Olga W. Vickery suggests, is a character
"jarred" out of his past patterns of thought:
Jarred out of his complacency and self-righteousness
by Joe*s death, Hightower sees his past with a new
clarity. . . . What he finally comes to recognize is the
interdependence of the individual and society, of the
private and public worlds, and, more important, the
interdependence of individuals within the public world.
Cp. 79)
Light in August is a highly complex novel, both in
structure and theme, and certainly ranges in effect far
beyond this study of character identity in relation to
time. Structurally, Faulkner has again deliberately chosen
189
a method of intermixing chapters to break up a chrono
logical form. He does not feel that chronological order is
fully suitable to his intent:
Unless a book follows a simple direct line such as a
story of adventure, it becomes a series of pieces. It*s
a good deal like dressing a showcase window. It takes
a certain amount of judgment and taste to arrange the
different pieces in the most effective place in juxta
position to one another. (Gwynn and Blotner, p. 45)
Faulkner recognizes that the artist, in addition to being
the selector of character and action, must also select and
arrange events in time to produce the maximum aesthetic
effect. Despite the enormous aesthetic difficulties Faulk
ner faced in integrating in time the various story lines of
Light in August, he succeeds, as Bruce R. McElderry has
shown ("The Narrative Structure of Light in August"). in
producing a novel remarkable in its final unity and co
herence.
The characters in the novel exhibit an extremely broad
range of attitudes. Each character, in his way, adds depth
to the story of Christmas, his life and his death. Eupheus
Hines, who first had an opportunity to give his grandson
a name and family background, fails because he adheres to
a rigid social and religious pattern that treats the Negro
as "the pollution and abomination" (p. 338) of the earth,
190
and because he believes that he is acting as "God’s chosen
instrument" in denying both name and background to the
child.
Simon McEachern and Percy Grimm continue the pattern
of extreme social and religious "rigidity" first exhibited
toward Christmas by Hines. Simon, quite in contrast with
the biblical Simon who helps Christ, hurts Christmas in
every way he can, all, ironically, because of "God’s word."
McEachern’s God is a stern and demanding figure, ever
exacting sacrifice and adoration from man. The young
Christmas, in McEachern’s hands from age five to seventeen,
cannot accept this construction, and attacks McEachern’s
God with all the fury and violence at his command. Christ
mas, all his life, is baffled by a God called "good," yet
a God seemingly acting with malice and hatred toward man.
McEachern’s social and religious position is rigid because
he cannot conceive of true and effective faith, as embodied
in Lena and Byron. Similarly, Percy Grimm feels he is
doing his "duty" in murdering and castrating Christmas.
Psychologically, both Grimm and frfcEachem, by enforcing
their "faith" with physical force, exhibit their final
position of no_ faith. Their ethical and moral precepts
191
are formed by false postulates, so far as Faulkner is con
cerned; their final "rigidity" of purpose and action is
aligned, not with the natural "law" of simple charity and
love exhibited by Lena and Byron, but with the concept that
a God, aeons ago, laid down exact and absolute strictures
that must be followed, even to the destruction of man.
John Killinger’s sharp comments on white churches in Faulk
ner’s work can also apply to Grimm and McEachern, who might
be viewed as having "no true sense of the transcendent that
12
might purify and redeem them." They are both characters
more to be pitied than hated; they lack even a rudimentary
insight into the formulation of their own identities.
Lena Grove and Byron Bunch form a combination that,
at first reading, may seem relatively minor or separate
from the story of Christmas. But tney form a vital role of
counterpoint in the novel; their relative success in life
is in sharp contrast to the agony and torment that is the
life of Christmas. Lena, like Christmas, has been "on the
road"; she is seeking, on the plot level, the father of her
child. On a more subtle symbolic level, however, Lena,
The F a ilu r e o f T heology in Modem L ite r a tu r e (New
York, 1963), p. 94.
192
despite the surface manifestations of "searching," has
found within herself that which Christinas seeks and never
finds. Lena "knows" who she is, and, more important, why
she is. She exhibits, as Faulkner aptly states,
. . . the desire for that child, she was never ashamed
of that child whether it had any father or not, she was
simply going to follow the conventional laws of the time
in which she was and find its father. But as far as she
was concerned, she didn’t especially need any father for
it, any more than the women that--on whom Jupiter begot
children were anxious for a home and a father. It was
enough to have had the child. (Gwynn and Blotner,
p. 199)
She reflects, as Faulkner says, "the conventional laws of
the time in which she was," but does so in an intelligent
and reasonable manner. She is able to adjust to any situ
ation, at any time, because she is sure of herself. Her
"laws" in time are natural and effective in that they pro
duce for her a final "good"--her relationship with Byron.
Byron, Faulkner suggests, "had a very fine belief in
life, in the basic possibility for happiness and goodness"
(Gwynn and Blotner, p. 97). Like Lena, he has little
difficulty in establishing a meaningful pattern of exis
tence. He also has Implicit faith in the concept that man
can, even in these times, be "happy" and "good." His con
stant protection of Lena and his final winning of her hand
193
illustrate the capacity for man to succeed. In addition,
his and Lena’s success deepen, by ironic contrast, the
tragedy that is Christmas. Lawrance Thompson clearly
illustrates this contrast, and concludes that "Faulkner
chose to bracket, structurally, the negations and hatreds
of the Joe Christmas story within the affirmations of the
Lena Grove story" (p. 80).
Byron’s additional role relates to Hightower, that
silent and reflective figure living two generations in the
past. Without the intervention of Byron, his pleas to
Hightower for help in present time, Gail would probably
have remained in his "high tower," remote from the con
temporary scene. It is Byron who, because of his enduring
faith and trust in man, acts in such a way that Hightower
once again joins the "ministry," Hightower aids both Lena
and Byron, but his most meaningful act is his attempt to
save Christmas by providing a false alibi. It is at this
point that Hightower acts responsibly in the present, and
attains, as does Christmas, the status of martyr.
Joanna Burden is also, in a sense, a "victim" of
southern rigidity, in that her life, repeating the lives
of her ancestors, is a life alien to the general mores of
194
southern white society. Although she has searched for some
fulfillment in life, she is only partially successful. She
is a "burden" to those whites around her who disagree
vehemently with her social attitudes; she is a "burden"
to herself in that she carries the weight of convictions
seemingly impossible to implement; and she is, finally, a
"burden" to Christmas, who, in one sense, sees in her the
final embodiment of those alien and inextricable forces
that have always produced hatred and destruction in his
life. Her identity, before the novel begins, has been
totally structured by her family; she lives as an aboli
tionist figure first, woman second. It is not until the
affair with Christmas that she sees in herself elements of
personality and character that have been dormant all her
life. She throws herself into the relationship with
Christmas with extreme vigor and passion, but, ironically,
her passion is her undoing. In her accelerating attempt
to become closer and closer to Christmas, she only acceler
ates his fear that he must "do something" to end the liai
son, She finally realizes this, but too late; her death
has been preordained by the "burden" that has been her
life. Her attempt to murder Christmas is a last positive
195
gesture indicating her realization that the identity she
has constructed in the present (the three years Christinas
has been in Jefferson) cannot be carried into the future.
All of these figures surround, envelope, and reinforce
the image of Christmas as Faulkner slowly, in time, reveals
the man. To tell the story of Christmas in some chrono
logical order would be impossible, because time itself,
particularly embodied in memory of past shadowy events,
forms the final image of Christmas. Christmas, in every
sense of the word, is a solitary figure; solitary because
his immediate family deserts him and thus fails to give him
any satisfactory sense of identity, any feeling of "belong
ing" to someone or some group; and solitary because the
"family of man" deserts him because of the question of his
"blood." He finds himself in a society where there is
quite literally no place at all for him to exist. He can
not identify himself, despite his extreme and violent
efforts, with either the "white" or the "black." His
identity is structured primarily by his memory of things
past, scenes of fury and pain, of alienation and rejection,
of the plaintive lines of "Barbara Allan." His life is a
life always contained within a "circle" of time, but the
196
circle is meaningless; it adds nothing, literally nothing,
to his sense of identity. Christmas finally breaks out of
the circle, but he breaks out to find death. Ward L. Miner
succinctly comments on the inevitability of Joe’s death:
His final violent death is therefore inevitable and even
more inevitable in its damnation of the world of the
present which makes his death inevitable. ^
Christmas is the major figure, the final victim of
those who, in the name of "God,” inflict massive pain on
their fellowman. His final tragedy is that he was never
allowed to form a cognitive time pattern that gave any
meaning to his life; his own human race forced him to live
outside the human race. To understand Christmas's constant
but futile attempts to establish a meaningful and purpose
ful life-rationale is, perhaps, to understand the major
14
theme of the book. The saga of Christmas reflects
The World of William Faulkner (Durham, North
Carolina, 1952), p. 141.
14
Faulkner, in Faulkner in the University, states that
". . . he [Christmas] deliberately evicted himself from the
human race because he didn’t know which he was. That was
his tragedy, that to me was the tragic, central idea of the
story— that he didn’t know what he was, and there was no
way possible in life for him to find out. Which to me is
the most tragic condition a man could find himself in--not
to know what he is and to know that he will never know”
(p. 7 2 ).
197
the failure of man to accept with tolerance and charity
his fellowman. Christmas, throughout his life, is left
only with memory of the past as a means of structuring his
ser.se of self, and his memory is deficient because many
salient facts are unknown to him. Faulkner suggests that
Christmas’s failure to identify himself produces a "tragic
condition" inherent in Light in August:
. . . Christmas . . . didn’t know what he was. He knew
that he would never know what he was, and his only
salvation in order to live with himself was to repudiate
mankind, to live outside the human race. And he tried
to do that but nobody would let him, the human race it
self wouldn't let him. And I don’t think he was bad,
I think he was tragic. (Gwynn and Blotner, p. 118)
It would seem that Faulkner is successful in depicting
that "tragic condition" of which he speaks. Light in
August provides brilliant insights into contemporary man's
struggle to achieve meaningful identity.
CHAPTER VI
ABSALOM . ABSALOM . 1
Absalom. Absalom! (1936) is perhaps Faulkner's most
intensely written novel; its tone reflects a frenzied--at
times agonized-- attempt by Quentin Compson (the primary
