A couple of thoughts I’ll tie together:

1) I read a BBC article suggesting that a large percentage of people keep books on their shelf to impress others rather than to read them. This made me think about our reading habits.

2) As young students, we were taken to the library and allowed to choose any book we liked. But as we reached high school and college, reading became assigned. While I believe educator recommendations are valuable, taking away a person’s choice can prevent them from finding the book that will spark excitement and make them lifelong readers. Many people are forced to read classics, but some of them may never be appealing. For me, I have strong reactions to classics, but I found my love for reading long ago. For most people, they know reading is intelligent but are bored by what they’re forced to read, so books are used for perception rather than pleasure.

I believe William Faulkner is one of those writers who lets his writing get in the way of a good story. Light in August, published in 1932, is in the Southern Gothic tradition. The plot has three connected strands. It deals with racism, violence, and Judeo-Christian values. It takes a while to find Faulkner’s rhythm, but it’s enjoyable until you realize he won’t just tell the story. The reader is dragged through long flashbacks and then Faulkner skips ahead, spoiling his own story. There are also obscure punctuation choices. The book could have been trimmed significantly. While Faulkner’s stream of consciousness has strengths, I find the style obese and much of the information superfluous. None of the characters feel major. As a result, I won’t be adding any of his books to my shelf. Two stars. Barely.

When my computer is fixed and ready to be edited, the notes that come to mind upon the first reading are as follows.

He was neither like a white man nor like a black man. Always on the wrong side, the blacks were accused of rape and murder against the woman's family who defended them, and Christmas seemed to do just that. While one person reinforces that view, the other becomes part of the wrong perception that he dedicated his life to changing. When he has the chance to hide himself, Christmas often emphasizes that he is half, his blackness. This duality is always alive. Let's think about the name and meaning of the novel. The August light, the last light, the last sun. A setting sun but still there. All the events are murky because there is not enough light. We can have some ideas, the image implies something but we can't be sure because the light is about to go out. Think about Joe Christmas's relationship with Miss Burden. There are so few daytime contacts that it can be said there are none. Whatever is happening, it is happening at night in a way that we can't quite figure out either. Miss Burden, who is prim and proper during the day, is at the peak of erotic pleasures at night. Christmas is caught at night, smuggling takes place at night, and even Lena, who represents hope in the novel, although she starts the book in the daytime light when no one will stop her, prefers to set off in the darkness of the night. Light only shows things that are the result of major events, not the major events themselves. After the house burns down, everything comes to light during the day. The house has burned down but none of who burned it, why they burned it, and how they burned it can benefit from the light. Moreover, Byron, who sees the smoke from a distance, gives the wrong impression despite the light. When there are wrong impressions in the shining sun, in the setting sun we only have our judgments and they are guiding us, and of course that is also wrong or a little right. In the novel, Byron and Lena, who will have a future and in a sense share this, are uncertain about what future they will share, what they will do is uncertain, and as always, Faulkner is trying to keep us away from the one-dimensionality of the story and reality here. While logic proclaims the commonality of Lena and Byron, it is argued that life does not progress according to a rationality line throughout the novel. In short, again, we are not expected to get out of the situation. When Lena sets off on her journey again, we enter a cyclical process. This time she is not alone but rootless.

Like her brother, the man she loves and the cities she lives in also reject her. Lena accepts all of this, with great passivity. She tries to go to another city, this time to Tennessee. Everyone talks, forms an opinion, and we feel that we are inside the circle. We end the novel at the beginning of a new story. Faulkner leaves the reader on such bad ground that we run into the possibility that what we call a cycle may not be correct. Because without certainty and logic, it also becomes meaningless to talk about the signals and signs of judgments.

