Why do I have my respect for the dead just like everyone else? However, what is proper is to give due respect to the dead themselves. And for a woman who has been dead in her house for four days now, the best way to show her respect is to bury her in the ground an hour earlier.

A family in American South builds the coffin of the wife-mother to be buried where she wants. "As I Lay Dying" took the breath of death from the hands of the young Faulkner, within a month and a half, between 12 and 4 in the morning, as he worked as a night watchman. It is a title that contains all the metaphysical sense of Antigone. From the moment when Addie Bundren hears the construction of her eternal resting place, until the grief of the survivors. "As", he says, since it has its duration, like grief having its own life. Anyway, who has bled only for a moment?

The technical part, in turn, is full of symbolism and mastery: each chapter with the name of the respective voice, each voice speaks after each event and each one focuses elsewhere. The content is always in the rurality and poverty of the South, so that the journey seems to last longer, the landscape gives the feeling of the actor and the endless. They talk and say: "Come on, let's go", "It's disrespectful - You're bothering the dead" or "It's disrespectful - What would it cost you to do it for her sake?" and expressions like "Mangy old talk, uglier than a wild cat". The South is full of its own expressions and crumbling rock, obsession with the stops and the mules cannot bear another human futility.

Faulkner gives voices that cannot bear to speak, so there are many silences and glances, there are attacks and desperations that find their place on the page, with a clumsiness that the reader ends up looking for, to be caught by some character. Also, he likes the hot and the cold, like death and laughter, ending up canceling the extremes and remaining, what is to remain.

It has been brutal.

If you haven't read Faulkner because you have the impression that it will be too dense for you, give this book a try.

I thought so too and started it with that lurking fear. But after focusing on who is who (which always costs me), I was amazed by the way of writing and the amount of sensations that his characters convey.

I recommend it to you.

Review: https://contandoteunlibro.blogspot.co...

Faulkner's works are often regarded as challenging due to their complex language and intricate narrative structures. However, this particular book might just change your perception.

At first, the fear of getting lost in the density of the text can be overwhelming. But as you persevere and begin to untangle the web of characters and their relationships, a whole new world unfolds before your eyes.

The way Faulkner crafts his sentences and描绘 his characters is truly masterful. Each word seems to carry a weight and a meaning that adds to the overall depth and richness of the story.

So, don't let the initial intimidation hold you back. Take a leap of faith and embark on this literary journey. You might be surprised by the rewards that await you.

2023/54

\\n  Modern Library 100 Best Novels\\n (35/100)

The best quote in the entire book is My mother is a fish.

A couple of weeks ago, I binge-watched one of the best series I've ever seen in my life, a great comedy with unforgettable characters called Derry Girls. While reading As I Lay Dying, a scene from that show came to my mind. I couldn't help but chuckle a little when I remembered how shocking and odd a particular event was for a character in the series.
If you're familiar with this TV show, perhaps you remember the funeral scene. It's not shocking at all—except for James, also known as the 'wee English fella'—that everyone is allowed to see the dead body, as open-casket funerals were the norm there (I believe it's a Catholic thing). Even one character jokes about it, saying 'you can touch it if you want' (precisely this was told to James after he said he had never seen a dead body before). 'English are weird,' another character says (the series takes place in Northern Ireland during the nineties), which is funny since the English guy is not necessarily the weirdest character in the series. To be fair, I can understand why this practice might seem strange to a certain extent.
Similar to the series, it's quite common to attend open-casket funerals to see our loved ones who have passed away one last time in my small town as well (or at least it was before the pandemic, of course). It's also common to have lots of food, coffee, hot chocolate, and sometimes sweet tamales. There might even be a bit of music (their favorite music should be fine), and then a daily ceremony for nine days (nine days of mourning or novena) in a row (without the corpse after the first day, as you can understand why). It finishes on the ninth day with a big gathering with lots of food again. We'll see the same people gathered again eighty days after the funeral, but that's a story for another time.

Reflecting on this novel, I can't say I found it unusual or strange that they kept Mrs. Bundren's corpse for many days to fulfill the promise they made to her about the place where she would be buried. Neither did I find it hard to believe that, while on the way there, this family would end up facing many difficulties, so to speak.
I can't speak for everyone, but I believe that promises made to a dying person need to be kept, as long as it's possible. As a Mexican guy who loves the Day of the Dead, not only because of the importance of this tradition in our society but also because of the respect for the dead, I see this book as a tribute to your loved ones who are no longer with you.
In my own words, As I Lay Dying is a journey to salvation, of people who have almost nothing to lose looking for a chance to survive, with the mother who has passed away being the one they are willing to bury once and for all—after reading the ending, this makes perfect sense. It's a novel about love and death, hope and madness, and in short, a story that shows the reality of many people who used to live in such places back then.

