As I Lay Dying - William Faulkner

As I Lay Dying was the first William Faulkner book I ever read. I was about 18, and while a lot of it went over my head (some of it still does, to be honest), there was something deeply intriguing and evocative about it. I was used to more popular literature, with clearly delineated stories and key plot points spelled out or at most lightly obscured. As I Lay Dying offers no such roadmap. The story, itself quite minimal, is buried under conflicting perspectives, stream of conscience narration, and a language both florid and deeply colloquial.

The central premise concerns Anse Bundren and his five children, who travel with the recently deceased Addie Bundren (Anse’s wife and the children’s mother) in order to fulfill her dying wish to be married in the town Jefferson. Sudden rainfall floods the river and washes out the bridges, making the journey a challenge, but the real conflict is between and within the family members themselves. Cas, the oldest, is stoic to the point of self-destruction, refusing to admit to any discomfort from his broken leg. Darl, the second child, is slowly going mad. Jewel, the middle child and product (we infer) of an affair, bucks at the contraints imposed by his headstrong father. Dewey Dell, the only daughter, is pregnant out of wedlock and desperately seeking an abortion. Vardaman, the youngest, struggles to process his mother’s death, likening her to a fish he caught shortly before she died.

Each chapter is in first person, told by a revolving cast of characters. Most often it’s the Bundrens themselves, but smaller characters are given narrator duty as well. The prose, as you might expect, is superb, and even where actions are unclear, the strength of the language pulls you along. Rereading this some near twenty years later, I’m still struck by its narrative force. It feels like a much bigger book than it is, not because it drags ,but because of the weight of psychological and literary detail Faulkner provides. An excellent book.

Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce

I’ve never seen Cool Hand Luke, and was only aware of it from pop culture references until picking up Donn Pearce’s novel. I didn’t know what to expect beyond it being about a nonconformist prisoner who eats a lot of eggs. As a novel, it exceeded my expectations, narrrated in a dreamy, impressionistic style by a man named Sailor, about whom we know almost nothing.

Cool Hand Luke uses first person pedestal narration. which is a writing workshop way of saying that the narrator is a character but not the main one. The narrrator can feature prominently (think Fifth Business or To Kill a Mockingbird) or tangentially (think the Great Gatsby or Breakfast at Tiffany’s) but they are not the protagonist. Rather, the serve to bear witness to the protagonist, who is usually a tragic figure. In Cool Hand Luke, the narrator is kept so vague that he is barely a character—chapters can go by when you forget that he’s in the story, and not just a disembodied voice telling it. This feelign is underscored by the prose, which uses a non-colloquial poetic diction to convey scenes.

This is contrasted with portions narrated by another inmate, Dragline, who accompanied Luke on his final, fatal escap eattempt. Much of the novel is actually takign place during one of Dragline’s retelling of this episode to new inmates, though Sailor, our ghostly narrator, gives his version of events for much of the same period. There’s no line breaks or even dialogue tags to indicate who is speaking, but Pearce handles the transitions well with his command of vernacular dialogue. It’s always quite clear when we’re listening to Dragline or Luke and when we’re listening to Sailor.

The story is itself fairly simple, mostly the arc of Luke’s arrival at the prison, ascension to a place of honor among the inmates, and a gnawing dissatisfaction that forces him to escape again and again wtih a desperation that flirts wit hthe suicidal. The story is well realised and well told. A truly excellent novel. I’m surprised Pearce didn’t write more, though it seems he only published another two before taking a prolonged hiatus to do other work. I’ll have to seek these out at some point.

The Complete Stories - Flannery O'Connor

As the name suggests, The Complete Stories compiles every short story Flannery O’Connor published. Apart from her two novels, a collection of essays, and personal correspondence, the 31 stories in this volume are the sum total of her literary output, and while her death from lupus at only 39 left us sadly bereft of a lifetime of what would doubtlessly have been phenomenal work, the stories she wrote in her short time as an author still bear more heft and talent than any writer of her generation could possibly boast.

