Intruder in the Dust

Spent a sizeable portion of this weekend reading Intruder in the Dust by William Faulkner. Faulkner is one of the "greats" that I have come onto quite late in my academic career. I must admit that I am now absolutely enamored with him. The aforementioned book is both a lesson in what can be done with language (and implausibly follows none of the rules a professor will tell you are critical to good fiction) and an existential crisis of intense emotions, staring long into the abyss, the moral certitude and conflict of being a modern man. Likewise, it is one of the better "formative" novels I have read (in which a boy becomes a man) and avoids sentimentality at all costs. I had never read a prison door close or a spade dig into the earth until I read this book. In light of this, I'm not sure why Hemingway gets the title of Best American Writer, though I suppose it has something to do with his work being more accessible. Faulkner dares you to try and read it, he takes no prisoners and requires a dedication in reading that he must have devoted in writing.

Anyway, incredibly productive weekend. Booze, reading, writing, dizzying introspection as I try to conjure metaphors for the stench of humanity. Illumination as every little gear of this story or that falls into place. The realization that function is its own aesthetic system.