While duality continues: We cannot come to a judgment about religion. There is Hightower as an example against the cruelty of those who represent institutionalized religion. It leaves us unable to know what we will say and how we will make a judgment. We cannot take sides, we cannot say this, we are constantly being distanced from both the characters and the ideas with the alienation effect. We can call this Christmas's duality and the novel also makes us part of this duality. That is, we can be neither black nor white, we cannot make any judgment. We do not know the exact reason for the problematic personalities of neither Joe nor Hightower. These are types that carry within themselves all the wounds, conflicts, and imbalances of the South and that place. The shadow of the past falls on the characters' role as bearers of history today and puts everyone under that shadow. When the sun shines and the shadow disperses, something is only implied because we are in a period when the light is not as strong as the shadow. The shadow is of course also used as a reason. The reason whose consequences are still being lived today. For this reason, the reasons and consequences are sometimes told by being piled on top of each other. For example, we are informed of Miss Burden's murder (with the smoke rising from Miss Burden's house) when we are still in the first chapter, but we realize this in perhaps the nth chapter. This causes Lena to be unable to find Brown in any way and Byron and Hightower to be drawn into the events so much because of him.

The author leaves the events in the dark and repeats this in the form of writing by resisting opening up the subject itself to the reader. He uses long compound words and sentences that are almost impossible to translate as he invented them himself. The story being told, the period, the characters are difficult, and he also complicates the writing technique with a parallel layer to these. These choices are the clarification of what the author wants from the reader and what he wants to be understood.

Today, as a method sometimes used in telling a period in the cinema (eg: Dovlatov), the technique of this novel is formed by unfocused conversations. It is not clear who is speaking and what comment is being made about what. There is chaos, but it is also important to bring everyone onto the stage when telling the period. Beyond describing that day and that environment, this technique makes the people involved responsible and spreads the responsibility from one individual to another. Guilt, innocence, and virtue are also shared in framing the character and moral universe of a society.

The contrast between Lena and Christmas is often emphasized in the novel and in the comments. Lena does not carry a burden from the past like the others. She has a brother but we are not made to have a deep thought about her family. She is not the continuation of her brother or an event in the past, just herself. She has a history that starts with her, and in that respect, she is rootless and placeless. She is constantly on the move, and she does not complain even if what they are living and the future are not good at all. All the other characters are examples of their history at that moment. Christmas is just like his grandfather in terms of cruelty, and Miss Burden is a prim and proper person who has taken on the issue of her family's death. This is also reflected in the names and they are not given by chance: Burden means burden, and the parallelism that the meaning of Hightower forms with the character is also meaningful. Our main character, Joe Christmas, is even without a name, without an identity, and perhaps this can be counted among the reasons for his restlessness. Searches confused because of names: Byron - Brown. Fear of naming: Lena's child has no name.

I firmly believe that this is one of the most outstanding books I have ever perused. Thank goodness I was inspired to obtain it before it was too late.

Moreover, I sense a great deal of unease within its pages. Not unexpectedly, a recurring theme constantly keeps me on guard regarding it, although it is not a direct quote from this very book.

“Light's all very well, brothers, but it's not easy to live with.” This profound statement, while not from the book itself, seems to encapsulate the essence of the disquiet I feel. It makes me wonder about the true nature of light and how it impacts our lives.

The book may explore various aspects of this concept, perhaps delving into the challenges and difficulties that come with living in the presence of light. It could be a metaphor for knowledge, truth, or even hope.

As I continue to read, I look forward to uncovering the deeper meanings and messages that lie within these pages, and how they relate to this thought-provoking statement.

Fabulosa is an amazing word that can describe something truly extraordinary and wonderful. It represents a state of being that is full of charm, excitement, and beauty.

When we encounter something fabulosa, it has the power to captivate our attention and leave us in awe. It could be a breathtaking work of art, a thrilling adventure, or a heartwarming moment with loved ones.

The concept of fabulosa encourages us to look for the extraordinary in the ordinary and to appreciate the beauty and magic that surrounds us every day. It reminds us that life is full of possibilities and that we should embrace each moment with enthusiasm and open hearts.

Whether it's a small act of kindness or a grand gesture, everything has the potential to be fabulosa if we approach it with the right mindset. So, let's strive to make our lives more fabulosa by seeking out new experiences, following our passions, and spreading love and joy wherever we go.

Book number 23 of the Book Bowl Challenge is "Light in August" by William Faulkner.

Before delving into this novel, I had been cautioned about Faulkner's complex writing style, having never read his works before. Now that I have completed the book, here are my personal impressions.