Despite the confusing writing style, I was able to enjoy the story almost from beginning to end. Although I felt some scenes were too long and unnecessary, especially at one point in the story when the characters were 'trying' to cross the bridge. Eventually, I understood that this is Faulkner at his best, so I can't complain at all. Regarding the writing style, I feel as if the author made it difficult on purpose at times, making his characters talk in the way they do (I understand this is due to their background and education, but even so, there were moments when I thought it was unnecessary or hardly realistic).
I also loved the multiple narrators throughout the story, with Addie Bundren being my favorite. Alas, she only narrates one chapter, but that was enough for me to appreciate her story even more. For the record, there is a novel called The Shrouded Woman by the Chilean author Maria Luisa Bombal, whose story is mostly narrated by a dead woman, which is apart from my only 5-star reading experience this year. While reading Addie's chapter, I couldn't help but remember this novel and think about the similarities between both narratives.

All in all, As I Lay Dying is a very unique experience for those who haven't read this author before and a great choice to start your Faulkner journey with. I would wholeheartedly recommend it to everyone, especially if you're looking for an engrossing, challenging, and thought-provoking novel. I can tell you won't regret giving it a read.

My rating on a scale of 1 to 5:

Quality of writing [4.5/5]
Pace [3/5]
Plot development [4/5]
Characters [4.5/5]
Enjoyability [4/5]
Insightfulness [5/5]
Ease of reading [3.5/5]
Photos/Illustrations [N/A]

Total [28.5/7] = 4.07

For yet another time, Faulkner, as the great orchestrator, sets his stage in his beloved mythical country of Yoknapatawpha / Yokna patawpha. There, people submit to the rules of the American creator's literary prowess. In the country that he himself created in order to be freed from the rules of our conventional world and build from the ground up a new society, whose members reflect the passions and the weaknesses of man in a unique way. In Faulkner's world, reality is shattered and reassembled from its fragments. The boundaries between tragedy and sarcasm are sometimes clear and sometimes indistinct, truth becomes subjective, and the reader is called upon to pass through the difficult paths of words and gradually yield to the author's ingenuity.

The Bundren family embarks on a strange road trip. A journey in an old wagon towards the town of Jefferson, where Anse Bundren's wife Addie, the mother of 5 children, will have her final resting place. Gradually, during the trip, the history of the family and of each member separately is revealed. Dark secrets come to the surface, strange situations occur, and although at first glance everything seems unconnected, Faulkner connects the events and leads us to a revolutionary and epic finale.

Don't be afraid on the first pages. The book requires patience and gradually rewards the reader. Surrender to the magic of the author's writing and follow Anse, his children, and his deceased wife on their idiosyncratic journey. Try to break Faulkner's literary code and show patience in his linguistic detours. When you finish the last page, you will almost immediately understand that you were holding a masterpiece in your hands...

5/5

UG1: A dear friend of mine said that a Faulkner every 3 years is necessary. I can't but agree, after finishing this particular book!

UG2: The translation effort by Koumantareas is worthy, but it doesn't avoid some subjectivities. Linguistic and semantic.

UG3: A pitiful edition by KEDRO. Last quality paper and binding...

This is a truly rare kind of novel.

It is simultaneously technically innovative and deeply embedded in tradition, both extremely avant-garde and strangely accessible.

Such a book, which is a universal monument and yet somehow provincially American, is extremely difficult to criticize.

It is so original that it exists on its own unique terms.

Suffice it to say that, artistically speaking, it is a resounding triumph.

All that is left is to determine whether it was to my personal liking, which is a substantially less interesting topic for most readers.

For me, books like this are inspiring mainly because of their audacity.

Faulkner strips away the conventions of narrative, and even the dictates of clear prose or “believable” characters.

Instead, he constructs his own path through the chaos of fiction.

It takes an enormous amount of courage to attempt to do that, and it requires genius to make it succeed.

The resulting book, which is arguably more like The Waste Land than, say, Huckleberry Finn, approaches poetry in its free use of language.

Nonetheless, it is a classic American road-trip story.

It is truly difficult to overstate how impressive such a feat is.

And yet, I must admit that, while I was left in awe of Faulkner’s talent, I cannot say that I was profoundly moved by this book.

Perhaps it is because the dysfunctional family on a road-trip has become such a common trope, or perhaps because I was repelled by nearly all of the characters.

Or perhaps it is because their respective troubles and character flaws seemed so stereotypical to me.

Whatever the reason, I was left a little cold.