Most of The Complete Stories is a repackaging of her two earlier collections, A Good Man is Hard to Find and Everything that Rises Must Converge, though there are also some early stories that she chose not to include in her debut collection, works that likely were intended for collection number three, and extracts form her novels, bot hthe two she published and a third, Why do the heathen Rage, which remains only a tantalizing fragment. The excerpts from her other two novels were interesting to read, as they are earlier versions tha tunderwent significant revision before appearing in their final forms. Seeing them in what amounts to draft stage offers a fascinating glimpse into her craft.

I have little to say about the stories except that they are incredible, and that Flannery O’Connor is one of the all time greatest writers of America, if not the world. I think her novel work gets short shrift, but reading or (in most cases) rereading the stories that form the foundation of her legacy, it’s easy to understand why she is revered as a short story writer first. It really was her strongest genre, allowing her to paint vignettes of her native south with startling clarity, rich characters that reach far beyond the limits of the page, and an all-encompassing faith that deepens the meaning of her words without succumbing to ham-fisted preaching.

Winter's Bone - Daniel Woodrell

The strength of Winter’s Bone lies in its simplicity. Ree Dolly is a girl from a community deep in the Ozarks where blood ties mean everything—or are supposed to—and the law isn’t trusted. She’s a mother to her two younger brothers, and to her own mother, who tumbled into madness some years before. Her father has vanished while out on bail, and the sheriff tells her that her house was posted as bond. If he doesn’t turn up, dead or alive, it goes to the county, and Ree and her family will be left homeless.

So begins an odyssey through the backwoods of Missouri, as Ree travels from house to house and town to town in search of answers. The Dolly bloodline flows into every corner of her world, but there are places where it runs too thin to protect her. The plot is spare, exposition flensed clean, resulting in an immediacy that further bolsters the comparisons with Cormac McCarthy, which were already inevitable from the subject matter and the writing style.

Woodrell’s prose is swift and lyrical, full of rich imagery that rises naturally from the words, rather than artful constructions of metaphor. At its best, it’s hallucinatory. though there were the odd passages that felt a bit overdone for me. One example: “a picnic of words fell from Gail’s mouth to be gathered around and savored slowly.” Such moments feel a bit self-consciously literary, but I’ll freely admit that my own writing could draw similar criticism, and probably does. Style is a matter of taste, and on the whole, Woodrell’s style is deft enough to earn its flourishes. It is not quite as transcendent as McCarthy’s but that’s a high bar to reach.

Clock Without Hands - Carson McCullers

What a great and burdensome thing it must be, to have written as your debut novel something as immensely powerful as The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Where do you go from there? How can you compete?

Clock Without Hands is McCuller’s fourth and final novel, written 21 years after Hunter. It opens and closes with J.T. Malone, a middle-aged pharmacist diagnosed with terminal cancer. His remaining lifespan serves as a timeline for the novel, though he quickly recedes into the background of the main story, which instead centers around Judge Clane, an elderly ex-congressman who epitomizes the arrogant bigotry of the Old South, and Sherman Jones, a young blue-eyed black man who was orphaned shortly after birth and carries a large—and not wholly unjustified—chip on his shoulder.

The story builds on the themes of racism and homosexuality that first appeared in Hunter, and while they were less obvious in her first novel (particularly those of homosexuality), their subtlety lent them power. In Hunter, the ruthless racism of the south is shown directly through the visceral descriptions of savagery against Dr. Copeland and his son, whereas in Clock it emerges through the musings of the Judge, who longs for an antebellum era he never actually knew and abhors integration of the races.

However, where a lesser novelist would tumble into saccharine cliche, McCullers strengthens the story by playing against type. Sherman, the black orphan who gets a job as the judge’s secretary, would in a lesser novel be a sympathetic and heroic character. But in Clock Without Hands, he is downright unpleasant—arrogant, rude, untrustworthy, quick to lash out at anyone and everyone. We see his wounds more clearly by what they have made of him, and McCullers makes the more difficult choice of showing that the scars of a hard life, mental and physical, aren’t always attractive.

In mediocre stories, underprivileged protagonists often present with the psychological equivalent of the single scar across the eye favored by rugged action heroes: a disfigurement that lends character and gravitas without damaging handsomeness. The truth, which is at its core the subject of all great literature, is much messier. Often wounded people are hard to be around. We want our underdogs to be polite and heroic, but sometimes politeness and heroics are themselves the result of privilege.