It is indeed the case that reading "Light in August" demands patience. Faulkner's stream of consciousness technique enables a profound immersion into the characters' mentalities. However, it also requires careful rereading to fully understand the narrative. He frequently strays from the main plot to explore subplots set in different time periods. Perhaps due to my own limitations, I sometimes struggled to determine the starting and ending points of these digressions.

The main storyline revolves around Joe Christmas, a man haunted by traumatic events from birth. He grapples with abandonment, racial identity, and carries trauma that is activated by specific incidents, such as a woman showing pity for him or someone praying for him. His unfortunate upbringing has shattered his mental stability, and throughout the book, we witness Joe at the mercy of these traumas.

Faulkner skillfully portrays the gradual breakdown of Joe's mental state. He also utilizes past events and storylines to create vivid portraits of secondary characters like Lena, Reverend Hightower, Byron Bunch, and Joe Brown. Similar to Joe Christmas, these characters have troubled pasts that drive their present actions and motivations.

Overall, with patience and perseverance, I found myself captivated by the story. A reread would likely yield new discoveries and insights. Although the writing style was initially challenging, I came to appreciate Faulkner's masterful approach to exploring character psyches.

4/5

It occurs to me on reading Light in August for the third time that if America were ever to attempt to come to terms with its slavery legacy, which is unlikely at this late stage, but if it were to empanel a Truth and Reconciliation Commission like South Africa's after apartheid, especially now when we are mourning the shooting deaths of so many unarmed black men by cops, then William Faulkner's novels, surely this one, should be part of the background documentation of such a process. What Faulkner has achieved here is to expose the racial tragedy of the American South in the 1920s like no one else has. Certainly, the works of Toni Morrison, Ralph Ellison, and others should also be part of that documentation. But what Faulkner shows us in Light in August seems to me a completely unique account, despite being fiction, of a significant part of our national disaster.

Joe Christmas lives as a white man but believes he has some African blood. He is abandoned at a white orphanage on Christmas Day, hence his name. At five, when his African blood is "discovered" by the orphanage staff, he is quickly placed in the foster home of McEachern, a white man who lives in perpetual, self-dramatizing, Christian self-abasement and forces it on his new stepson, whom Joe ultimately rejects. Maybe if he had had luckier foster parents, Joe would not have developed as he has, but his upbringing by McEachern is brutal, physically abusive, and traumatic. When he escapes one night to dance with a local harlot, whom he has romantic notions of loving and marrying, he is followed by his stepfather, who accuses him of whoring. Joe kills his stepfather on the dance floor and flees for his life.

For fifteen years, he drifts. The unfortunate (and I would argue false) black-white dichotomy seems to tear Joe Christmas apart before our eyes. Nowhere can he feel at home. His self-hatred becomes excessive and unreasonable. Some people broken by misfortune become psychotic, as Joe does, although there is probably some genetic predisposition. Anyway, Joe starts hearing voices. Who is he? Can he truly be anyone? After wandering much of the country, at one point living in a black community in Chicago where he is condemned for being white, he ends up back in the American South, in Jefferson, Mississippi, where he gets a job shoveling sawdust in a planing mill. He has no friendships, no sense of humor, no apparent hopes or dreams. He is bitter and angry, deprived of all loving human contact despite his efforts to obtain it.

Joanna Burden lives alone in Jefferson and is the last remaining representative of a family of northern abolitionists who moved south during Reconstruction to prevent the post-slavery degradation of African-Americans, which the zealous Burden patriarch was determined to stop. They were despised by the white community. When the patriarch, accompanied by his grandson, argued too loudly for black voting rights in Jefferson one day, they were shot dead by a single bullet from Colonel Sartoris's gun. Joanna's father buried them on the estate in unmarked graves to prevent desecration. Joanna's family was wealthy and maintained a dozen or more homes and schools for African-Americans in the south, and she is still involved in their administration.

When Joe Christmas stumbles upon Joanna's house five miles from Jefferson, he breaks into the kitchen pantry. Unperturbed by the intrusion, Joanna starts leaving food out for him every evening while allowing him to stay on the estate in what were once accommodations for black household servants. To the reader, Joanna represents perhaps Joe's last chance to find, if not love, then some kind of mutually supportive relationship. But by this time, he is too warped by his misfortunes, and the only relationship he can have with her is one of unloving sex and disdain for her unattractive, manish ways. Besides, who could possibly love someone as undeserving as himself? Her interest in him must therefore be misplaced.

