Vladimir Nabokov said of William Faulkner, "A writer of corncobby chronicles. To consider them masterpieces is an absurd delusion." But Nabokov was well-known as a thorny critic, and often Nobel Prize winners were his targets: Hemingway, Thomas Mann, Albert Camus, and the Southern Gothic master in question.
Mostly, the Russian polyglot did not give good reasons for his distaste for these authors. Of Camus he said, "I dislike him."
He also derided Fyodor Dostoevsky and Nikolai Gogol, fellow Russian luminaries, so take Vlad's insults for what they're worth.
At any rate, this corncobby chronicle IS a masterpiece. Lauded for its innovation and often given up on for its difficulty, The Sound and the Fury is probably Faulkner's most famous work. The catchy title doesn't hurt, taken from Shakespeare's Macbeth. Since the tale of life is told by an idiot in Macbeth, Faulkner's narrator for the first section is a mentally disabled man named Benjamin.
The book is split into four sections which hearken Vivaldi's Four Seasons. Though the weather remains roughly the same throughout the novel, the writing begins like the tumult of a Winter blizzard—the low visibility in Ben's narration, to the ruminative and somber Spring—Quentin’s point of view at college, to the harsh and oppressively hot Summer of Jason IV’s bitterness, and finally to a 3rd person narrator in the fourth section, a clear vision of events not without the knowledge of the coming cold and barren months, the wholly lucid decay of Autumn.
Time flashes back and forth rapidly in Benji's mind. He has no concept of it. What he has a concept of is order, routine, sameness. Benji's disorientation amidst chaos represents the Compson family's bewilderment at their slow decline. Ben is one of Jason III and Caroline Compson’s children. The other children are Quentin, Candace, and Jason IV. Other characters are the womanizing ne'er-do-well, Uncle Maury, and the black servants: Dilsey, Roskus, T.P., Luster, Versh and Frony. We also meet Jason and Caroline's granddaughter, Miss Quentin, Candace’s illegitimate child.
The reason to mention all these characters is that they are almost all well developed in the 326 pages allotted. Another key point is that there are two Jasons and two Quentins. Add to this that the Compsons, later chronologically, live next to a golf course and often hear golfers calling, “Caddie” (Candace goes by Caddy most of the book), and you can see how there can be confusion, especially in the first section.
While reading that particularly arduous first part, entitled April 7th, 1928, keep in mind that things unclear will be illuminated later. By the time the fourth section is read, the high degree of difficulty proclaimed by some may seem exaggerated.
But why should we read this tragic tale from the Deep South? For one thing, the clever pessimistic metaphors: "...all men are just accumulations...dolls stuffed with sawdust swept up from the trash heaps where all previous dolls had been thrown away..." And this one, “A man is the sum of his misfortunes.”
It's typical of this author to write about a once powerful southern family succumbing to the changing times, losing hold or hanging on too tightly to their ideals and ideas of life in a post Civil War world. Incest is suggested, and the betrayals within the family, the unavoidable revenges, are explicitly described. Honor is dealt with sardonically, and the typical is lifted to a higher realm of art.
When reading some parts, mainly in the first two sections, things may seem cloudy, but then you glean a little something, and a little more, and because of the cadence and the abstruseness, those bits you glean burrow deeper into you than if they’d been told in some conventional manner. It seems you are being let in on a deep secret of humanity, and even though maybe you know you haven't really learned any secrets, that feeling way down deep is worth something; it becomes the knowledge of something profound about human beings, about how they don't really know much that is deep or profound.
More nihilism: "...man is conceived by accident and whose every breath is a fresh cast with dice already loaded against him…he risks everything on a single blind turn of a card—no man ever does that under the first fury of despair…he does it only when he has realized that even the despair…is not particularly important to the dark dice-man.”
Faulkner thinks that the odds are stacked against us. We know we will die, but that is not the worst of it. The worst is that the world that has stacked the odds doesn’t even have pity for our despair and sorrow, our inevitable decay and death.
There is suicide, alcoholism, hypochondria, cruelty, betrayal, castration and plenty of death. Quite a lot of trouble for a relatively short book. Faulkner wanted to cover as many of the timeless struggles of humanity that he could. Here is a great bit about desire, as the neutered Benji is described as, “…trying to want something he couldn’t even remember he didn’t and couldn’t want any longer.”
Jason IV is coldhearted, scheming, mean, and miserable. He is the narrator for the third section, which up to that point is described in the most accessible prose. Despite his mendacity and malevolence, when Jason thinks back on some of the decisions of his father and the Compson clan in general, the reader sees that he is right about a few things. Benjamin probably should have been sent to an asylum. They probably should not have sent Quentin to Harvard with the money from selling 40 acres of pasture.
Faulkner’s use of southern dialect and his spelling of words to mimic the speech of the place and time are added layers and fit the book. The third person narrator who tells the fourth and final part is more eloquent and clear than the previous chroniclers. When this narrator describes Benji’s crying, something the unfortunate lunatic does throughout the book, poetry arises: “But he bellowed slowly, abjectly, without tears; the grave hopeless sound of all voiceless misery under the sun.” Here the Bible is recalled, more specifically its most pessimistic book, Ecclesiastes. The last bit, “under the sun,” is the motif of that book from the Tanakh, repeated many times, and used by the narrator, said to be King Solomon, as a way to convey the frivolity of everything humans do (under the sun).
Throughout the novel Dilsey, who cooks and cleans for the Compsons and whose children look after Benji, can be seen as a glimmer of redemption. She faces her struggles doggedly and manages to find some solace and joy through church or her children, life as it is. But Faulkner never flinches, and redemption is not his theme; any bit of rectification occurs as haphazardly, yet ineluctably, as the tragedy does. In the end, Faulkner’s realism appears pessimistic because it is so real; that is also why it is so good.