narrative "spokesman" for the Sutpen family, the South, and
man), to understand what is called "the human condition."
Faulkner's convoluted rhetoric reflects this attempt.
Sentences ramble on and on as Quentin tries with words--
many words--to unlock the secret that somehow exists in the
destiny of the Sutpens and those around them. Continuity
of time is almost totally absent in the book. Quentin, in
the fictive present, is relating the story to Shreve
McCannon, his roommate at Harvard, and the story is re
vealed to the reader through the bits and pieces of free
association reconstructed and interpreted by Quentin and
Shreve. Yet Quentin (who is soon to commit suicide as
related in The Sound and the Fury) is not Dilsey or
198
199
Faulkner; he does not speak with full knowledge of the
"facts" of the past. He and Shreve attempt together to
understand Sutpen’s story, because they realize that some
how Sutpen’s story is the story, the microcosm that if
understood will provide insight into man’s continuing
search for meaning in time. The two young men employ the
two tools available, imagination and memory, to produce,
as Hyatt H. Waggoner suggests, a style
... of sustained intensity of pitch, a feeling of the
mystery and a sense of the pain and defeat of human life.
It conveys its impressions through some of the most
sharply realized images in modern writing in a rhetoric
strained almost to the breaking point by an agony of
identification with the suffering of the characters.
(p. 150)
The novel is, above all, a novel of speculation, for
the events remembered and related to Shreve by Quentin are
shrouded in the mists of past time. This aesthetic tech
nique of refractive speculation is employed throughout the
novel, and is essential to any final statement of indi
vidual identity.'*' Here, more than in any other Faulkner
Faulkner employs a technique of "refractive deflec
tion" in that the reader of the novel learns of initial
first person action only by the deflection of images
through the minds of a number of characters. In Absalom.
Absalom! there is rarely a direct line of vision between
reader and event in the saga of Sutpen.
work, the characters are seen in time (with the exception
of Quentin and Shreve in the fictive present discussing and
interpreting the past), as refracted images whose identity
is a construct of not one but a number of minds, each mind
knowing only a part of the full story. The self-image of
the characters, their identity in relationship to a par
ticular cognitive time pattern, is, therefore, difficult to
determine with certainty. The reader must listen carefully
to Quentin's memories and Shreve's reactions to the memo
ries in order to construct the most probable analysis of
character and event. The novel, in this sense, is struc
turally a novel of inference, because the reader must judge
the validity of what Quentin "thinks" to be "true."
Quentin, for example, tells the story of Sutpen primarily
through his memory of talks with Miss Rosa and his father.
However, Miss Rosa is highly prejudiced against the "demon"
Sutpen, and Quentin's father has heard much of the story
secondhand. When the reader "hears" Sutpen speak, he is
actually hearing him through the minds of a number of other
characters. Because of this technique, Absalom, Absalom!,
perhaps more than any other Faulkner novel, presents a
complex, at times apparently ambiguous, picture of charac
ter and event.
201
It is this technique of the slow unraveling of the
full story through distorted and refracted memory that
makes Absalom. Absalom! unique, and forces the novel to end
with questions, not answers. Quentin’s final agonized
attempt to explain why he does not "hate the South" is, in
a sense, a final recognition of his failure to identify
himself and his position in time. The narrative technique
in the novel embodies this attempt, and again suggests that
perhaps no individual is capable of full understanding of
man and his activities.
The basic narrative (but certainly not the novel) can
be told chronologically. Thomas Sutpen, the major thematic
figure in the book, grew up in a peaceful and tranquil
Virginia, entirely unaware that human beings structure
their society, in an important sense, on wealth and power--
wealth and power that have, as their base, ownership of
land. land, the desire of man to own, to hold real estate,
is of major importance in the book, as Thomas Sutpen comes
to believe that land is the key to purposeful identity.
Quentin, speaking to Shreve, attempts to reconstruct Sut
pen’s self-image during his boyhood:
"--he was bom where what few other people he knew lived
in log cabins boiling with children . . . where he had
never even heard of, never imagined, a place, a land
202
divided neatly up and actually owned by men who did
nothing but ride over it on fine horses or sit in fine
clothes on the galleries of big houses while other
people worked for them; . . . where he lived the land
belonged to anybody and everybody and so the man who
would go to the trouble and work to fence off a piece of
it and say 'This is mine* was crazy; ... So he didn't
even know there was a country all divided and fixed and
neat because of what color their skins happened to be
and what they happened to own, and where a certain few
men . . . had the power of life and death and barter and
sale over others.
The Sutpen family moves, however, into a society where
land, prestige, and race are all important considerations.
When Thomas is ten, he is sent to deliver a message to the
owner of a plantation. A Negro servant turns him away from
the front door of the mansion, insisting (before the boy
has a chance to state his errand), that he "go around to
the back" (p. 232). Thomas, from this moment on, begins to
realize that the "good faith" of his past life is not
accepted by all men:
He had been told to go around to the back door even
before he could state his errand, who had sprung from a
people whose houses didn't have back doors but only
windows and anyone entering or leaving by a window would
be either hiding or escaping, neither of which he was
doing. In fact, he had actually come on business, in
the good faith of business which he had believed that
all men accepted, (p. 233)
^Absalom. Absalom ? (New York, 1 9 5 1 ), p. 221.
203
The incident is a major key to understanding Sutpen’s
character throughout the rest of the narration; he begins
to think of a "design" calculated to produce an identity
equal or superior in power to that of the people who, in
his mind, have denied his humanity:
... he knew that something would have to be done
about it; he would have to do something about it in
order to live with himself for the rest of his life and
he could not decide what it was because of that inno
cence which he had just discovered he had, which (the
innocence, not the man, the tradition) he would have to
compete with. (p. 234; italics mine.)
Throughout his adolescence, the design begins to take shape
in his mind:
. . . that innocence instructing him as calm as the
others had ever spoken. . . . "So to combat them you
have got to have what they have that made them do what
the man did. You got to have land and niggers and a
fine house to combat them with." (p. 238)
As a young adult, he attempts to put the plan into effect.
He travels to Haiti, amasses a personal fortune, marries,
and has a son. He discovers, however, that his wife has
Negro "blood"; because he conceives as fully human only the
"white" race, he cannot accept the son or, for that matter,
the wife. He leaves them both, explaining his reason in
a tone suggestive of the King in the biblical story of
Absalom:
204
"I found that she was not and could never be, through
no fault of her own, adjunctive or incremental to the
design which I had in mind, so I provided for her and
put her aside.” (p. 240)
He returns to the American South, and appears in Jefferson
in 1833. It is here that he again begins to shape his
"grand design”; he marries Ellen Coldfield (an eminently
respectable "white" wife), purchases one hundred square
miles of land near Jefferson, "hires" a French architect,
and builds, with the help of some thirty Negroes he brought
from Haiti, a luxurious plantation mansion.
His "design" is working according to plan; Sutpen has
set aside those events in past time that do not fit appro
priately into the design, but the past reenters his life
3
when Charles Bon, his son born in Haiti, meets his
accepted son, Henry. The two become friends and Henry
brings Charles to the mansion:
. . .they rode up at last and Henry said, "Father, this
is Charles" . . . even then, even though he [Sutpen] knew
that Bon and Judith had never laid eyes on one another,
he must have felt and heard the design— house, position,
Melvin Backman suggests an interesting symbolic allu
sion in the name: "Charles Bon— a name ironically reminis
cent of Bonnie Prince Charlie, who was heir to a throne he
never inherited and prince to a nation that repudiated
him." "Sutpen and the South: A Study of Absalom. Absalom! * *
PMLA. IXXX (December 1965), 600.
205
posterity and all--come down like it had been built out
of smoke, making no sound, creating no rush of displaced
air and not even leaving any debris. And he not calling
it retribution, no sins of the father come home to
roost; not even calling it bad luck, but just a mis
take. Cp* 267)
Charles falls in love with Judith, Sutpen’s daughter by his
second marriage, and a tragic sequence of events begins.
These events seem preordained because of Sutpen’s decision
to desert his "son" for having Negro "blood." Charles is
symbolically aligned throughout the novel with the biblical
Absalom, the estranged son of King David. David, when
informed of his son’s death, realizes his irrevocable lack
of charity toward Absalom, and cries in grief:
My son Absalom, Absalom my son! Would to God that I
might die for thee, Absalom my son, my son Absalom.
Henry knows of Charles's love for Judith, and dis
covers the facts of Charles’s parentage. In 1865, he
finally feels forced to kill Charles, to prevent not in
cest, but miscegenation. With Charles’s death, Sutpen's
5
design begins to disintegrate. His wife, Ellen, dies,
^Kings 2:18, 33.
^Faulkner has said that he succeeded in producing
three fully tragic characters in his fiction, Sutpen,
Christmas and Dilsey (Gwynn and Blotner, p. 119). He adds
that Sutpen is tragic and was destroyed by "the Greeks . . .
206
but Sutpen once again attempts to complete the design.
With his characteristic egocentricity, he asks Rosa Cold
field, Ellen's sister, to live with him in order to pro
duce a male Sutpen heir (Henry had disappeared after
killing Charles). Sutpen, forced to begin his family anew,
grandly announces that he will marry Rosa if_ a son is born.
She indignantly refuses his offer. Sutpen then attempts
to produce the necessary heir for his "plan" with Milly
Jones, granddaughter of Wash Jones, an old retainer on the
plantation. A child is bom--a daughter--and Wash, almost
at Sutpen's insistence, kills Sutpen. This ends any possi
bility of the completion of the "grand design"--a design
doomed to failure from its inception because of Sutpen's
attempt to structure his identity around a dream that
allowed him to deny recognition to those people who did not
fit into his order of reality.
Such is the basic narrative. Faulkner, believing that
"truth" is a commingling of many points of view, discussed
the various ways of "seeing" Absalom, Absalom!:
the old Greek concept of tragedy. He wanted a son which
symbolized this ideal, and he got too many sons— his sons
destroyed one another and then him" (Gwynn and Blotner,
p. 35).
207
I think that no one individual can look at truth. It
blinds you. You look at it and you see one phase of it.
Someone else looks at it and sees a slightly awry phase
of it. But taken all together, the truth is in what
they saw though nobody saw the truth intact. So these
are true as far as Miss Rosa and as Quentin saw it.
Quentin*s father saw what he believed was truth, that
was all he saw. But the old man was himself a little
too big for people no greater in stature than Quentin and