When Joe Christmas then does a very bad thing that leads to his flight across the bogs, brambles, forests, and marshes of Yoknapatawpha County, pursued by the sheriff and his deputies and a pack of barking hounds, well, the reader is in for a thrilling chase. In this section, you will find some of the finest descriptive writing in the book. (Faulkner is always so good at depicting figures moving through the landscape.) While we do not forgive Joe for what he has done, we understand him and even feel for him in his hardships. How Faulkner is able to evoke the reader's sympathy for Joe Christmas despite his evil acts is one reason this reader has repeatedly returned to this text. I don't think it's too much to say that here we find in Joe something of what Shakespeare was able to instill in Richard III, with Joe's half-caste status substituting for Richard's more obvious physical deformity.

The novel's use of psychic distance is perfect. By that, I mean the distance the reader feels between himself and the events of the story. Faulkner seems to stand back a bit and record everything from that seemingly objective distance, so the deluge of detail is neither overwhelming in its specificity nor too sparse. In fact, it is stunningly consistent throughout. The story is rich, emotionally complex, but presented mostly simply and clearly. The mannerisms of the author's late style (polysyllabic words, outrageously convoluted expressions, etc.) are only briefly evident. This masterpiece flows smoothly and plainly, without unnecessary clutter. Its story could be summarized in a paragraph or two, but its execution is so rich, so thorough, so vivid, that it takes one's breath away.

While Faulkner is indeed a beautiful writer, his works can be extremely depressing.

I lost interest after reading more than 100 pages. In fact, I can't even claim that I truly read the entire book. What really defeated me was his excessive use of flashbacks.

It was acceptable for one chapter, but as chapter after chapter revealed more and more flashbacks, it became tiresome, especially when I initially found the book quite interesting.

My inclination was to skip those flashback sections and continue with the main narrative, but there were simply too many chapters dedicated to them.

However, I decided to keep the book and continue trying.

P.S. I eventually gave in and finished the book. To my disappointment, it never escaped the realm of being boring and was充斥着 so much violence that I could hardly endure it.

I recall attempting to read "As I Lay Dying" and quitting because it was such a downer. I don't anticipate ever reading another Faulkner book, but at least I can say that I made the effort.

**Light in August, William Faulkner's Portraits of Loneliness and Isolation**

Today, on the anniversary of William Faulkner's death on July 6, 1962, I remember him and his works that have made me a better person. I repost this review of my favorite novel by him, "Light in August." My mother's passing was a difficult time for me. After being her caregiver and keeping my promise to her, I found myself lost when she died. Her appearance in death haunts me to this day. But that morning, I had to do something. I went to Oxford, Mississippi, a place my mother and I had visited often. There, I wrote this review.

It takes courage to write about a great American novel by a great American writer like Faulkner. Some critics may try to tear him down, but his talent is undeniable. In Oxford, traces of Faulkner can still be seen if one looks closely. Last night, I met a lovely young woman and her mother at Square Books. They were there to tour Ole Miss. The daughter, who had only read "The Sound and the Fury," was trying to decide which Faulkner book to get next. I told her about "Light in August" and the characters who don't belong where they should be. I also told her about Faulkner himself, his love for Estelle, and his experiences. We ended up laughing and talking for a while. The daughter left with "Light in August" and "Absalom, Absalom."
As I sit here at 8:30, waiting for the store to open at nine, I think about how everyone has to be somewhere, whether they fit in or not. Maybe I should have been a professor, but I'm a lawyer like Gavin Stevens. I could use another cup of coffee before I head to the Faulkner section. This review is dedicated to the memory of Miss Maxine Lustig, my guide to Yoknapatawpha County and many other wonderful worlds.

And that's the story of my encounter with Faulkner and these two lovely ladies in Oxford, Mississippi.