(I will say, however, that Dewey Dell’s abortion narrative is still, unfortunately, very relevant.)

But perhaps that just means I should read it again.

For surely, this is a book that is worth revisiting.

I read this novel three years ago, and it seems like an entire lifetime has passed.

One morning, one of my best friends arrived at the faculty with eyes as wide as saucers and a trembling pulse, asking me to do it. He handed it to me all creased, smudged, and ash-covered, like the ID of an ex-convict. I was having a Red-Bull for breakfast and he was telling me about some of his tricks with excessive enthusiasm while I smoked cigarette after cigarette. From time to time, I would open it to a random page, snort or shake my head while reading a fragment. Then I would close it again and he would just look at me.

He is looking at me. He doesn't say anything; he just looks at me with those strange eyes that make people talk. I always say that it's not so much what he does or says, but how he looks at you. It's as if he gets inside you, in a way.

Back then, we passed books to each other secretly under the tables, trafficking in them as if they were new designer drugs that had arrived just hours before by spaceship from a distant planet. We had already read some fragments of that so-called Faulkner (aloud, as it should be), and we could verify that the metaphors and comparisons fell from his hands like big, juicy grapes that, when hitting the ground, would explode, leaving us deaf and drunk. That young man, Diego, swore and perjured himself that morning that he had never read anything like it in his life, and that he knew I would feel the same because he knew me very well.

That sin and love and fear are just sounds that people who have never sinned or loved or been afraid use to designate what they never had and never will have until they forget the words.

He wasn't wrong; as soon as I read the novel, the myth was born. Soon the other great member of the group, our dear Bachir, read it, and finally William Faulkner was proclaimed the father of our particular lost generation.

For a group of young literary enthusiasts interested in both style and form, who held nocturnal meetings where they read around an ashtray or watched Bergman movies when their understanding was seriously impaired, or turned up the volume of Creedence or the Rolling Stones as background music to talk about Hemingway (or rather, to pick on him), this was the definitive literary discovery: a short novel in which each character was a narrator.

For the people for whom sin is just a matter of words, salvation is also just a matter of words.

If we, being so similar, had such different opinions about things, why did we have to limit ourselves to the partial vision of a single narrator? Why did we have to keep believing in the medieval god who knew everything and was the only judge of events? A perfect game of voices was possible through which to tell a story from a variety of perspectives that a canonical narrator could never compete with, and this novel proved it to us.

This Southerner did it, and better than anyone. In six weeks.

Beyond the style, which in him is always of greater words (and his unique ability to weigh it and not drown in it), beyond the mastery of the show/tell distinction and the right measure of difficulty so that the story can be resolved and be satisfying and not frustrating, the story is magnificent. It has everything: life, childhood, sex, love, pride, selfishness, death... It is a revisitation of the Homeric epic in the mid-twentieth century, with a total relevance of themes and development.

From the discovery of Faulkner, we had a literary reference to aspire to, and as we got to know him better, the myth continued to grow. We understood the parodies of "Amanece que no es poco", where a simpleton copies "Light in August" of "Fulner"; we discovered that he was also the spiritual father of Juan Benet, the literary mastodon of the twentieth century in Spain, a great trickster, who had discovered him in a bookstore when, as a book fell and opened to a page, he could read: my mother is a fish. Then he had to read it and succumb. Benet, capable of getting off a train in Germany and shouting "Faulkner is God!", fell victim to the influence of Faulkner just like us, as if there were something magical in his words, something that surprises you and makes you immediately be with him or against him.

Rejecting provincialism and achieving universality is much more difficult than it seems, for the epic is a minefield to reach all readers. But a localist epic, in Yoknapathawpha, a world of its own since the literary renewal, that is already too much. There is something in Faulkner that subdues and marks, never in the same way, and it is enough to look at the works of Vargas Llosa, Onetti, Juan Rulfo, and García Márquez. What do they have in common? That they are Hispanics, belong to the same generation, and are disciples of Faulkner. But their literary manifestations have very little to do with each other.

It is light, but they advance slowly; it is empty, but they carry it with the greatest care; it has no life, but they address each other in secretive words of caution, talking about it as if, once finished, it were sleeping, hardly animated, waiting to wake up.

Our relationships were forever marked by the truth that the words of the writer from Mississippi gave. Our meetings were filled with references, praise, and private jokes. No matter what we did, it seemed that in our silences he was present, ready to unleash a witticism.

The years passed, and although the group broke up, the image remains.

I haven't seen Diego in a long time, although I imagine him reading in some room, with the ashtray close by, thinking of witty phrases with which to challenge so many and so many writers. "Damn it, none of them are like Faulkner."

