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3.87 AVERAGE
3.87 AVERAGE
challenging
dark
reflective
sad
tense
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
Complicated
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
It's listed as 385 pages here but it ought to say twice that what with all the backing up and re-reading I had to do.
5 stars. I can't do it justice, the story of "this man of whom it was said that he not only went out to meet his troubles, he sometimes went out and manufactured them." (105) It is magnificent, a triumph of style that pushes the written word to new artistic heights, and it's an emotional powerhouse to boot. Serious readers in search of literature in peak form: this is an absolute must.
5 stars. I can't do it justice, the story of "this man of whom it was said that he not only went out to meet his troubles, he sometimes went out and manufactured them." (105) It is magnificent, a triumph of style that pushes the written word to new artistic heights, and it's an emotional powerhouse to boot. Serious readers in search of literature in peak form: this is an absolute must.
Don’t get me wrong, this is an incredible book. It’s filled with incredible and sometimes even beautiful prose, but at the same time, it reads like how my brain sounds when I feel like I’m going crazy, all the run-on sentences. Half the book reads like this:
Henry stepped out into the hot Southern sun, hanging high over the humid noon on the plantation — that burning hole in the sky that dictates our each and every action as we live, all of our decisions in business and in pleasure; in a way, that sun is most like that Olympian fire that Prometheus stole for man, the stand in for knowledge to free us of ignorance — in that very same way that knowledge silently plays our puppet strings, determining what we can do and when, even making us lie down our heads to anticipate its next rising, so catching us in the same trap each and every day until we die; that Sun with the power to both give and take, to give plants light to grow, but to drain their soil of any and water so those same plants withered and died, just as Henry’s cotton crop in the south field that summer ten years before, that same summer that Ellen died, that same summer that the old horse that seemed to be a permanent fixture of the stable finally gave up the ghost, all dictated by that overwhelming mighty yet simply-named God that guided us each and every one of its long days; perhaps those ancient civilizations that thought that the sun was the only thing they need worship were more correct, closer to the truth than the words of that preacher-man who went on and on each Sunday, whose voice had the power to make guilt rise, but only in the hearts and stomachs of those who had been listening to him since before they knew the meaning of each and every word he said; that Sun was the heart of Henry’s south, just as it was the heart of the whole world.
Henry stepped out into the hot Southern sun, hanging high over the humid noon on the plantation — that burning hole in the sky that dictates our each and every action as we live, all of our decisions in business and in pleasure; in a way, that sun is most like that Olympian fire that Prometheus stole for man, the stand in for knowledge to free us of ignorance — in that very same way that knowledge silently plays our puppet strings, determining what we can do and when, even making us lie down our heads to anticipate its next rising, so catching us in the same trap each and every day until we die; that Sun with the power to both give and take, to give plants light to grow, but to drain their soil of any and water so those same plants withered and died, just as Henry’s cotton crop in the south field that summer ten years before, that same summer that Ellen died, that same summer that the old horse that seemed to be a permanent fixture of the stable finally gave up the ghost, all dictated by that overwhelming mighty yet simply-named God that guided us each and every one of its long days; perhaps those ancient civilizations that thought that the sun was the only thing they need worship were more correct, closer to the truth than the words of that preacher-man who went on and on each Sunday, whose voice had the power to make guilt rise, but only in the hearts and stomachs of those who had been listening to him since before they knew the meaning of each and every word he said; that Sun was the heart of Henry’s south, just as it was the heart of the whole world.
This blew me away. I love the shattered-mirror narrative and the tragedy of it all. After I read it, I vowed to read more Faulkner as soon as possible. To my shame, I still haven't done so two years later.
Reading Absalom, Absalom as an audiobook cannot possibly do justice to this reading experience, even if it was read aloud by a truly excellent narrator. Instead of the Gesamtkunstwerk that it is, I therefore experienced the book as a collection of loosely related trains of thought and descriptions of events in the south and around Sutpen. I won't be rereading it any time soon now and will leave it at this toned-down fun, but have learned that such literature is perhaps even best enjoyed in parallel as an audio and reading book. On the one hand, the prolix sentences, already correctly formulated and without any ambiguity as to who the speaker is at the end, and on the other, the possibility of recording and processing thoughts in writing and referring back to them seem to me to be a tempting approach. So all I can say is that I liked the mood and the language and the characters and the big picture, but I certainly missed most of the nuances and many levels of plot.
Faulkner, Faulkner! I have a love/hate relationship with this author. On the one hand, novels like this that weave such intricate narratives with such complex character relationships are wonderful, but, as any reader of Faulkner will know, reading his prose style takes determination. I adore the story and got quite pleasnatly tangled up in the incestual triangles among the characters. But then again, the decay of the Old South is a really interesting subject for me.
Not light reading, however. Approach with fortitude and make sure you've got a copy with a family tree.
Not light reading, however. Approach with fortitude and make sure you've got a copy with a family tree.
Not as fascinating as Light in August, although a great book to read for an English seminar. Don't think Faulkner is my type of author, but the dive into the Southern Gothic and critique of the South's peculiar institution drives the plot well.
I'm calling this a five star read because I haven't stopped thinking about this book since I finished it... a week ago? I think it's probably pure genius but I'm not even smart enough to figure out why. The ending did seem a bit abrupt to me and maybe anticlimactic but I'm still processing it all. There are so many layers to this story. And so very, very, very many words...
challenging
dark
reflective
tense
medium-paced