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Actually, Benjy's jumps aren't random. There is usually a trigger, and looking for the trigger can help you make sense of it. For example, the first transition is triggered by Luster noting Benjy is always "snagging on that nail." This triggers a memory of when Caddy "uncaught" Benjy when he was little.
This was helpful. I was hooked. From then on, whenever I got disgruntled and confused, I'd scan the message boards quickly and find a wise soul counseling that those of us in the early pages just "relax" and listen to the language. Nor was this an overly simplistic method: Faulkner, after all, was interested in the materiality of language, and my focus on understanding, on processing on a thematic level, was, in some sense, drawing me away from the intensities of the book, the fractured repetitions, the short, propulsive declarations that are cosmic in scope. (It was an English teacher, I couldn't help noticing, who posted the first annoyed response I saw: "Although I love some of the modernists, especially T.S. Eliot and D.H. Lawrence, Faulkner so far is leaving me cold.")
Meanwhile, the lectures made a useful antidote to the message boards and their focus on the experience of reading. This weekly virtual gathering underscored for me just how different Oprah's book club is—in a positive sense—from the traditional "book club" community. Rather than reading the book on our own and then getting together to gab about its themes and what we "liked," we were online solving textual puzzles and then sitting down for a dose of synthesized information. The professor selected by Oprah to guide us through The Sound and the Fury was a woman named Thadious Davis from the University of Pennsylvania. In striving for a menu that would appeal to everyone, Davis might easily have fed us intellectual popcorn. Instead, we got a thoughtful grounding in basic literary history, in lectures that ranged from belle-lettristic commentary on Faulkner's life to characterological assessments of the Compsons—all from a professor as likely to allude to Pound ("make it new") as to Desperate Housewives (where "Faulknerian" flashback technique thrives). In describing the "modernist practice of representing consciousness" Davis invoked the usual suspects—Joyce, Proust, Woolf, Lawrence—but she also included Dorothy Richardson, the inventor of stream-of-consciousness, whose name I'd never heard or had long since forgotten. A tap on the keyboard and I'd learned that Richardson was the author of Pilgrimage, a four-volume modernist tome not read much today. (Our next book, Oprah?)
Every now and then I bristled—at the cutesiness of the packaging, and at one pandering stream-of-consciousness exercise, which promised we, too, could "Write just like Faulkner." The idea was for us all to sit down for 10 minutes and put our thoughts on the page. Let's just say my results were nothing like Faulkner's. But when I thought about it, even that bit of Oprah-style audience participation was revelatory in a useful way. Nobody writes like Faulkner, and he had no interest in being a writer merely for explicators. Nor did he himself submit to doctrinaire guidance. He may have been a member of the avant-garde, but he wasn't a member of the establishment. He dropped out of high school in Oxford, Miss., and spent little time in college at the University of Mississippi, where, according to Jay Parini's biography, One Matchless Time, he was a lackluster student, and performed disastrously in the one English class he took. ("It was noticed by other students that Faulkner never took quizzes in French or Spanish classes, and he never appeared for examinations of any kind," Parini writes.) It was reading James Joyce and T.S. Eliot on his own that led him to his inimitable style—one that puzzled even his admirers.
And Faulkner's ideology is as sui generis as his methodology, which makes Oprah's decision to read him at once bold and old-fashioned. During his lifetime, he advocated greater freedom for blacks, a position that put him at odds with his fellow white Southerners. (They labeled him a Communist sympathizer.) Yet his later positions were far too moderate for liberals and northerners who advocated desegregation, and he has come in for censure from Ralph Ellison, James Baldwin, Alice Walker, and others, because he cautioned civil rights activists to "go slow" lest they unbalance an "emotional people" (i.e., white Southerners). Unfazed, Oprah was plainly drawn by currents in Faulkner that transcend race—his portraits of Southern family psychodrama, the rebellious, pre-verbal sexuality of his women, the hothouse tragedy of it all. These are matters that on some level aren't too far from those that preoccupy Oprah and her devotees.
In fact, reading Faulkner in the land of Oprah drives home a point likely to get obscured in our difficulty-obsessed, postmodernist culture: that as radical as Faulkner's experiments with the representation of consciousness are—and they're far more radical than any contemporary novel I've read over the past five years—they are ultimately undertaken in the service of telling a story of great immediacy. For all his brilliant obscurity, Faulkner was obsessed with speaking in a language of mythic essentialism. His religious vision was an austere version of relic-worship, attached to place and to objects. In writing about the South he knew, he was trying to articulate a story of doomed consciousness, of pain, of being hyper-cognizant of the demise of not only family but of an entire culture established in bad moral faith. Out of these pressures are forged the self-made flaws of characters who collide with their families (and their culture) as violently as wrecking balls. Pound was a guide, but so was his longtime friend Sherwood Anderson, author of Winesburg, Ohio, who counseled him: Write what you know.
Faulkner believed in a notion of truth that sounds a little out-of-date, or outright naive, today. Consider this passage from his address upon receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1949:
The young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing. … He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed—love and honor and pity and pride and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. … He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Most modernism aspired to difficulty, to the rarefied condition of being university taught. But Faulkner's modernism, especially refracted through the experience of reading it with Oprah, is curiously democratic. Those of us reading all struggled with the same mechanical issues, with the materiality of language—its obsessive, repetitive self-questioning imaginative gains—that Faulkner cared about. His idea of "universal truth" may not seem sophisticated today. But his pursuit of it had a curiously unifying effect on many readers this summer. Turning the pages in the invisible company of Oprah's other readers, I suspected I wasn't alone as I became more convinced that not all of the supposed divisions in our culture are as insurmountable as they sometimes seem.
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