Fortunately, I have kept in touch with Bachir, and I know that he still loves him with the same purity as those days. I think we were happy while he was among us.

Because there are times when a man sees that even the children have more sense than he does. But he doesn't like to admit it to them until they have grown a beard. And when the children have a beard, they are too busy because they don't know if one day they will be able to return to that time – before they grew a beard – when they had sense, and then it doesn't matter to admit it to guys who worry about those things that aren't worth worrying about and that you yourself worry about.

There are things in life that matter more for what they mean than for what they are, like a kiss on the stomach or a bullet in the temple. For me, the greatness of Faulkner is that he matters for both: for what he is, and for what he means.

Then everything ended. It ended in the sense that he left and I knew that, although I might see him again, I would never again see him arrive through the forest dressed in sin, as if dressed in a gallant attire that fluttered to one side because of the speed of his secret arrival.

It ended as things that one day have to be written end.

"Where is mother?" Vardaman shouted. "You knew she was a fish but you let her go."

I could just remember how my father used to say that the reason for living was to get ready to stay dead a long time. This thought has always lingered in my mind, perhaps influencing my perception of life and literature.

I've mentioned before in my reviews that I majored in English in college. It was quite strange how my university seemed to have a certain aversion to classics. With the exception of The Great Gatsby and a few Victorian novels in a specific class, we hardly touched any works written before the 1960s. Looking at my list of classics read, I often feel a tinge of disappointment in myself. For instance, we never delved into the works of William Faulkner. But now, I've decided to rectify that.

I chose this book for two main reasons. Firstly, it has appeared on numerous lists of the greatest English language novels. Secondly, the title is simply wonderful. Going into it mostly blind, not knowing a thing about the plot, I was both excited and a bit nervous.

Well, I have to say that Faulkner's style is both stunning and frustrating. The stream of conscious writing makes some characters extremely hard to fathom. I found myself rereading certain scenes, trying to piece together exactly what had happened. However, Faulkner seems to be aware of this and deliberately creates this effect in some chapters. Fortunately, the next chapter often provides a clearer explanation from another character's perspective.

The plot is rather simple. A family travels to a nearby town to bury their recently deceased mother/wife. But the weather, injuries, and even seemingly God himself seem determined to prevent them from succeeding. Nevertheless, they persevere, "not begrudging it none." Despite its simplicity, it is an excellent character study. Each character feels like a real person, and their stream of conscious thoughts makes them come alive, even without detailed descriptions. The ending is one of the cleverest I've ever encountered, making the entire novel feel like an even darker comedy than I initially thought.

This is truly a wonderful novel, unique and close to perfection. It may have frustrated me at times, but that's not a criticism. I'm sure it might be a deal breaker for some readers, but for me, I delighted in its language and the challenge of understanding these complex characters. It definitely deserves a rare 5/5 stars.

This thrilling and chilling tale is presented through a kind of schism.

The combination of different consciousnesses forms a bubbling soup, intertwined with dark symbols and Southern Gothic elements. It truly offers a delightful experience, like an overly delicious dish.

The macabre comes alive in this prose, which seems to palpitate.

Compared to, for example, "The Sound and the Fury", this work is much more accessible. For those who have drifted away from this beloved writer, this particular masterpiece will instantly place him or her within Faulkner's direct sphere of influence.

He or she will immerse in that dark and twisted atmosphere, luxuriating in it for a long time. Reading this, you will understand what Faulkner and his deep, haunted, and tortured South are all about.

Is this the best Willy Faulkner book?

It's a question that might spark debate among readers, but there's no denying the power and allure of this work.

Faulkner's unique style and his ability to explore the human psyche and the complex social and cultural issues of the South make this book a must-read for anyone interested in literature.

Whether it's the best or not, it certainly leaves a lasting impression and invites further exploration of Faulkner's rich body of work.

All of "The Sound and the Fury" is accounted as the main work of William Faulkner. But specifically, I got much more pleasure from this story than from "The Sound and the Fury". The narrative style, with the fragmented thoughts of different individuals that sometimes you had to struggle to understand who the narrator was and what was happening, was much better than the long monologue that left Benjy and Quentin depressed and with a heavy heart. In both novels, the author invites Adam to a game: "If you say what I have, what will I say?" And in this novel, this game is more exciting and Adam has a greater incentive to solve this puzzle.

And the translation, the translation, what can I say about the translation? It is also very important as it helps us to understand the original work better. A good translation can bring the charm and essence of the original novel to readers who don't know the original language. It requires a high level of language skills and a deep understanding of the culture and background of the original work. However, translation is not an easy task. There are often many difficulties and challenges, such as how to accurately convey the meaning of the original text, how to maintain the style and tone of the original work, and how to deal with cultural differences. Therefore, we should respect and appreciate the efforts and contributions of translators.