Miss Rosa and Mr. Compson to see all at once. It would
have taken perhaps a wiser or more tolerant or more
sensitive or more thoughtful person to see him as he was.
It was, as you say, thirteen ways of looking at a black
bird. But the truth, I would like to think, comes out,
that when the reader has read all these thirteen differ
ent ways of looking at the blackbird, the reader has his
own fourteenth image of that blackbird which I would like
to think is the truth. (Gwynn and Blotner, pp. 273-274)
The novel is structured on a number of time levels.
In the fictive present, Quentin and Shreve attempt through
analysis to ’ ’ understand" the full story of Sutpen. In
their attempt, they delve into past time levels (narrated
by various characters), but all the narration involving
characters and events in the past is funnelled through the
memory of Quentin in the fictive present. The reader,
therefore, must be aware that Quentin’s memory, his recon
struction of the past, constitutes only one subjective
narrative point of view; the final "truth" lies in the
reader's "image" of Sutpen. Harvey Breit suggests that the
structure of Absalom. Absalom? is fully successful in the
lig h t o f F au lk n er's in t e n t :
208
The story is handed around in space from narrator to
narrator something as a football is by a skillfully
deceptive backfield; and it is handed around in time, so
that the focus shifts without warning from the son's time
to the father*s time to the grandfather*s time. The
technique employed in relating the narrative is that of
a system of screens and obstacles. . . . And the endless,
unsyntactical, nefarious sentences are here to challenge
and plague and puzzle and dazzle.
But these travails are transformed into triumphs. The
sustained high key, it turns out, is justified by the
events, and casts, as well, a luminous, lyric unity over
the colossal panorama. The story gains as each narrator
contributes his special fact and sense to what was a
painfully secret history; and as each observation falls
into place the mass begins to coalesce and the structure
to rear toward dramatic completeness. (It is to my mind
the most structurally perfect of Faulkner's novels, as
well as one of his greatest.) The system of obstacles
is precisely the means by which one ultimately learns the
truth; it is also the way in which one tells a story not
only in order to impart its chronology of discovery, but
to give accent to the way in which the story was dredged
up, fragment by fragment, out of the remote past. The
unsyntactical sentences retard and surround and engage
the reader so that he not only remembers more and ex
periences more but becomes susceptible to the pulsating,
strong rhythms of Faulkner's world. (Absalom, Absalom?
Introd., pp. x-xi)
Hyatt H. Waggoner essentially agrees with Breit,
pointing out that the fragmented and overlapping scenes do
finally successfully cohere in the reader's mind:
As bias is balanced against bias and distorted views give
way to views with different distortions, fragmented and
overlapping pictures of people and actions emerge from
the multiple mirrors and screens of the telling. Then
the fragments begin to fall into place for us and at last
they cohere in a story possessing an immediacy, a dis
tinctness of outline, and an evocativeness almost un
paralleled in modern fiction. (p. 152)
209
Because strict chronology is absent in the novel, the
correlation of narrator, his position in time in relation
to scene, is vital to the final pattern of organization.
Use Dusoir Lind outlines the relative importance of the
various narrators:
The narrators frame the legend as well as relate it.
Their unhappy condition arouses the question which the
tragedy they create must answer. They live in a world
of ghosts--the shades of the past. . . .
The narrators themselves, lost in their private
obsessions and viewing the Sutpen story only partially
through their individual distortions of vision, do not
see the meaning of the tragedy in which they play a part
nor its relation to the one they have made.
Although the entire novel "belongs" to Quentin and
Shreve in the fictive present as they discuss and interpret
character and event, the chapters are organized to present
various points of view. Chapter One involves Miss Rosa;
through Quentin's memory, she presents her story of an
"evil," a "Satanic" Sutpen. Chapters Two, Three, and Four,
again through the dialogue between Quentin and Shreve,
reveal the attempt of Quentin's father to construct a
rational, uninvolved explanation of the Sutpen story. He
seems to see Sutpen in a more positive light than does
g
"The Design and Meaning of Absalom. Absalom!" PMLA,
LXX (December 1955), 892-896.
210
Miss Rosa, who is again central to Chapter Five. Here,
she describes her relationship to Sutpen and her hatred of
the man. Chapter Six presents Shreve, who attempts to
structure in some meaningful way what he has heard of
Quentin*s father*s account of the past. In Chapter Seven,
Sutpen himself (through the refracted memories of a number
of characters) suggests his motives for the fulfillment of
the design. Here Quentin and his father also comment on
motivation, but most of the chapter deals with Quentin’s
grandfather, the sole figure in Jefferson who knew the
tradition of the past as Sutpen knew it. Quentin, in Chap
ter Eight, relates Charles Bon’s story— a story viewed with
sympathy by Quentin and Shreve. Because both young men can
empathize with the situation outlined by Charles, the chap
ter seems to be a more cogent and objective account of the
past. Chapter Nine, the final chapter, continues the
dialogue between Quentin and Shreve as Quentin rather
desperately tries to sum up the events of the past.
Some of the narrators, such as Rosa, are actually in
volved in Sutpen’s design, while others, such as Quentin’s
father, primarily observe and interpret the action. There
is some overlapping between participants and observers,
211
and any interpretation of ’ ’ truth" concerning the charac
ters* identity in the novel necessarily involves a close
analytical examination of what is revealed through the
dialogue between Quentin and Shreve. Perhaps then, as
Faulkner suggests, the reader develops an image of the saga
"which I would like to think is the truth."
The strong character of Rosa Coldfield, recollected by
Quentin, is felt throughout the novel, but particularly in
the first and fifth chapters. Her vision of Sutpen is
negative; she sees him as a "demon" who "tore violently a
plantation" (p. 9) from the soil. He is a false God or a
devil, attempting "like the oldentime Be Light" to con
struct something from nothing.
Miss Rosa, a tormented figure in part because of her
inability to structure an identity apart from those charac
ters and events in past time, constructs a self-image in
time totally meshed with that of Sutpen. Chapter Five
belongs exclusively to her as she pours out her frenzied
account of the past to Quentin. He sits, transfixed by her
evocative and rambling attempt to justify her hatred of
212
the "demon-God" Sutpen and the havoc he produced. From
Rosa's point of view, as reflected in Quentin's reminis
cence of her stories, Sutpen wanted just two things from
Ellen Coldfield: the respectability of her family name and
a son. Donald M. Kartiganer seems to agree with Rosa's
analysis of Sutpen’s motives in marrying Ellen:
Respectability is something Sutpen can handle; he is
prepared to be respectable. Respectability, he is con
vinced, is "incremental" to his design; morality is not.
He overcomes the town's resentment by marrying Ellen
Coldfield, the daughter of a small merchant and Methodist
steward ... a man who can provide precisely the kind of
endorsement Sutpen requires for his design.
Rosa feels that Sutpen’s failure to work out his
design properly has totally ruined her own concept of what
she should be, both as an individual and as a member of the
Southern community. She finds it impossible to accept what
has happened in the past, and to re-structure a life in the
present. Rosa's involvement, like Quentin's, is personal
and intense; she is not so much interested in the over view
of the construction and destruction of the "grand design"
as she is interested in assigning responsibility to others,
particularly Sutpen, for her failure to find meaning for
^"Faulkner's Absalom. Absalom? : The Discovery of
Values," American Literature. XXXVII (November, 1 9 6 5 ), 295.
213
her own life in present time. As she nears the end of her
soliloquy, she attempts a summation of her life of "in
sult":
I never owned him [Sutpen]; certainly not in that sewer
sense which you would mean by that and maybe think (but
you are wrong) I mean. That did not matter. That was
not even the nub of the insult. I mean that he was not
owned bv anyone or anything in this world, had never
been, would never be. not even by Ellen, not even by
Jones1 granddaughter. Because he was not articulated in
this world. He was a walking shadow. He was the light-
blinded bat-like image of his own torment cast by the
fierce demoniac lantern u p from beneath the earthfs crust
and hence in retrograde, reverse: from abysmal and
chaotic dark completing his descending (do you mark the
gradation?) ellipsis. clinging, trying to cling with vain
unsubstantial hands to what he hoped would hold him, save
him, arrest him— . ... (p. 171)
Quentin, listening to Rosa’s poetic reminiscences, is
a b r u p tly b ro u g h t b a ck to th e p r e s e n t by h e r comment, " Yes.
I killed him" (p. 172). Quentin asks, "Ma’am? What’s
that? What did you say?" (p. 172). Rosa’s answer hints at
something to be learned later in the novel, as she alludes
to present activity in the old Sutpen house:
"There’s something in that house."
"Something living in it. Hidden in it. It has been
out there for four years, living hidden in that house."
(p. 172)
Her involvement is total; she cannot "finish" her part of
the saga until she, with Quentin, unlocks the secrets
214
long hidden in the Sutpen mansion. She too is obsessed
with "understanding" Sutpen, but her vision is myopic;
because of her extraordinarily strong personal involvement,
she can see only the "demon" Sutpen. This narrowness of
vision is carefully delineated by Olga M. Vickery:
Though Miss Rosa knew Sutpen most intimately, her
account of him is the most distorted, revealing only her
own obsession, the narrowness of her experience, and the
grim inflexibility of her responses. (p. 87)
Rosa is another "doomed" character, because events in
time have "robbed" her of her "rightful" due. Time is her
enemy because its progression continually emphasizes the
injustices dealt to her by the past. Her only recourse is
to remain in the past, obsessed with the retelling of the
story of those personalities and events that "destroyed"
her life. Her character is rigid, as is her concept of
time. Time, in any meaningful sense, stopped with Sutpen’s
final rejection of her. Her vision is linear and negative,
in that events in past time have removed any conceivable
life-rationale in the present. She remains a rather
pathetic figure who cannot remove herself from involvement
in the past. It seems impossible for her to grasp, even
discuss, any other cognitive time pattern; her identity is
an identity of "hatred," as throughout the narrative she
215
compulsively attempts to persuade those still living to
’ ’ rise against him [Sutpen] in scorn and horror and out
rage" (p. 15). Perhaps she feels successful, in some
sense, after the mansion is burned. She is last described
a few months before her "physical" death in 1910, going
"to bed because it was all finished now" (p. 376).
Quentin, reflecting on Rosa’s long narrative, asks his
father the same question Shreve is to pose at the end of
the novel:
"... why tell me about it?" . . . "why tell me about
it? What is it to me that the land of the earth of
whatever it was got tired of him at last and turned and
destroyed him. What if it did destroy her family too?
It’s going to turn and destroy us all some day, whether
our name happens to be Sutpen or Coldfield or not."
(p. 12)
Quentin’s father presents no final answer to this