The character of the Judge presents the same idea in reverse: while the novel is unabashed in its implicit criticism of his worldview, and is not above a satiric tone at times, the overall picture it paints is one of pity more than anything. The Judge’s supreme arrogance is pared away and revealed as a hollow varnish painted over a great gaping emptiness. In the book’s closing pages, when he learns of the Supreme Court’s decision to integrate the school system, his final charge for segregation becomes a pathetic farce ,and the last bit of that varnish is torn away. The people in Clock Without Hands are neither heroes nor villains. They’re simply people. And while the story lacks the peerless power of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, it is nevertheless a strong and moving novel by one of the twentieth century’s greatest novelists.

The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers

There are a handful of books that seem to make in on every “best of” list for 20th century fiction. The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter is one of them. And rightfully so.

Centered around a deaf mute man named John Singer in a Georgian Mill Town, the book slowly expands to encompass a group of characters who are superficially unrelated, but share a profound inner pain that Singer, in some strange way, seems to soothe. Though fundamentally good, Singer is not some beatific healer, but is himself deeply wounded, and seeks his own solace in a friendship with a Greek man named Spiros Antonapoulos. Though their friendship is platonic and there is no hint of romantic affection between the two, their interactions have a subtext of unrequited love, as Singer’s devotion to Spiros is not mirrored by Spiros’ behavior towards Singer. This is not necessarily because Spiros is manipulative or selfish, but more likely from an undiagnosed mental illness or developmental issue. Much remains unspoken and unlearned, which is an accurate reflection of how mental illness was treated at the time.

McCullers’ prose is excellent in a graceful, understated way. She writes in a style I admire in no small part because I can’t emulate it. It takes a special gift to write prose that is lyrical but not ornate, that carries poetry in simple, declarative sentences. Whole paragraphs can pass without a single comma, and her use of metaphor is restrained, giving the few that she uses greater power. The book is a masterpiece.

Mosquitoes - William Faulkner

Mosquitoes is the second novel that William Faulkner published, appearing only a year after his debut Soldiers’ Pay. Though it is uncertain which of them was written first, Mosquitoes certainly feels like the sophomore work, as its tone and style place it somewhere between the more straightforward Soldiers’ Pay and the mad rush of stream-of-conscious fervor to come. The story concerns a party hosted by a socialite named Mrs. Maurier, whose fascination with artists leads her to invite various luminaries from the New Orleans literary and artistic scene on a four-day cruise aboard a motorized yacht called the Nausikaa.

Faulkner employs many of the techniques that would become his signatures, including a rich and somewhat archaic diction, bursts of stream-of-conscious writing to underscore moments of great psychological insight or strain, and a tendency to write around key events rather than describing them outright, leaving it up to the reader to infer what happened based on the shape of the hole made by its absence. This technique even extends to the titular insects themselves, who plague the characters on multiple occasions but are never actually mentioned by name (note: this only occurred to me midway through my reading, so it’s possible I missed a mention early on. In any case, he seemed to take pains not to write the word “mosquito,” whatever the reason for that may be)

Another common trait in Faulkner’s work—at least the ones I’ve read—that also appears in Mosquitoes is his tendency to avoid having one character stand out as a clear protagonist. Reflecting on the story, there are a number of candidates for the title: Mrs. Maurier, whose desire to host a gathering for artists launches the entire novel; Mr. Talliaferro, whose presence bookends the novel; Fairchild, a slightly gone-to-pot novelist who seems a focal point for many of the other characters; Patricia, Mrs. Maurier’s niece, whose complex and combative relationship with her aunt and brother drive much of the story’s tension. However, none of these characters feel truly central to the story.

If the book has a key character, it is probably Gordon, the terse and enigmatic sculptor who acts as a source of fascination for many of the other characters, but hardly says or does anything himself. In this way, he is oddly reminiscent of the doomed pilot Donald Mahon in Soldiers’ Pay. While Gordon is a less sympathetic figure, both men cast outsized shadows across the stories they inhabit, where they act more as symbols and foils for the other characters than as characters themselves. It will be interesting to see if this tendency appears in Faulkners’ other books. Certainly the dead mother in As I Lay Dying is a good example of such, though it’s been too long since I read his other work to recall accurately.