Light in August

When delving into Faulkner's works, reading them cover to cover, it often gives the impression that one has missed the very first and crucial minutes of a movie's start. This is despite the fact that one begins following along from the moment the opening credits commence their roll on the screen. And whenever one misses those initial few minutes of any movie, there invariably persists this uneasy sensation or that niggling doubt. It constantly reminds you that you have overlooked the most vital part of something significant. Even though, within an hour or so, everything starts to fall neatly into place and you excitedly exclaim "Aha!" the moment you witness all the puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly. In the end, you may still harbor a sense of regret for arriving late or tuning in late to watch the movie. You might even desire to rewatch it at some other time - at least those first few minutes that you missed - in order to rid yourself of that lingering doubt. But the truth is, you were never actually late in the first place!

Faulkner's works are not something that can be simply read; they demand to be reread.

For the great writers - those who control the time within us, who slowly and steadily weave their story in the forgotten corners of our psyche, constantly forcing us to descend the stairs into the basement - one reading is equivalent to no reading. Faulkner does not tolerate time limitations, fleeting impressions, study, and forgetfulness. He permanently resides in the threshold between reality and dream that constitutes our spiritual existence. Every new reading, therefore, is a first reading, another fleeting passage through the dreamworld crafted by the talented American.

A car stops on a dusty southern road and takes along a pregnant girl, Lena, who is desperately seeking the young man (unknown, evading his responsibilities) with whom she hopes to marry and live. Her journey will take her from one town to another, until Jefferson. There, a chain of events will begin, which will offer Faulkner the opportunity to unfold his creative myth, the peak of which lies deep in the darkness of the human psyche. So deep that not even the August sun can illuminate it...

The writer will once again let his garden bear fruit with people, places, and ways both familiar and distant. His pen draws huge arcs, encompassing the human condition, while at the same time restricting it to a county, a town, a house, a room. There, the partial becomes universal, the lesser greater, the individual action and sometimes the unrelated word encompass the whole. The rural becomes instantly representative of the species, the woman carries the pain of her gender, and the man bears the curse of dominance as a shadow that follows him to the grave.

The pages of the book move slowly like a dream, a hesitant step, dragged by its heaviness. The presence of the pregnant girl seeking her father, her encounter with the noble and ethical Byron who wants to restore her, the ascetic priest Hightower who wants to dissuade him, but also the parallel stories, most importantly that of the mulatto with the strange name Christmas. The latter is a key figure in the development of the book, as being himself a victim, he will turn against the only person (the spinster woman) who will bring him human tenderness, showing him delicacy. He will commit murder and will be hunted like a wild dog by the racists of the town.

The slow-paced play seems to prevail until the scene towards the end, where the avenging angel in the form of a local pursues and kills the "rapist" Christmas. The speed of the action is impressive, the clean, spotless, and clinical view of the executioner, his certainty. His absolute confidence that he is being moved by the Great Player, a higher power, blind and merciless.

The certainty of one is in complete contrast to the ambiguity of the other hero, the priest named Hightower, who takes on the sins of the earthly flock of the dark house of God. The priest will find himself unwillingly in the middle, although he tried until the end to avoid the bitter cup. A sinner himself, among sinful mortals, he made a decision: to stay away from the people who did not discipline him, did not accept him. A passive spectator of a corrupt world that has long since ceased to understand, he has withdrawn from worldly things.

Yet harsh is the fate of the ascetic man when faced with a moral dilemma - "once again a little brave" - he will be called to a leading role and will do so by following his inner voice. In front of the innocent crime, the murder, he will let the stentorian cry of his heart be heard: "People, people!" as if the appeal to the human identity of the executioners is enough to change the course of things. Helpless, he will find no allies in his struggle - only unyielding pawns (tremble those who never doubt!) ready to kill and be killed. The mulatto with the strange name Christmas will be executed in a可怕 way, and order (human flesh...) will reign again in the South.

But the dead man, in his turn, will take his revenge. The image of his可怕 death will haunt the participants forever. The great sin of racist bias will haunt them, their children, and their descendants.

Perhaps in one of his most immediate works, Faulkner lets anger unfurl not with teenage or simplistic calculations about injustice and racism (whoever asks for something so simple, hopeful, and rejuvenating let him rush into the warm embrace of Harper Lee). Every time the reader tries to identify with one of the heroes, the writer is quick with elaborate narrative movements to freeze this ease. Clearly, there are positive heroes, but - as in life - they are few, as are the bad ones. The Great Universal Conflict (let us remember Fowles) is simply neutral, gray, indecisive, ready to move where the wave pushes him.