basic question, but suggests that Rosa has picked Quentin
to listen to the tale because Quentin’s grandfather was
close to Sutpen--and that perhaps the tale is not yet
finished:
"It’s because she will need someone to go with her— a
man, a gentleman, yet one still young enough to do what
she wants, do it the way she wants it done. And she
chose you because your grandfather was the nearest thing
216
to a friend Sutpen ever had in this country, and she
probably believes that Sutpen may have told your grand
father something about himself and her, about that
engagement which did not engage, that troth which failed
to plight. Might even have told your grandfather the
reason why at the last she refused to marry him. And
that your grandfather might have told me and I might
have told you. And so, in a sense, the affair, no macter
what happens out there tonight, will still be in the
family; the skeleton (if it be a skeleton) still in the
closet. She may believe that if it hadn't been for your
grandfather's friendship, Sutpen could never have got a
foothold here, and that if he had not got that foothold,
he could not have married Ellen. So maybe she considers
you partly responsible through heredity for what happened
to her and her family." (pp. 12-13)
The father continues the narrative in a somewhat more ob
jective fashion, but again his observations certainly can
not be considered omniscient. Peter Swiggart sees him as
"blinded":
Mr. Compson is just as unreliable a witness-narrator
as Miss Rosa, but he is blinded by misdirected ration
ality and not emotionalism. . . . East events are
filtered through his own philosophical despair. (p. 153)
Quentin's father has a scholar's interest in researching
the past to find meaning, and he attempts to interpret the
more important aspects of Sutpen's design, beginning with
Sutpen's arrival and marriage to Ellen:
He [Sutpen] wanted, not the anonymous wife and the anony
mous children, but the two names, the stainless wife and
the unimpeachable father-in-law, on the license, the
patent. Yes, patent, with a gold seal and red ribbons
too if that had been practicable. (p. 51)
217
As Quentin*s father sees him, Sutpen must be "practical”
if his design is to work out, but the design begins to
disintegrate when Sutpen’s "control" over the past dis
solves. Faulkner does not choose to reveal the full story
at this point; only the "facts" known to Quentin's father
are presented:
And then something happened. Nobody knew what: whether
something between Henry and Bon on one hand and Judith
on the other, or between the three young people on one
hand and the parents on the other. But anyway when
Christmas day came, Henry and Bon were gone. And Ellen
was not visible . . . and nobody could have told from
either Sutpen's or Judith's faces or actions or behavior,
and so the tale came through the Negroes: of how on the
night before Christmas there had been a quarrel between,
not Bon and Henry or Bon and Sutpen, but between the son
and the father and that Henry had formally abjured his
father and renounced his birthright and the roof under
which he had been born and that he and Bon had ridden
away in the night. (p. 79)
Quentin's father admits his inability fully to explain
Sutpen and the family:
They are there, yet something is missing; they are like
a chemical formula exhumed along with the letters from
that forgotten chest . . . the writing faded, almost
indecipherable, yet meaningful, familiar in shape and
sense . . . you bring them together in the proportions
called for, but nothing happens. (p. 101)
Me. Compson's rather cynical "rational" vision (also noted -
earlier in The Sound and the Fury) limits his effective
ness as an observer. John W. Hunt describes "his tired
218
skepticism embellished with a seedy sophistication [which]
evidences the character of his own distortions" (p. 102).
Chapter Seven presents the most detailed picture of
Thomas Sutpen, the account by Quentin’s grandfather, handed
down by Jason to Quentin. The fictive present again is
Harvard, as Quentin and Shreve continue their conversation
in an attempt to understand the various internal machina
tions of the major characters in the drama.
Sutpen "speaks" in the first person throughout the
chapter, but the aesthetic structure of screening his story
by interposing three interpretive figures continues to keep
him at a distance. Most of the chapter relates the grand
father’s rather sympathetic account of Sutpen’s activities;
the maker of the "grand design" is seen more as "victim"
than "demon." The grandfather’s story is thus at some
variance with the "Beelzebub" construction of Miss Rosa.
The grandfather, like his son Jason, accepts a
mechanical or linear concept of time. He is a fatalist
and sees man’s actions as determined. Man, in essence, has
no free will; he is compelled to act out the particular
219
design preordained by forces over which he has no control.
To the grandfather, therefore, Sutpen seems to be a man
’ 'doomed’ ' in time, not because Sutpen created an evil
design, but because he is an innocent pawn in a prearranged
plan:
Sutpen's trouble was innocence. All of a sudden he
discovered, not what he wanted to do but what he just
had to do, had to do it whether he wanted to or not,
because if he did not do it he knew that he could never
live with himself for the rest of his life, never live
with what all the men and women that had died to make
him had left inside of him for him to pass on, with all
the dead ones waiting and watching to see if he was going
to do it right, fix things right so that he would be able
to look in the face not only the old dead ones but all
the living ones that would come after him when he would
be one of the dead. (p. 220)
Sutpen's "innocence,” in the mind of the grandfather,
is roughly synonymous with "inability"; Sutpen realizes he
must go forward with the design, but knows within himself
that he is incapable of completely fulfilling the plan:
And that at the very moment when he discovered what it
was, he found out that this was the last thing in the
world he was equipped to do not because he not only had
not known that he would have to do this, he did not even
know that it existed to be wanted, to need to be done,
until he was almost fourteen years old. (p. 220)
The grandfather makes the point again and again that
elemental forces around Sutpen made his actions inevitable
yet, in a sense, courageous; Sutpen was courageous, in
220
the grandfather*s mind, because he adhered to his basic
plan despite the knowledge of his own "fatal innocence,"
that lack of ability that "doomed" the plan from its in-
c ept ion.
Chapter Eight reveals still another point of view--
that of Charles Bon, as reconstructed in the fictive
present by Quentin and Shreve. Charles is seen primarily
as "victim" by both Quentin and Shreve, who tend to empa
thize with the fate of the repudiated son. He is depicted
as one who, above all, craves recognition from his father;
Quentin suggests that Charles would not have forced the
issue of marriage to Judith had he received one indication
from Thomas Sutpen that Charles was indeed his son.
Charles is committed to the furious and insistent need
(giver, him in large part by his mother) to be granted full
identity as the son of his father:
--And he [Sutpen] sent me no word? He did not ask you
to send me to him? No word to me. no word at all? That
was all he had to do, now, today; four years ago or at
any time during the four years. That was all. He would
not have needed to ask it. require it. of me. I would
have offered it. 1 would have said. I will never see her
again before he could have asked it of me. He did not
221
have to do this, Henry. He didn’t : need to tell you I
am a nigger to stop me. He could have stopped me without
that, Henry. (p. 356)
Peter Swiggart discusses Charles’s deep emotional need:
He craves at least an informal recognition from his
father. . . . Like primitive figures in other novels,
Bon stands for values of love and forgiveness that are
opposed to Puritan inflexibility. (p. 168)
Charles, his last chance to be the "son of his father"
thwarted, practically orders his own execution. Despite
Henry’s agonized cry, "You are my brother" (p. 357), he
tells Henry "I’ m not. I’ m the nigger that’s going to sleep
with your sister. Unless you stop me. Henry. ... Do it
now, Henry" (p. 358).
Shreve, at this point in Quentin’s recollection,
interrupts and imagines the final moments of Charles and
Henry together:
"And he never slipped away," Shreve said. "He could
have, but he never even tried. . . . Henry spurred ahead
and turned his horse to face Bon and took out the pistol;
and Judith and Clytie heard the shot, and maybe Wash
Jones was hanging around somewhere in the back yard and
so he was there to help Clytie and Judith carry him into
the house and lay him on the bed." (p. 358)
Judith stands as Charles dies, "without a tear behind the
closed door, holding the metal case she had given him with
her picture in it but that didn’t have her picture in it
now b u t th a t o f th e o cto ro o n and th e kid" (p . 358).
222
Charles has substituted a picture of his mistress and
child; his action will "release" Judith from any sense of
obligation.
Charles’s self-image, his identity as the "lost son,"
preordains his death. His fate seems predictable in light
of his background with his mother, Eulalia. She has been
rejected as "nonhuman" by Sutpen, and she structures her
life and Charles’s around the concept of revenge. She
presents this, apparently only this, identity to Charles,
who lives as agent of his mother’s personal vendetta to
defeat that man who scorned them. Eulalia dedicates her
life to destroying Sutpen’s design.
Quentin, in discussing her plan, feels a strong sense
of sympathy for Charles and the condition into which he was
forced:
. . . she [Eulalia Bon] was grooming him for that hour
and moment which she couldn’t foresee but that she knew
would arrive some day because it would have to arrive or
else she would have to do like the Aunt Rosa and deny
that she had ever breathed--the moment when he (Bon)
would stand side by side (not face to face) with his
father where fate or luck or justice or whatever she
called it could do the rest (and it did, better than she
could have invented or hoped or even dreamed . . .)
. . . the mother bringing him along to the moment when
she would say "He is your father. He cast you and me
aside and denied you his name. Now go," and then sit
down and let God finish it: pistol or knife or rack;
223
destruction or grief or anguish: God to call the shot or
turn the wheel. Jesus, you can almost see him: a little
boy already come to learn, to expect, before he could
remember having learned his own name or the name of the
town where he lives or how to say either of them, that
every so often he would be snatched up from playing and
held, gripped between the two hands fierce with (what
passed at least with him for it) love, against the two
fierce rigid knees, the face . . . the face filled with
furious and almost unbearable unforgiving almost like
fever (not bitterness and despair, just implacable will
for revenge). ... So that when he grew up and had
children he would have to pass it on too (and maybe
deciding then and there that it was too much trouble and
bother and that he would not have any children or at
least hoped he would not) and hence no man had a father,
. . . all boy flesh that walked and breathed stemming
from that one ambiguous eluded dark fatherhead and so
brothered perennial and ubiquitous everywhere under the
sun. (pp. 296*299)
Eulalia, as well as Sutpen and Charles, is "cursed" by
a rigidity of purpose; she "loves" Charles primarily be
cause he can be an agent of her final revenge--an act, she
feels, that is absolutely necessary to her personal ful
fillment in life. Love, in the sense of its forgiving and
redemptive qualities, is strikingly absent from her concept
of self. In its place is the fatalistic drive to complete
a "plan"--a plan that eventually dooms everyone involved.
Eulalia is also "trapped" by time in that she finds it
totally impossible to accept what has happened in the past.