Soldiers' Pay - William Faulkner

Soldiers’ Pay is the first novel that Faulkner published. It isn’t necessarily the first he wrote—there is uncertainty there—but it is unquestionably among his earliest novel-length works. His most famous novels—the Sound and the Fury, As I Lay Dying, Sanctuary, Light in August—would emerge in a flurry of astonishing literary fecundity a few years down the road. Soldiers’ Pay contains the seeds of these works, and if it is not quite at their level, it is nevertheless an impressive debut.

The story centers around Donald Mahon, a pilot in the First World War who was shot down and grievously wounded. While the story involves Mahon’s journey home and the reception he receives when he gets there, his character is less the nucleus of the novel than a hollow core around which the other characters orbit. Blind, weakened, and largely mute, he acts as a mirror, reflecting the wants and intentions of those around him.

The most prominent of these characters are Joe Gilligan and Margaret Powers, a solider-in-training who never saw combat and a war widow, who take Donald under their wing and shepherd him home. When her arrives, he is greeted with a mixture of joy and horror by his fiance, Cecily Saunders, who feels an obligation to marry him despite her disgust at his appearance, and is at once dismayed by this prospect and attracted by its romantic implications.

The prose is more straightforward than what might be thought as “Faulknerian,” as the more experimental aspects of his writing are used only sparingly. However, hints of the talent more fully unearthed in later works peek periodically through the topsoil. One lyrical passage struck me in particular: “an overcast sky, and earth dissolving monotonously into a gray mist, grayly. Occasional trees and houses marching through it; and towns like bubbles of ghostly sound beaded on a steel wire.”

Soldiers’ Pay is a novel of a developing author, but given who he developed into, it is still well worth reading.

Outer Dark - Cormac McCarthy

Is there a more singular author than Cormac McCarthy? If so, I struggle to think who they might be.

Outer Dark is McCarthy’s second novel, but if you didn’t know that going in it wouldn’t be all that easy to place. His style seems to have emerged fully-formed and unmistakable, and has fluctuated little even as he drifts from dark parables to picaresque and Appalachia to Apocalypse (though apocalypse in one form or another is never that far away in a Cormac McCarthy novel). It was a style I tried to ape for awhile before setting it aside, chafing from its poor fit and embarrassed by my own lack of originality, but it tantalizes me still. A surreal brew of long commaless sentences, archaisms, inverted syntax, and quasi-biblical grandeur, and an almost complete lack of access to the character’s interior.

I can’t think of another author who tells you less about what his characters are thinking, or their motivations for their actions. For a medium so perfectly designed for psychological free-diving, McCarthy’s refusal to show any cards seems on paper like an insurmountable handicap, but it lends a rich other-worldliness to his prose that is hard to match.

But what about Outer Dark specifically? It might be the most quintessentially “McCarthyan” (McCarthyesque?) of his novels that I’ve read (there’s at least 2 I haven’t got to yet). More so even than his masterpiece Blood Meridian, since despite the popular assumption McCarthy isn’t really a Western writer (though he wears the genre well). The through-line to his work is hard-bitten outcast heroes and devilish, almost supernatural villains, and Outer Dark holds plenty of both.

For the heroes, you have Culla and Rinthy Holmes, a brother and sister who together have a child. Culla leaves it for dead in the woods, Rinthy finds out and goes hunting for it. The villains are a largely nameless trio of outlaws acting according to their own dark nature. They are less philosophically precise than Judge Holden or Anton Chirgurh, and indeed much of their activity occurs in dense asides between the main chapters. They reminded me, in their sudden and violent appearances, of Flannery O’Connor’s Misfit.

I finished the book unsure of the finer points of some events, but with McCarthy you need to take that as a given. He makes me want to be braver in my own storytelling, less inclined to hold the reader’s hand through every plot point and character decision. Even if I can’t cop his style, I think that’s a lesson worth learning.