I respect Faulkner, but I can't say I love him. Still, this book was something special. What that something was, I'm still in the process of figuring out.

The novel tells the captivating story of the Bundren family as they embark on a journey to bury their recently deceased (or rather, she's on her death bed when the story commences) mother, Addie. And if you think your own family is dysfunctional, you clearly haven't delved deep enough into Faulkner's works. Imagine turn of the century white trash and you're getting closer to the truth. The Bundrens are a chaotic jumble of secrets, lies, confusions, poor decisions, selfishness, insanity, and overwhelming grief. Each chapter is narrated by a different family member, presenting the story in disjointed chunks and leaving the reader to piece together the objective reality.

There are moments of unexpected comedy, heart-wrenching tragedy, and numerous instances of pure terribleness. And in the end, I'm left wondering who truly lies at the heart of this novel. It's not Addie, despite her death being the central focus of the plot (or at least the inciting incident). It's not Anse, who is too stubborn and self-centered to make sound choices for his family. It's not Dewey Dell, who is too preoccupied with her own life. It's not Vardaman, who is too young to make much sense of the world around him. That leaves the three older boys, all of whom have been scarred in various ways - mentally, physically, and emotionally - by their dysfunctional family.

I have to admit, though, that at times I find myself having to struggle more than I'd like in order to understand what's unfolding. Faulkner is masterful at taking you inside the minds of his characters, but sometimes it becomes so intense that you're not even certain what exactly the character is thinking. The book gradually grew on me as I read, and it's definitely less intimidating than The Sound and the Fury, but I still can't claim to be a die-hard Faulkner fan. Respecting and appreciating his work is one thing. Truly enjoying it is something entirely different.

While I was asleep,

I received my first Faulkner novel when I was in high school. It was from the Nobel series published by al-Mada, and it was translated by Jabra Ibrahim Jabra with the title "The Sound and the Fury." I didn't know Faulkner at that time, but the Nobel Prize made it exciting in my eyes.

I flipped through "The Sound and the Fury," and it was something I had never read before. It was a novel written with intelligence and a true spirit, and it remains on the list of novels that I like to reread repeatedly, enjoying and learning.

Despite Faulkner's fame and his influence on a generation of American and Southern American novelists, he is mistreated in the Arabic translation. His major works have not been translated yet. Faulkner wrote many novels and short stories, but unfortunately, only a small handful of them have been translated.

This novel was translated, despite the translator's efforts, in a way that is challenging for the reader. But all of this did not hide the beauty and intelligence of Faulkner and made me more determined to obtain all his works and read them in English, even though the novels alone are in five volumes with more than five thousand pages.

Faulkner uses in this novel the same style he used in "The Sound and the Fury," which is the multiplicity of narrators. The story reaches the reader fragmented, told on the tongues of the heroes, revealing the events from the perspective of both of them. But unlike "The Sound and the Fury," where each character had a long chapter in which the events were told as he lived them, here the chapters are multiple and short, so we jump from one character to another, from the weak father, to the confused son, to the angry son, and even to the idiot son, and also the perspective of a child in the family and the only girl. As for the story, it is simply the attempt of the impoverished family to deliver the mother's body according to her will to a city dozens of miles away from the village where they live, to bury her there near her family's house. Of course, this is done in the early 20th century using a cart pulled by two mules. This task, which seems simple, turns into a terrible disaster that reveals to us the personality of each member of the family and some of their past.

The novel is amazing. Faulkner writes like no one else, and this novel is one of the most beautiful things I have read in years.

On my second reading, "As I Lay Dying" affected me in the same way. In fact, I think this time, since I knew exactly what was going to happen, I tried to capture the details and enjoyed it even more. The fictional place in Mississippi where the novel is set became even clearer in my mind. Of course, whether the place in my mind is the same as the one in Faulkner's mind, I will never know.

"As I Lay Dying" is actually a journey story. The mother of the Bundren family, Annie, dies and upon her will, her husband and their five children set off to take her corpse to another place. What happens to them on the way is breathlessly engaging for us to read. After a while, the journey turns into each child's own internal journey and battle. The corpse, on the one hand, is decomposing more and more.

"As I Lay Dying" reminds me of "The Sound and the Fury" in terms of both its spatial and character traits. But I can never decide which one I like more.

Struggling with Faulkner from time to time makes me feel good. Again, it was in the right place at the right time.

There is no need for me to say it, but I will add it anyway. I highly recommend not only "As I Lay Dying" but all of Faulkner's works.