She therefore remains immersed in time past, obsessed with
the conviction that somehow, through Charles, she can
224
"reshape” what has already happened. Her failure is
instrumental in the death of Charles.
Shreve, in his role as the objective receiver of the
fragmented and refracted information concerning the past,
attempts to structure some order out of the apparent chaos
of remembered "shades" and events. His attempt seems
quite brilliant, but he does not fully succeed in explain
ing either the events or, more important, the motives for
them. His summation, however, occurring in the middle of
the novel, seems aesthetically necessary as he weighs the
various accounts for validity. Shreve, the Canadian, the
"outsider" who receives Quentin's account of the past, asks
the pertinent questions in an attempt to extract "truth"
from the tangled and fragmented versions (again, one thinks
of Faulkner's statement about fourteen ways to view "that
blackbird").
Shreve interprets Quentin's rambling discourse; many
times throughout the narrative, Quentin murmurs "yes" to
Shreve's recapitulation of Sutpen*s saga. Shreve sees
Sutpen, finally, as a defeated and impotent old man:
225
. . . just [a] mad impotent old man who had realized at
last that his dream of restoring his Sutpen*s Hundred
was not only vain but that what he had left of it would
never support him and his family and so running his
little crossroads store . . . and who knows maybe what
delusions of making money out of the store to rebuild
the plantation; who had escaped twice now, got himself
into it and been freed by the Creditor who set his
children to destroying one another before he had pos
terity, and he decided that may be he was wrong in being
fi ee and so got into it again and then decided he was
wrong in being unfree and so got out of it again— and
then turned right around and bought his way back into it
with beads and calico and striped candy out of his own
showcase and off his shelves? (pp. 180-181)
Shreve*s summary is the summary of the objective out
side; the man from the North who views the South as
"strange," yet utterly fascinating. Once again, however,
it must be noted that Shreve, as a character in the novel,
is limited in his perception. His conclusions, although
rather objective in tone, are still fragmentary, part of
the final "whole" that is not realized until the end of
the novel. Hyatt H. Waggoner delineates Shreve*s impor
tance as the primary "interpretive listener":
Shreve's role as interpretive listener and finally as
partial narrator is crucial. ... As father had been
less intimately involved in the Sutpen story than Miss
Rosa, so Shreve the Canadian is less involved than
father. The movement is one of progressive disengage
ment, a moving outward from the center. Yet the parts
of the story Shreve tells are among the most vivid and
circumstantial in the whole book. (pp. 155-156)
226
Shreve’s basic summation begins with a comparison of
the North and the South, because the people of the North,
perhaps, had similar tales, but "long ago across the
water":
"I just want to understand it if I can and I dont know
how to say it better. Because its something my people
haven’t got. Or if we have got it, it all happened long
ago across the water and so now there aint anything to
look at every day and remind us of it. We dont live
among defeated grandfathers and freed slaves (or have
I got it backward and was it your folks that was free
and the niggers that lost?) and bullets in the dining
room table and such, to be always reminding us to never
forget. What is it? something you live and breathe in
the air? a kind of vacuum filled with wraithlike and
indomitable anger and pride and glory at and in happen-
ings that occurred and ceased fifty years ago?" (p. 361)
As the novel nears its conclusion, Shreve recounts the
saga as it has been constructed in his mind:
"So it took Charles Bon and his mother to get rid of
old Tan, and Charles Bon and the octoroon to get rid
of Judith, and Charles Bon and Clytie to get rid of
Henry; and Charles Bon’s mother and Charles Bon’s grand
mother to get rid of Charles Bon. . . . You’ ve got one
nigger left. One nigger Sutpen left [James Bond]. Of
course you can’t catch him and you don't even always see
him and you never will be able to use him. But you’ ve
got him there still. You still hear him at night some
times. Don’t you?" (pp. 377-378)
Quentin has to agree, and his agreement that the past still
lingers in the present allows Shreve to make his final
statement concerning not only the last "Sutpen left," but
all men in all time:
227
"... I think that in time the Jim Bonds are going to
conquer the western hemisphere. Of course it won’t
quite be in our time and of course as they spread toward
the poles they will bleach out again like the rabbits
and the birds, so they won’t show up so sharp against the
snow. But it will still be Jim Bond; and so in a f e i t f
thousand years, I who regard you will also have sprung
from the loins of African kings." (p. 378)
Shreve’s statement has a significance ranging beyond
Absalom, Absalom? On one level, he is suggesting that
those human beings repudiated for any reason will return,
as they have throughout history, to regain their rightful
identity. On another more general level, expanding the
symbolic meaning inherent in the microcosm of Absalom.
Absalom!, Shreve suggests Faulkner’s preoccupation with the
theme of the brotherhood of man.
Shreve’s final question to Quentin, "Why do you hate
the South?" (p. 378) brings the theme into focus. Shreve
is not simply asking Quentin why he is still so absorbed in
the South and the past; he is suggesting more general ques
tions : Why does man act as he does ? Why does man seem
trapped by his own ego, his "design?" What is man, his
connection to the past, his present identity, and his
future potential?
228
In attempting to explain the entire Sutpen saga to
Shreve, Quentin seems to be trying to structure some kind
of present identity that will "free" him from his connec
tion to the "doomed" past. On a number of occasions, he
slips into a time reverie in which he sees various "selves"
(including Shreve) as merging into Sutpen*s time— perhaps
all time:
Mavbe nothing ever happens once and is finished. Mavbe
happen is never once but like ripples maybe on water
after the pebble sinks, the ripples moving on. spreading,
the pool attached by a narrow umbilical water-cord to
the next pool which the first pool feeds, has fed, did
feed, let this second pool contain a different tempera
ture of water, a different molecularitv of having seen,
felt, remembered, reflect a different tone the infinite
unchanging slcv. it doesnlt matter: that pebble*s watery
echo whose fall it did not even see moves across its
surface too at the original ripple-space. to the old
ineradicable rhythm thinking Yes, we are both Father.
Or mavbe Father and I are both Shreve, mavbe it took
Father and me both to make Shreve or Shreve and me both
to make Father and maybe Thomas Sutpen to make us all.
(pp. 261-262)
He is "two separate Quentins," existing both in pres
ent and past, and he can state with justification that "I
am older at twenty than a lot of people who have died"
(p. 377). Quentin is "old," of course, because his view of
time forces him to live the lives of those who have
229
preceded him chronologically in time rather than simply
recall them. In this sense, he is certainly "trapped" by
the past; he cannot extricate himself from that "other
Quentin," who is forcing the Quentin of the present to be
a "ghost":
Then in the long unamaze Quentin seemed to watch them
overrun suddenly the hundred square miles of tranquil and
astonished earth and drag house and formal gardens
violently out of the soundless Nothing and clap them
down like cards upon a table beneath the up-palm immobile
and pontific, creating the Sutpen's Hundred, the Be Sut
pen * s Hundred like the oldentime Be Light. Then hearing
would reconcile and he would seem to listen to two sepa
rate Quentins now--the Quentin Comps on preparing for
Harvard in the South, the deep South dead since 1865 and
peopled with garrulous outraged baffled ghosts, listen
ing, having to listen, to one of the ghosts which had
refused to lie still even longer than most had, telling
him about old ghost-times; and the Quentin Compson who
was still too young to deserve yet to be a ghost, but
nevertheless having to be one for all that, since he was
bom and bred in the deep South the same as she [Rosa]
was--the two separate Quentins now talking to one another
in the long silence of notpeople in notlanguage.
(pp. 8-9)
He is fully involved in the Sutpen tragedy, and ponders
whether it will ever be possible for him to "outlive" acts
of the past that seem to negate free and purposeful action
in the present. Quentin's problem is central; he yearns
to be able to accept some natural cognitive time pattern
that will provide freedom in thought and action in the
present, but finds himself aligned with a mechanical time
230
pattern that suggests man^ helplessness in time:
Am I going to have to hear it all again he [Quentin]
thought I am going to have to hear it all over again
I am already hearing it all over again I am listening to
it all over again I shall have to never listen to any
thing else but this forever so apparently not only a man
never outlives his father but not even his friends and
acquaintances do--. (p. 277)
Quentin is quite aware of his personal dilemma, and feels
that he must complete his narrative. He describes his
impressions on that night in 1910 when he and Miss Rosa
drove to the old Sutpen mansion:
The [mansion] loomed, bulked, square and enormous,
with jagged half-toppled chimneys, its roofline sagging
a little; for an instant as they moved, hurried, toward
it Quentin saw completely through it a ragged segment of
sky with three hot stars in it as if the house were of
one dimension, painted on a canvas curtain in which there
was a tear; now, almost beneath it, the dead fumace-
breath of air in which they moved seemed to reek in slow
and protracted violence with a smell of desolation and
decay as if the wood of which it was built were flesh.
(p. 366)
The house itself strongly suggests the "desolation and
decay" which Quentin feeL.- s He and Miss Rosa break in and
find old Clytie, who tries to prevent further investiga
tion. Quentin, apprehensive because of what he might find,
does not want to go on, but feels "... I must. I have
to . . ." (p. 372). They enter a small, forbidding room:
... a second lamp burned dimly on a crude table; waking
or sleeping it was the same: the bed, the yellow sheets
231
and p illo w , th e w a ste d y e llo w fa c e w ith c lo s e d , a lm o st
t r a n s p a r e n t e y e lid s on t h e p illo w , th e w a ste d hands
c r o s s e d on th e b r e a s t a s i f h e w ere a lr e a d y a c o rp s e ;
w aking o r s le e p in g i t was th e same and w ould b e th e same
f o r e v e r a s lo n g a s h e l i v e d :
And you are ?
Henry Sutpen.
And you have been here ?
Four years.
And you came home ?
To die. Yes.
To Die?
Yes. To die.
And you have been here ?
Four years.
And you are ?
Henry Sutpen. (p. 373)
In the fictive present, Shreve asks of Quentin "under
stands," but Quentin remains silent. There is nothing he
can say to alter the events that are now a part of his
character.
The final scene is remarkably parallel to the ending
of The Sound and the Fury. The mansion is burning, and
with it, two remaining members of the "doomed” clan, Clytie
and Henry. The last sound heard is that of the idiot,
James Bond, who is watching the fire from somewhere behind
the house:
Jim Bond, the scion, the last of his race, seeing it too
now and howling with human reason now since now even he
could have known what he was howling about. But they
couldn’t catch him. They could hear him; he didn’t seem
to get ever any further away but they couldn’t get any
nearer and maybe in time they could not even locate the
232
direction any more of the howling. . . . [Miss Rosa]
foaming a little at the mouth, her face even in the sun
light lit by one last wild crimson reflection as the
