Scuttering Halt Again
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Yesterday, an argument deep into the night: What is the value of work that does not reach toward and appeal to the broader spectrum—that does not, through whichever (often mysterious) mechanisms this happens, become, in its own time, popularly known? An old question, certainly not original.
There were three of us, and on the table between us sat Faulkner's As I Lay Dying, a book that I am re-reading for the fourth time which, when it comes to Faulkner and me, often feels like the first time, so wrangled and new are the sentences, the phrasing, the means of disclosure.
And I kept saying, or trying to say, or wanting to say, that those who stand in the margins taking risks, who fight against all odds to get their stories heard by some one, or two right now, today, matter (that is, they, too, have meaning) because they redirect the eye and ear, force a new kind of attending, herald emergent byways.
My words useless and inarticulate, and besides, I should have simply quoted from Faulkner himself, who didn't write sentences the way others did and didn't tell stories that had (over and over) been told and who wasn't writing (I would guess) for the "average" reader, whomever that is. Who mixed up language so newly that horse and his rider got rendered in rigid terrific hiatus and scuttering halt:
They stand in rigid terrific hiatus, the horse trembling and groaning. Then Jewel is on the horse's back. He flows upward in a stooping swirl like the lash of a whip, his body in midair shaped to the horse. For another moment the horse stands spraddled, with lowered head, before it bursts into motion. They descend the hill in a series of spine-jolting jumps, Jewel high, leech-like, on the withers, to the fence where the horse bunches into a scuttering halt again.
7 comments:
You really are eloquent. i enjoyed reading this post a lot. The writing is poetic. Thank you.
I tried to read As I Lay Dying after studying The Sound and the Fury in class, and I didn't stick with it. I think some books are definitely better appreciated by some audiences with specific contexts. Then again, sometimes it just takes the right mindset to commit to a work I don't understand and trust that it will become clear to me. The trust is based on other people having loved the work. My professor told me that, unlike Joyce, Faulkner wanted people to "get" his writing without having to use a key. Sometimes the author's intent matters!
Lilly, thank you so much for being here. And S&S, it takes work, it does, to read Faulkner. But I believe, like you so eloquently say, that he wants to be understood.
He also didn't want to compromise.
I am enjoying reading your blog each day. I haven't read any Faulkner except a short story or two. Do you think I should start with The Sound and the Fury or do you have a different recommendation?
I love love Faulkner.
Hello, Sherry. I imagine you've read A Rose for Emily, the short story? It's an incredible beginning place. If you were only to read one Faulkner, I would choose As I Lay Dying—it's essential reading. I also love The Wild Palms. In all cases the stories, while sometimes difficult to glean at first, remain embedded.
I believe the value is in the process and in the self-discovery of the writer regardless of how wide the writing's ultimate reach becomes.
Yes, I'm clinging to this belief.
Not that there's anything wrong with, you know, ultimately finding that large-scale audience. Nor is there anything wrong with never finding it, for one reason or another.
One of the magical things about writing (in my opinion) is that it is a shape-shifter, serving so many purposes to so many different kinds of people. There is no wrong or bad or wasted use of it and its power is infinite. To me, that's magical.
:^) Anna
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