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A review by sjgrodsky
Flags in the Dust by William Faulkner
Did not finish book.
1.0
I'm going to be in northern Mississippi in a few weeks so I decided to give Faulkner another chance. I'd read a few of his short stories in college, but he was on my list of "literary icons that bore me to death."
I polled members of the Goodreads "southern literary" group for "accessible Faulkner" and this title came up.
Oh gee, what now? Well, let me thank the respondents. And if any of them are reading this review, they should stop right now.
First, the good: Faulkner mastered the craft of writing. Sharply drawn characters. True to life dialog. Descriptions that illumine the atmosphere in a few words.
Only two parts are missing:
-A discernible story
-People you want to be with
Yes, I get that this is a slow motion tragedy. I get that young Bayard has PTSD. I get that old Bayard has either early stage dementia or clinical depression or both, and his own PTSD. I get that Miss Jenny is a termagant because her kin are dying around her.
And I feel a theoretical sympathy for these characters. But not enough to keep reading.
The writer's first job is to engage the reader. Faulkner got 150 pages to engage me. He got more of my attention than a less exalted writer would have gotten.
But I don't want to spend a moment more of my time with these racist, self-indulgent, five year olds in adult bodies. Sorry, Bill. I'm done.
I polled members of the Goodreads "southern literary" group for "accessible Faulkner" and this title came up.
Oh gee, what now? Well, let me thank the respondents. And if any of them are reading this review, they should stop right now.
First, the good: Faulkner mastered the craft of writing. Sharply drawn characters. True to life dialog. Descriptions that illumine the atmosphere in a few words.
Only two parts are missing:
-A discernible story
-People you want to be with
Yes, I get that this is a slow motion tragedy. I get that young Bayard has PTSD. I get that old Bayard has either early stage dementia or clinical depression or both, and his own PTSD. I get that Miss Jenny is a termagant because her kin are dying around her.
And I feel a theoretical sympathy for these characters. But not enough to keep reading.
The writer's first job is to engage the reader. Faulkner got 150 pages to engage me. He got more of my attention than a less exalted writer would have gotten.
But I don't want to spend a moment more of my time with these racist, self-indulgent, five year olds in adult bodies. Sorry, Bill. I'm done.