house collapsed and roared away, and there was only the
sound of the idiot negro left. (p. 376)
Quentin, in his final construction of Sutpen, that
man-demon-God, acknowledges the final mystery that is man:
Absalom. Absalom? ends with his agonized (he is soon to
commit suicide) "defense" of the South, of man, and of his
own identity:
"I dont hate it," Quentin said, quickly, at once,
immediately; "I dont hate it," he said. I dont hate it
he thought, panting in the cold air, the iron New England
dark; I dont. I dont? I dont hate it? I dont hate it?
(p. 378)
Frederick Hoffman describes Quentin*s feeling toward his
heritage:
He both loves and hates it. He does not know if the
dedication to his past is worth either his love or his
hatred, so he must cry out in the "iron New England
dark" his despair of ever coming to terms with it.
(William Faulkner, p. 78)
Quentin*s ambivalence, coupled with his total involvement
with the past, produces despair. Despite his attempt to
eliminate the issue of Sutpen from his mind, he fails and
Q
is irrevocably "doomed." Quentin cannot leave the past
g
Melvin Backman points out that Quentin cannot escape
his coexistence in past time: "He must reconstruct a past
that might have been, a man that apparently was. He must
233
because the past remains present within him; he cannot
explain or understand Sutpen because he cannot construct
for himself a satisfactory raison d’etre. His suicide
(as seen in The Sound and the Fury) is, strangely, not an
admission of his final failure, but is paradoxically, in
his mind, his final positive attempt to establish a tan
gible identity even in death— a position beyond the limita
tions and penalties of time. The violent strength of
Quentin*s final position paradoxically "ends" the novel by
forcing reinterpretation of the "beginning."
Clytemnestra is an example of the female characters in
Faulkner who retain "courage and fortitude" in the midst
of apparent chaos. Quentin’s father, through Quentin,
describes their importance:
"... they lead beautiful lives— women. Lives not only
divorced from, but irrevocably excommunicated from, all
reality. That’s why although their deaths, the instant
of dissolution, are of no importance to them since they
have a courage and fortitude in the face of pain and
annihilation which would make the most spartan man re
semble a puling boy, yet to them their funerals and
because the man in a sense was his ancestor, the past his
past and present too." "Sutpen and the South," PMLA
(December 1965), p. 599.
234
graves, the little puny affirmations of spurious im
mortality set above their slumber, are of incalculable
importance." (pp. 191-192)
9
Clytemnestra, Thomas Sutpen*s daughter by one of the
Negro slaves, sustains what there is left to sustain while
the "grand design" crumbles. She and Judith attend to the
plantation while Sutpen is away; Clytie raises Etienne
De Saint Valery Bon (son of Charles and his mistress).
After the death of Judith and Etienne in 1884, she raises
Etienne’s son, James Bond, the mulatto mentally deficient
remainder (along with Henry Sutpen and herself) of the
Sutpen blood line. It is Clytie who, for many years, hides
the secret of Jim and Henry in the old disintegrating
Sutpen mansion. Her character is not unlike Dilsey’s in
The Sound and the Fury; she too has observed the disinte
gration of a family; she, like Dilsey, is powerless to stop
the "doom" that is overtaking the family, but she somehow
9
Faulkner combines Greek legends with Old Testament
stories in Absalom. Absalom? Clytemnestra, in Greek legend
(or Cassandra, as Quentin’s father thinks of her), kills
Agamemnon, the King (Sutpen), her husband and father of her
three children. Agamemnon also has a "grand design"— to
conquer Troy. For a complete study of the correlation of
Absalom. Absalom! to Old Testament and Grecian legends, see
Lennart Bjork, "Ancient Myths and the Moral Framework of
Faulkner’s Absalom. Absalom!" American Literature. XXXV
(May 1963), 196-204.
235
finds the strength to live on in the present. It is
Clytie, on that day in 1910, who sets fire to the mansion
in a final effort to protect Henry from the authorities
who, in Clytie*s mind, are still looking for him as the
murderer of Charles Bon.
Clytie bears not only the curse of involvement in the
design, but the "black blood" that classifies her as "in
ferior." But she is both "white" and "black," free and
tamed, master and slave. She is one character who, despite
the paradoxes seemingly evident in her nature, structures
a valid cognitive pattern that sustains her until that last
fiery day in 1910. Miss Rosa, despite her personal in
volvement with Sutpen and Clytie, analyzes Clytie*s role in
the unfolding tragedy:
Clytie. not inept, anything but inept: perverse in
scrutable and paradox: free, vet incapable of freedom
who had never once called herself a slave, holding
fidelity to none like the indolent and solitary wolf or
bear (yes, w.-ld: half untamed black, half Sutpen blood:
and if "untamed" be synonymous with "wild" then "Sutpen"
is the silent unsleeping viciousness of the tamer*s lash)
whose false seeming holds it docile to fear*s hand but
which is not, which if this be fidelity, fidelity only
to the prime fixed principle of its own savageness:—
Clytie who in the very pigmentation of her flesh repre
sented that debacle which had brought Judith and me
[Rosa] to what we were and which had made of her (Clytie)
that which she declined to be just as she had declined
to be that from which its purpose had been to emancipate
236
her, as though presiding aloof upon the new, she
deliberately remained to represent to us the threat-
ful portent of the old. (pp. 156-157)
Little can be added to Rosa's description: Clytie
emerges as a strong and sympathetic figure, one who can
preside "upon the new," yet remain a "threatful portent of
the old."
Absalom. Absalom? perhaps above all is a novel of
search and question. Every major character in the book
attempts, from his particular concept of self in time, to
"solve" the tragedy that is Sutpen and his design. Each
character "fails" to produce the story of Sutpen, but each,
in his way, adds to the final construction and interpreta
tion of the saga* William Van O'Connor graphically de
scribes this cumulative effect as a "kind of vortex":
The total action of the novel also has that quality of
seeming to be always in motion, moving forward and back
ward in time, and constantly adding meanings. Something
said in the first chapter is more fully understood chap
ters later when a relevant detail is added, but is not
wholly understood until even a later chapter. Absalom.
Absalom! is a kind of vortex, with characters and events
ever in motion, but finally the reader is able to see
that there is a still point at the bottom of the cone,
the point in relation to which the characters and events
have meaning. ("William Faulkner," Seven Modem American
Novelists, p. 140)
237
Thomas Sutpen*s "grand design" forms the narrative
center of the "vortex," and Sutpen fails, as Michael F.
Moloney accurately states, to control or "conquer time":
Sutpen*s courageous battle against time is not to recap
ture a favorite moment from the oblivion of the past or
to expand indefinitely a present moment. In a more
primitive and elemental fashion, he would conquer time
by founding a dynasty. (p. 83)
Sutpen*s attempt to formulate a cognitive pattern consist
ent itfith his omniscient concept of his powers is doomed to
failure. He fails to "conquer time" because he feels him
self to be above human limitations— an attitude that pre
cludes success in any human endeavor. He never sees
himself in an ethically or morally "incorrect" position;
his plan is "correct" because it seems to be his destiny.
"Goodness" or "badness" in the design is beside the point:
"You see, I had a design in mind. Whether it was a
good or a bad design is beside the point; the question
is, Where did I make the mistake in it, what did I do or
misdo in it, whom or what injure by it to the extent
which this would indicate. I had a design. To accom
plish it I should require money, a house, a plantation,
slaves, a family--incidentally of course, a wife. I set
out to acquire these, asking no favor of any man."
(p. 263)
From another point of view, Sutpen*s full identity is
embodied in the implementation of the design. When the
design disintegrated, so did Sutpen. Use Dusoir lind
238
summarizes Sutpen *s inability to prevent this disintegra
tion :
His inability to locate his error dooms him to a
repetition of his sins. At best, he can think only in
terms of some practical mistake, some miscalculation in
"strategy” which threw him off the "schedule" he had set
for himself for the completion of the project. The
actual source of his frustrations remains concealed from
him; he questions neither the limitations of his own
rationalism nor the justice underlying the design it
self. (p. 902)
His outward design (the land, mansion, dynasty) is a mani
festation of his "inner design" or destiny. One apparently
cannot exist without the other. From this point of view,
Sutpen*s failure was preordained the moment the "design"
formed in his mind.
Sutpen, as well as the other characters in the novel,
is seen through the eyes of Quentin, whose identity is
aligned with a mechanical cognitive time pattern. He
desires to avoid the "curse" of the past, but he cannot.
Time, thus, is his enemy because he finds it impossible to
structure a life for himself based on free will in the
present. He is "two separate Quentins," one who is doomed
in the past, and the other one who, because of the past,
is incapable of meaningful action in the present.
The major characters in Absalom. Absalom! seem to
share Quentin*s sense of defeat. With the exception of
239
Clytemnestra, who attempts to preserve her ideals against
the ravages of time, the characters are all caught in the
flawed vision of Sutpen. This vision, however, makes him
a figure more to be pitied than scorned.'®'® He is a man in
time, refusing to accept this fact--and his refusal has a
final destructive effect on those around him.
Absalom. Absalom! is a novel of the failure of man to
understand himself and thereby act responsibly in the pres
ent. Faulkner does not imply that man*s present dilemma
is inevitably a result of a flawed past. He does seem to
suggest, however, that man is "doomed” in the present xf.
he allows a "grand design" of the past to become an obses
sion. Then, to be sure, man must fail; his identity is a
construct, not of his free will, but of totally determined
forces. Basing his life on this linear cognitive time
pattern leads to a final destruction as suggested in the
novel.
Faulkner*s technique of withholding "final" informa
tion by a process of refracted memory does, from one point
Speaking at the Uhiversity of Virginia, Faulkner
described Sutpen as a man "to be pitied, as anyone who
ignores man is to be pitied, who does not believe that he
belongs as a member of a human family, of the human family,
is to be pitied" (Gwynn and Blotner, p. 80).
240
of view, make an analysis of cognitive time patterns in
relation to character difficult. But the technique does
seem to match Faulkner’s concept embodied throughout the
work that man is essentially a mysterious and shadowy
being. Faulkner intentionally avoids the temptation to
summarize with omniscience the explicit "meaning" inherent
in character and event in Absalom. Absalom! Instead, he
presents a many-faceted picture of man’s actions in time
and their consequences. The final interpretation, as
Faulkner suggests, is the result of the many points of view
expressed. Absalom. Absalom? remains a mystery, but a
brilliant mystery, perhaps mirroring roan’s inner conviction
that his identity in time remains, at base, inscrutable.
CHAPTER VII
TIME AND IDENTITY: A GENERAL APPRAISAL
This study has been limited to a close analysis of
five major novels which illustrate Faulkner's emphasis
on the relationship between awareness of time and sense
of identity. It is understood, of course, that the en
tire canon of his work exhibits a concern with this issue.