And Faulkner, as the Great High Priest of literature, knows this well and does not give gifts, even to those heroes who have his clear preference. They will stumble, they will err, they will seem inferior to the circumstances, they will be disappointed and will want to withdraw into the utopia of their own people and noble thoughts. But there, too, the crowd will hunt them, the evil that often has the appearance of virtue, and will crush them, forcing them to take a stand.

Faulkner does not seek to offer comfort, "he does not give words of comfort" (after all, the Guide could, should be the artist, the Creator). Slowly, steadily, he dives into the mud and pulls out the mirror (as Stendhal first taught us), setting it up again in front of us. This time, the mirror has the special quality of the American writer: it is rusty and faded from the heat of the South, scarred by the rekindling of human toil, stinking from the corruption of blind faith and racial purity. The figures that look into it and reflect our gaze have hard faces, hard souls, hard lives. They turn away with disgust from the sight, hating their being and vengefully turning their hatred towards others - especially those who are different, those they consider inferior. And the writer is present, conveying to us the triumph of barbarity, the crushing of hope, the vulgar fanaticism (the physical will come after the spiritual has preceded).

And yet, at the same time, the August sun shines on the just and the unjust. It wraps everything human in its warmth, no matter how bitter it may be. But it shows a preference for a particular house, a courtyard, a porch where an ascetic priest sits alone and hopeless. The light advances slowly but steadily and stands like a halo on the head of the old man...

Later, in the final chapter, a car appears and takes Lena with the baby and Byron to take them somewhere else, not as far as they would need nor as close as they would prefer. The party will be set up again, and the pawns will take their places again. This time, without the interference of the creator, the game of life will continue far from the pages of a book that has just come to an end.

https://fotiskblog.home.blog/2020/11/...

I can't give it less than four stars to the fan, even if it doesn't surprise me to the extent of four stars. So, 4 and 25.

If the weather becomes sunny and I remember, I will give it a deep review :).

Of course, after listening to the opinions of my dear comrades.

You’re an American author, dead almost half a century, and there’s this thing called television. A host(ess?) is talking about books with half the population of a country you once inhabited. You’re on the list and why? Race.

I really despise the term Great American Novel. We capitalize it in the middle of sentences (GAN, anyone?) and discuss examples of it with such reverence. It’s a hunting quarry for authors who strive for it and a curiosity for those whose works receive the label. Over the years, when I’ve heard “Faulkner” and Light in August, there’s a lull before someone brings out the big GANs and people nod approvingly. I haven’t bothered to look up whatever passes for a definition of the GAN, but I’ll adopt this as my personal one: a novel that depicts an unchanging trait of what it means to be American. Damn technological advances, there are things that seem to always stay the same. Our wretched, never-ending racial inequalities and frustrations are ingrained in our cultural fabric like toxins. So to Faulkner, I raise my hat for writing a Great American Novel. Light in August is brilliant, my Exhibit A, as such.

I’ve managed to read a great deal over nearly half a century, yet somehow I’ve missed Faulkner (I cracked As I Lay Dying as a 16-year-old and fled screaming back to Dragon Lance fantasy). I see both sides of the argument, those professing love or hate. LIA is a masterful work of a novel with modernist tendencies and a narrative bent that showcases an author’s contempt for humanity. Sentence structure, dialogue, narrative flow, characterization – it’s all truly a matter of taste. Fans of Southern Gothic will find much to love; detractors, not so much. But for this reader, everything in this novel worked like literary magic.

I spoke with a friend last night who is an avowed Faulkner fan and who said that after finishing his first Faulkner, he then read three more in quick succession. To me, that would be like eating filet mignon followed by a ribeye and then a T-bone steak. One needs time to digest Faulkner, I think. I want to ponder like a four-stomached beast on the gristle and marrow of what it means to be a white man in a country that can’t seem to look beyond skin color any further than Faulkner’s characters could in post-Civil War Yoknapatawpha County, Mississippi.