The Sound and the Fury is a novel by the American author William Faulkner. It employs several narrative styles, including stream of consciousness. Published in 1929, The Sound and the Fury was Faulkner's fourth novel, and was not immediately successful. In 1931, however, when Faulkner's sixth novel, Sanctuary, was published—a sensationalist story, which Faulkner later said was written only for money—The Sound and the Fury also became commercially successful, and Faulkner began to receive critical attention.In 1998, the Modern Library ranked The Sound and the Fury sixth on its list of the 100 best English-language novels of the 20th century.
I think this one will be better on reread—there's a lot going on and it's difficult to process on my first time through. I'll probably give it another read at some point.
Certainly a huge jump from Flags in the Dust. There are so many ways to read this book. This time around what really struck me was the way Faulkner condenses all time (past, present, future) into the fluid experience of daily life. I should say, the fluid experience of daily living for a fragmented post-war soul. It would be a different book had it been written about a series of Buddhist monks (pretty boring, and much shorter). The encapsulated inner violence and turmoil of these Compsons refracts beyond their private narratives and illuminates the reader's face back into the book as our minds wander with their wandering minds. It is what makes this work (and technique) brilliant. I will certainly be returning to this one over and over again. I recommend it to anyone who has ever said they like to read novels.
For me, this was a hard read. A stream-of-consciousness book which was harder than Rimbaud and William S. Burroughs at the same time, once "cracked", gave a lot.
It's the insight into 1920s America, of children and adults and the lives and differences between the idiot and the people who are not idiots.
Still, I wouldn't be able to say I've understood this book. I think I'll have to re-read it a couple of times to fully get into it. Maybe it just wasn't my time.
On the other hand, it was my time; just like eavesdropping on a conversation that you start listening in on mid-conversation, or if the people speaking don't make much sense, it leaves you with what you pick up from it.
As Faulkner himself said of the character Benjy:
“To that idiot, time was not a continuation, it was an instant, there was no yesterday …
For me, this was a hard read. A stream-of-consciousness book which was harder than Rimbaud and William S. Burroughs at the same time, once "cracked", gave a lot.
It's the insight into 1920s America, of children and adults and the lives and differences between the idiot and the people who are not idiots.
Still, I wouldn't be able to say I've understood this book. I think I'll have to re-read it a couple of times to fully get into it. Maybe it just wasn't my time.
On the other hand, it was my time; just like eavesdropping on a conversation that you start listening in on mid-conversation, or if the people speaking don't make much sense, it leaves you with what you pick up from it.
As Faulkner himself said of the character Benjy:
“To that idiot, time was not a continuation, it was an instant, there was no yesterday and no tomorrow, it all is this moment, it all is [now] to him. He cannot distinguish between what was last year and what will be tomorrow, he doesn’t know whether he dreamed it, or saw it.”
"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow/ Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,/ To the last syllable of recorded time/ And all our yesterdays have lighted fools/ The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!/ Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player/ That struts and frets his hour upon the stage/ And then is heard no more. It is a tale/ Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,/ Signifying nothing.”
For me, this was a hard read. A stream-of-consciousness book which was harder than Rimbaud and William S. Burroughs at the same time, once "cracked", gave a lot.
It's the insight into 1920s America, of children and adults and the lives and differences between the idiot and the people who are not idiots.
Still, I wouldn't be able to say I've understood this book. I think I'll have to re-read it a couple of times to fully get into it. Maybe it just wasn't my time.
On the other hand, it was my time; just like eavesdropping on a conversation that you start listening in on mid-conversation, or if the people speaking don't make much sense, it leaves you with what you pick up from it.
As Faulkner himself said of the character Benjy:
“To that idiot, time was not a continuation, it was an instant, there was no yesterday …
For me, this was a hard read. A stream-of-consciousness book which was harder than Rimbaud and William S. Burroughs at the same time, once "cracked", gave a lot.
It's the insight into 1920s America, of children and adults and the lives and differences between the idiot and the people who are not idiots.
Still, I wouldn't be able to say I've understood this book. I think I'll have to re-read it a couple of times to fully get into it. Maybe it just wasn't my time.
On the other hand, it was my time; just like eavesdropping on a conversation that you start listening in on mid-conversation, or if the people speaking don't make much sense, it leaves you with what you pick up from it.
As Faulkner himself said of the character Benjy:
“To that idiot, time was not a continuation, it was an instant, there was no yesterday and no tomorrow, it all is this moment, it all is [now] to him. He cannot distinguish between what was last year and what will be tomorrow, he doesn’t know whether he dreamed it, or saw it.”
"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow/ Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,/ To the last syllable of recorded time/ And all our yesterdays have lighted fools/ The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!/ Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player/ That struts and frets his hour upon the stage/ And then is heard no more. It is a tale/ Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,/ Signifying nothing.”
For me, this was a hard read. A stream-of-consciousness book which was harder than Rimbaud and William S. Burroughs at the same time, once "cracked", gave a lot.
It's the insight into 1920s America, of children and adults and the lives and differences between the idiot and the people who are not idiots.
Still, I wouldn't be able to say I've understood this book. I think I'll have to re-read it a couple of times to fully get into it. Maybe it just wasn't my time.
On the other hand, it was my time; just like eavesdropping on a conversation that you start listening in on mid-conversation, or if the people speaking don't make much sense, it leaves you with what you pick up from it.
As Faulkner himself said of the character Benjy:
âTo that idiot, time was not a continuation, it was an instant, there was no yesterday …
For me, this was a hard read. A stream-of-consciousness book which was harder than Rimbaud and William S. Burroughs at the same time, once "cracked", gave a lot.
It's the insight into 1920s America, of children and adults and the lives and differences between the idiot and the people who are not idiots.
Still, I wouldn't be able to say I've understood this book. I think I'll have to re-read it a couple of times to fully get into it. Maybe it just wasn't my time.
On the other hand, it was my time; just like eavesdropping on a conversation that you start listening in on mid-conversation, or if the people speaking don't make much sense, it leaves you with what you pick up from it.
As Faulkner himself said of the character Benjy:
âTo that idiot, time was not a continuation, it was an instant, there was no yesterday and no tomorrow, it all is this moment, it all is now to him. He cannot distinguish between what was last year and what will be tomorrow, he doesnât know whether he dreamed it, or saw it.â
"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow/ Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,/ To the last syllable of recorded time/ And all our yesterdays have lighted fools/ The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!/ Lifeâs but a walking shadow, a poor player/ That struts and frets his hour upon the stage/ And then is heard no more. It is a tale/ Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,/ Signifying nothing.â
It's an interesting book which pisses you off until about 40-50 pages from the end at which point you realise you actually kind of enjoyed it.