Frederick J. Hoffman sees time as a vital key in
establishing character self-definition in Faulkner's
works :
One may describe Faulknerian time as a continuum
time flowing from past into present and from present
into past. Reality is not so much objective existence
but what past and present have made of an object or an
event within a given set of psychological conditions.
• • •
His characters are intense creatures, obsessed with
their isolation in the world, abnormally puzzled over
the character and degree of the burdens they must
assume, and desperate to assert themselves before death
closes in on them. In this respect, the complex of
past and present, assuming both the "burdens" of history
241
242
and the struggle of self-definition, becomes a means of
classifying Faulkners characters.
The movement of time in Faulkner*s fiction, whether
one is thinking of the arrangement of events in a particu
lar chronology, or the construction of individual identity,
is of major interest; the two processes, as they intermix,
form the final aesthetic creation. Warren Beck discusses
the fact of time "progression” as related to "being":
The movement in Faulkner's fiction, however, is anything
but a straight procedure in time, minute by minute, or a
simple progression, as in a denotative system. The
"furious motion" of characters "alive" involves recol
lection and expectation; recollection (as the instance
may suggest) draws upon anything from the insistent past;
simultaneously expectation compounds (out of the imme
diate experience and its affinities for anything prece
dent) an apprehension, a fear, a hope or a desire,
becoming an intention, all this "a moment in a dramatic
instant," the point of very being.2 (Italics mine.)
The "point of being" is the central core of identity. Many
of Faulkner's characters find it exceedingly difficult, if
not impossible, to structure a satisfactory identity in the
present. Their failure is often suggested by "sound and
"Faulkner's Concepts of Time," Bear. Man. and God:
Seven Approaches to William Faulkner's The Bear, eds.
Francis Lee Utley, Lynn Z. Bloom, and Arthur F. Kinney
(New York, 1964), pp. 339-341.
o
Man in Motion: Faulkner's Trilogy (Madison, 1961),
pp. 191-192.
243
fury," motion "silent and furious," and the quiescent
"windless lilac."
Faulkner, in a number of statements, suggests his
basic premise that the fully successful human being must
accept a cognitive time pattern that is somehow inclusive
of all time. He must not feel that time has "robbed" him
of a meaningful past, or that the future appears meaning
less. In a discussion with graduate students at the Uni
versity of Virginia, Faulkner answered the basic question
concerning his use of time in relation to identity. The
question, as well as Faulkner1s answer (presented in part
in the Introduction), is basic to an understanding of
Faulkner's intent:
Q. Mr. Faulkner, I spoke to you about your long
sentences and asked you if one reason for them was not
that you were trying to give the past and the present
and the future more or less all at the same time, to
throw light on the present actions by referring to the
past and to the future. And I understand why throwing
light on the past would throw light on a present action.
And I think I understand why reference to the future
would do it. But I am not sure that I do understand,
and I would like to ask you why you feel it is necessary
to bring in your future while you are telling the pres
ent. Why is that significant? It’s not going to happen
yet. So why bring in something which has not yet hap
pened while you are recounting something that is happen
ing?
A. Well, a man*s future is inherent in that man— I—
in the sense that life, A. D. 1957, is not the end of
life, that: there’ll be a 2057. That we assume that.
244
Thfsre may not be, but we assume that. And in man, in
man’s behavior today is nineteen fifty— two thousand and
fifty-seven, if we just had a machine that could project
ahead and capture that, that machine could isolate and
freeze a p'cture, an image, of what man will be doing
in 2057, just as the machine might capture and fix the
light rays showing what he was doing in B.C. 28. That
is, that’s the mystical belief that there is no such
thing as was. That time is, and if there’s no such
thing as was, then there is no such thing as will be.
That time is not a fixed condition, time is in a way the
sum of the combined intelligences of all men who breathe
at that moment. (Gwynn and Blotner, pp. 138-139)
Faulkner's construction of characters existing along
a broad continuum of time patterns seems clear; as sug
gested in the Introduction, it is an oversimplification to
categorize his characters simply as those who succeed in
finding a life-time rationale and those who do not, but a
description of the two basic cognitive time patterns is
O
helpful in understanding Faulkner’s technique. Those
characters who are fully successful in establishing a
satisfactory present identity tend to construct a cognitive
pattern around acceptance of what may be called "natural"
(or all inclusive, circular) time. Those who are un
successful in their quest for an effective present identity
3
"Aesthetic" success, however, is a separate consider
ation. Many of Faulkner’s characters, although unsuccess
ful in accepting a cognitive time pattern that forms a
satisfactory present identity, are extremely "successful"
as aesthetic fictive characters.
245
either fail totally by limiting their vision to a mechani
cal (linear) cognitive time pattern, or by moving out of
any time pattern:
Natural (circular) time
1. Time is circular in the
sense of its basic rela
tionship to natural rhythms,
such as days, months,
seasons, years, and epochs.
2. Man's identity is struc
tured by his belief that
all time (past through
memory and future through
expectation) is contained
in "now."
3. Past and future, through
memory and anticipation,
can be changed, shaped,
altered by man.
4. Because man has a cognitive
pattern of all time con
tained in "now," it is
sometimes possible to "see"
the future before actual
events occur.
5. Absolute values which give
effective meaning to human
life remain constant with
in the circular pattern of
time.
Mechanical (linear) time
Time is linear in the
sense of a straight line
from an irretrievably lost
past to an illusory
future.
Man's identity is struc
tured only by his exis
tence in "now"; the past,
and the values it con
tained, are gone, and the
future is illusory.
Man is helpless in time;
he cannot change past or
future. He feels
"trapped" in time; no
effective action is pos
sible.
Man cannot function in
this manner.
Absolute, effective human
values have been lost in
time because the past,
where they reside, cannot
be reclaimed.
246
6. Man, because of memory and
expectation, has free will;
he assumes responsibility
and has a moral conscience.
7. The circular vision of time
provides man with a sense
of common humanity and sug
gests his immortality.
8. Time is an ally, allowing
a vision of man both
ennobling and enduring.
Man, because of his linear
vision, feels victimized
by time, and is unable to
assume responsibility for
past or future.
The linear vision of time,
evidenced by preoccupation
with time symbols such as
clocks and calendars,
causes the loss of a sense
of common humanity and the
rejection of a possible
immortality.
Time is an enemy, destroy
ing manfs values, and
moving him inevitably to
ward final disintegration
and ’ ’ doom.1 ’
Perhaps no single figure in Faulkner’s work totally em
bodies either the natural or mechanical time pattern as
outlined; Faulkner as an artist realizes that his charac
ters must, above all, be human beings. And to be human, in
Faulkner’s world, as he reflects our own, is often to em
body elements of both cognitive positions. Certain
characters, however, illustrate most clearly one or the
other cognitive pattern.
Faulkner is concerned with time in his earliest works,
but in Sartoris (1929), the connection between time and
247
concepts of identity is first noted in developed form.
Old Bayard seems unable to accept the fact that chrono
logical time has elapsed; he lives in a quiescent present
between a meaningful past and an ambiguous future. He is
the first character to embody fully the "curse," found
throughout Faulkner’s work, which prevents characters from
moving from past to present reality. Old Bayard accepts
a mechanical cognitive pattern and, although he tries to
establish a satisfactory identity based on the past, his
efforts are in vain.
Young Bayard, old Bayard’s grandson, follows a similar
pattern. He attempts to find cogency in the present, but
he too is a Sartoris and bears the "curse" of his family.
His death in an airplane crash has been preceded by his
"death" in time. Time has "killed" the past, and with it
values that produce purposeful present existence. The
future appears even less meaningful, and the belief that
both past and future are contained in "now" is utterly
foreign to him. His temporal point of view is completely
rigid, and inevitably leads to his death.
Miss Jenny, also a Sartoris, has sufficient insight
to predict what is to happen to the family, but is
248
powerless to alter the situation. She comments on the
inability of members of her family to adjust to the
realities to present time, yet she sees a certain grandeur
in their refusal to "compromise” and accept a time that
seems devoid of meaning.
In The Sound and the Fury (1929), Benjamin, the idiot,
exists in a "no time" situation; he cannot give up "past"
values because he has no "past." He is total innocence;
his universe is timeless.
Jason Compson Sr., years before the fictive present in
the novel, has abandoned efforts to establish any effective
life-time rationale. He lives as a man defeated by time,
composing "caustic and satiric eulogies on both his dead
and his living fellowtownsmen" (The Sound and the Fury/
As I Lav Dying, p. 8). His point of view is mechanical;
time symbols such as clocks and calendars merely remind him
of values which have been lost.
Quentin, his son, does attempt to structure some mean
ing in time by altering past events, but his vision of time
is essentially mechanical and leads him to suicide. Ironi
cally, his death is his final attempt to produce some
thing of value in his existence. To live, paradoxically,
249
A
he feels he must die.
Quentin's brother, Jason Jr., attempts to differ from
the Compsons in attitude and motivation, but he too is
caught up by circumstances in time. He tries, in his
pragmatic way, to compete in a world devoid of the values
once represented by the Compson name. His life is not
complicated by philosophical doubt. He accepts fully a
cognitive time pattern in which time is something numbered,
counted, or measured. His identity is shaped around those
things he possesses, and as he loses those, he loses his
capacity for meaningful action.
Caroline, Jason Sr.'s wife, also fails to structure
any purposeful identity in the present; she remains in an
imagined past which makes her every action justified. She
is full of self-pity, and fails to establish any binding
relationship with her family.
Dilsey does construct a perceptive and meaningful
identity in time; she manages to escape the contagion of
the Compson sense of "doom." She is indomitable because
time is not her enemy; it is not mechanical or linear,
4
His struggle to find an identity that will sustain
him is seen in Absalom. Absalom!
250
moving from a "glorious" past to a worthless present. She
realizes that through her will, she can structure past
through memory and future through anticipation. Time
liberates rather than traps her. She has seen "de first en
de last," and has a vision which both sustains and gives
great dignity to her life.
Addie, in As I Lay Dying (1930), is a woman unable to
free herself from her memories of a "defiled" past. Her
search for meaning in time is "violent" and lonely.
Addie's "aloneness" seems necessary to her personal sense
of "being." "Time, Anse, Love"— most characters and events
in her life— exist "outside the circle" of her inner
reality. She concludes that purpose in life is limited
