Faulkner's final novel, published in 1962; he died the same year. It's lesser Faulkner to be sure and one you might recommend to someone who doesn't really like Faulkner. Winner of the Pulitzer Prize and adapted into a film with Steve McQueen.
Faulkner remains my favorite American author, though there is a great gulf between him and me on many fronts. I'm a city feller from the North, whereas Faulkner's roots are in small-town Mississippi, even though the author spent several years in Hollywood as a script writer. And generally, I think I'm pretty optimistic, where Faulkner often seems rather dour. That said, I can think of few authors who can create a spell with their words like Faulkner. James Joyce comes to mind, and Shakespeare. Of course, Faulkner's spin on the English language has a Southern accent. Often Faulkner's narrative style makes you feel that you're sitting on someone's porch or veranda listening to some teller spin a yarn. The teller doesn't always get right to the point. Sometimes the teller dances around the point for a while before getting to it. Sometimes the teller is not entirely sure what the point is, so we only get hints dangled before us as we try to figure out what happened, and what it meant. The tale of this novel is light and fun, and is a good introduction to Faulkner, but for old-time Faulkner readers, there are plenty of references to the familiar names of Yoknapatawpha County that you'll get a nice feeling of deja vu.
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