- Registrado
- 7 de Jul, 2022
Found myself thinking about this book lately, and I decided to skim through it again. I found it a lot preachier than I remembered; I was a Faulkner fanboy in my teen years and had a very rose-tinted view of the guy. Looking back (and being able to read his works again), I've begun to notice that his writing is extremely gauche and intellectually-masturbatory at times, especially in how he handles inner conflict.
The pacing is rushed in the last act of the book. The build-up isn't there and it just seems like Faulkner wanted to wrap up the tragedy of the Sutpens in the most "fuck you" way possible. He also introduces a bunch of characters at random and gives the reader zero reason to care about them. (This is a problem Faulkner struggles with tbh. It's also one of the reasons why I've come to appreciate him as a poet, rather than a novelist).
The pacing is rushed in the last act of the book. The build-up isn't there and it just seems like Faulkner wanted to wrap up the tragedy of the Sutpens in the most "fuck you" way possible. He also introduces a bunch of characters at random and gives the reader zero reason to care about them. (This is a problem Faulkner struggles with tbh. It's also one of the reasons why I've come to appreciate him as a poet, rather than a novelist).
A good chunk of my change in opinion toward this book stems from my growing disinterest in fiction. I read fiction and I think, "what am I getting from this? My opinion has not changed, and my worldview has not changed. I could be reading the Desert Fathers or St. Cleopa and actually pushing my soul toward salvation, but instead I'm wasting my time reading something that never happened". I can appreciate Antiquity literature for being morality plays that motivate one to live virtuously, but existential literature just doesn't do it for me anymore.