to preparation for death.
Her husband, Anse, is eminently practical, and does
not ponder the question of his identity. He accepts diffi
culties as "God's will," and never seems to be seriously
affected. In Addie*s mind, he has been "dead" for many
years because he lacks the capacity for self-analysis or
change.
Cash, their eldest son, is successful in structuring
a satisfactory identity for himself. The journey, a
251
microcosm of man’s journey through life, both matures and
widens his vision. He becomes aware that his identity, or
anyone*s, is relative to individual points of view.
Dari is the "unwanted” son; his rejection makes him
an "alien," without an effective cognitive time pattern.
His clairvoyant nature makes him unique in that his time
vision is total--he can see backward as well as forward.
But he continually attempts to establish himself in some
fashion as something that was, because if he was in the
past, then he can be in the present. He questions the
nature of his identity in time throughout the novel, and
his final "insanity" is in part the result of his failure
to construct an integrated image of himself that will
permit his continued existence in the community.
Jewel is a creation of "violence" and "passion," and
reflects his genesis in his own pattern of living. His
attempts to master strong horses are symbolic of his
attempts to structure identity; he sees his identity in
time as Addie*s only son, because he is the result of the
"terrible blood," the vision Addie has of real--of tan
gible- -life. It seems unlikely that he will ever be able
to extricate himself from his mother’s vision.
252
The youngest son, Vardaman, links his own identity to
Addie; he preserves himself by preserving her, and he does
this by refusing to accept the fact of her death. He keeps
her "alive" by an act of metamorphosis or transfiguration;
she lives on in his mind because he can return to what was
and make it is. again. As a character perceiving time in
the novel, he is symbolically aligned with Jewel, who also
refuses to accept Addie*s death. Both eccentric characters
enforce the suggestion in the title As I Lav Dying that
Addie "lay dying," but cannot, will not, "lay dead."
In Light in August (1932), Lena has an enduring faith
that obviates a concern with identity in time; she "knows"
that the future will "work out" because she has a satis
factory identity in the present. She accepts the present;
she recognizes that life must be lived in now, and serves
in the novel as the single character who most completely
accepts a natural cognitive time pattern. She is similar
to Dilsey in The Sound and the Furv in that she too remains
undefeated by time.
Byron*s identity is seen primarily through his dedica
tion to Lena. He is an innocent figure, and forms with her
a pastoral tableau of innocence that somehow survives
253
intact in the midst of destructive forces.
Reverend Hightower, obsessed by the time of his grand
father, is jarred out of this pattern by Byron. He is
compelled to act in the present, to come down from his
’ ’ high tower.” His actions force him to reevaluate the
linear vision which previously determined his identity.
Joanna Burden has lived as an abolitionist first,
woman second. It is not until the affair with Joe Christ
mas that she sees in herself elements of personality and
character that have been dormant all her life. Her attempt
to murder Christmas is a last positive gesture indicating
her realization that the identity she has constructed in
the present cannot be carried into the future.
The central figure in the novel, Joe Christmas, des
perately attempts to solve the mystery of his identity.
It is difficult, if not impossible, for Christmas to "know
himself," as he is given no salient facts pertinent to his
own background. He is a character totally structured by
his individual memory, which does not produce a satis
factory present "I.”
In every sense of the word, Christmas is a solitary
figure; solitary because his immediate family deserts him
254
and th u s f a i l s to g iv e him any f e e l in g o f b e lo n g in g , and
b ecause th e "fa m ily o f man" d e s e r t s him over th e q u e s tio n
o f h is " b lo o d ." He can n o t i d e n t i f y h im s e lf, d e s p i te h is
extrem e e f f o r t s , w ith e i t h e r th e "w h ite" o r th e " b la c k ,"
and he a g o n iz e s f o r a f i n a l d e f i n i t i v e s ta te m e n t on h i s
" b lo o d ."
Christmas is an ironic and poignant character. In the
period before his death, he wanders aimlessly through the
countryside, irrevocably lost in both time and space. His
life is always contained within a "circle" of time, but the
circle is meaningless; it adds nothing to his sense of
identity. Ironically, after a lifetime search, he achieves
some kind of identity— that of a "black murderer."
In Absalom, Absalom! (1936), Miss Rosa constructs a
self-image in time totally meshed with that of Sutpen. She
feels that Sutpen*s failure to work out his "design" has
ruined her own concept of what she should be. both as an
individual and as a member of the Southern community. She
finds it impossible to accept what has happened in the
past, and to re-structure a life in the present. Rosa is
another of the "doomed" characters, because events in time
have "robbed" her of her "rightful" due. Time is her
255
enemy; her vision is linear and negative, in that events
in past time have prevented any conceivable life-rationale
in the present.
Charles Bon’s self-image, his identity as the "lost
son," preordains his death. His fate seems predictable in
light of his background with his mother, Eulalia, who has
been rejected by Sutpen as "nonhuman." She structures her
life and Charles’s around her concept of revenge. She
presents this, apparently only this, identity to Charles,
who lives as agent of his mother’s personal vendetta to
defeat the man who scorned them.
Eulalia is also trapped by time in that she finds it
impossible to accept what has happened in the past. She
therefore remains obsessed with the conviction that some
how, through Charles, she can "reshape" what has already
happened.
Unlike Eulalia, Clytemnestra is similar to Dilsey in
The Sound and the Fury; she too has observed the disinte
gration of a family; she, like Dilsey, is powerless to stop
the "doom" that is overtaking the family, but she somehow
finds the strength to live on in the present.
As the primary narrator of the "Sutpen saga," Quentin
tries to structure some kind of present identity that will
256
"free" him from his connection to the "doomed" past. He is
"two separate Quentins," existing both in present and past.
His problem is central; he yearns to be able to accept some
natural cognitive time pattern that will provide freedom
in thought and action in the present, but clings to a
mechanical time pattern that suggests man*s helplessness
in time. He sees himself on a number of occasions as
various "selves," existing in past, present, and future.
Quentin cannot leave the past because the past remains
present within him; he cannot understand or explain Sutpen
because he cannot construct for himself a satisfactory
raison d’etre.
Sutpen*s concept of time is linear, moving from the
past (a past that Sutpen unsuccessfully attempts to alter
for the sake of his plan) to an illusory future. Sutpen is
"trapped" in time which, minute by minute, is ticking off
any possibility for his success. He feels that it is pos
sible to eliminate those events in the past which have, in
his mind, no purpose in the present. His constant attempt
to "control" time, in this sense, is a part of his charac
ter, and precludes success.
Sutpen*s failure seems to suggest man*s failure to
structure his identity, in a meaningful way, around a
257
natural cognitive time pattern that allows free will.
Sutpen’s attempt to stand above and beyond this concept of
identity virtually assures his fate.
Faulkner does not create ’ 'simple" characters, because
he cannot see simplicity in the reality of the world around
him. If his characters sometimes remain a mystery to them
selves, they are perhaps reflecting the mystery that en
velops all human beings.
Faulkner's obsession throughout his work to explain
the often agonized efforts of contemporary man to structure
meaningful identity in time is perhaps the obsession of
genius. This study has focused on Faulkner's practice of
constructing human beings in his works through their indi
vidual concepts of identity correlated to particular time
patterns. Other considerations, of course, are relevant
and necessary to a final evaluation of Faulkner's success,
but certainly he succeeds brilliantly in producing memo
rable characters. If we do not "know" them completely, it
is because Faulkner suggests that no one is fully capable
of "knowing" either himself or another. Faulkner's shaping
258
vision is positive; man, he agrees, is all too capable of
producing horror and depravity, but he is free, however,
to behave with honor, courage, tolerance, endurance, and
love. Man chooses his own destiny--it is not chosen for
him. Chance, or "fate," may make man's designs unworkable,
or even evil, but man has a choice.
Faulkner generally does not place himself in the posi
tion of the "final arbiter," the omniscient aesthetic
creator who, in every sense, "knows" the characters he
describes. Instead, he along with the reader, attempts to
understand what internal forces produced the characters and
events in the novels. This is perhaps the central reason
why Faulkner's novels end with questions, net answers.
Those characters who are successful in establishing
a life-time rationale, both enduring and prevailing, find
their final expression reflected in Faulkner's Nobel Prize
Speech:
It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply
because he will endure; that when the last ding-dong of
doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock
hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that
even then there will still be one more sound: that of
his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse
to accept this. I believe that man will not merely en
dure; he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he
alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but
because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion
259
and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's,
duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege
to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him
of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compas
sion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of
his past. The poet’s voice need not merely be the record
of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help
him endure and prevail. (Essays, p. 120)
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Asset Metadata

Creator Polek, Fran James (author)

Core Title Time And Identity In The Novels Of William Faulkner

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program English

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

Tag Literature, Modern,OAI-PMH Harvest

Language English

Contributor Digitized by ProQuest (provenance)

Advisor Lecky, Eleazer (committee chair), McElderry, Bruce R. (committee member), Willard, Dallas (committee member)

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-c18-661064

Unique identifier UC11361272

Identifier 6905066.pdf (filename),usctheses-c18-661064 (legacy record id)

Legacy Identifier 6905066.pdf

Dmrecord 661064

Document Type Dissertation

Rights Polek, Fran James

Type texts

Source University of Southern California (contributing entity), University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses (collection)

Access Conditions The author retains rights to his/her dissertation, thesis or other graduate work according to U.S. copyright law. Electronic access is being provided by the USC Libraries in agreement with the au...

Repository Name University of Southern California Digital Library

Repository Location USC Digital Library, University of Southern California, University Park Campus, Los Angeles, California 90089, USA