The Favorite

Jewel is Addie Bundren's favorite.

There. Now we can move forward.

Addie claims Jewel. The other children, according to her, "are his and not mine." It doesn't matter who his is (it's Anse), only that they are not hers. Jewel is hers. Only Jewel.

On the flip side, it is Jewel, way back in section 4, way back in the only section he narrates, who claims "[i]t would just be me and her on a high hill and me rolling the rocks down the hill at their faces." It doesn't matter who their is (Anse, Cash, Darl, Dewey Dell, Vardaman, Vernon, Cora, Kate, Eula, the rest of mankind), only that he and his mom are together. Just he and his mom. Just mom.

A great family is the best possibe kind of blessing we have a chance at on this earth. But families are tricky things. They are not always great, and even when they are, they sometimes represent poisonous things. Like competition. Exclusivity. Love itself, or at least a corrupted form of it, like needing it to the detriment of others, like an addict.

Addie Bundren, by the way, represents corrupted love. Or lack. Either way, she represents bad, gentle reader. Let us lean on the vague for a moment:

Jewel is the favorite son. For awful reasons. And I wonder if he knows that about himself. I wonder if that is the root of all his anger. I want to get on board with his absolute loyalty, his fierce love, his unequaled devotion. But I hesitate, because I worry about the source of these things.

If it is love, then I applaud you, Jewel.

I do not know that it is love.

Schizophrenic Narration or Something More

Onward and upward, gentle reader. Today we begin William Faulkner's As I Lay Dying. My oh my, what a challenge. And what an easy target to call "the worst book ever written" (although my snobbishness must point to something else out there. How about Eastman's Are you My Mother? I mean, really, what a hackneyed, repetitive, plot-driven story complete with a Disneyesque cliche for an ending... worst book, indeed).

But Faulkner. What a crazy, right?

Maybe.

But what a grand example of what it truly means to be a great author. Two parts talent, and one part eyesight. Or the other way around. Probably there are more ingredients. In any event, the great authors shared a common trait: they observed humanity. Then they recorded it. But I argue that the observation is most important, because it is the method of observation, the individual lens of the author, that first dictates what ends up on the printed page. This is what makes Huxley different from Steinbeck, and both different from Austen. Huxley saw the world in decimal points and then wrote with them. Steinbeck saw the world along the lines of his moral compass and then wrote about all the directions represented by the needle. Austen, well. She knew more about getting into and out of relationships than anyone. And she described it to us.

And we are thankful to all of them. Because I don't think in science, or morality, or relational faux pas. At least not with the same level of dedication as Huxley, Steinbeck, and Austen.

But then there's Faulkner.

Now I don't imply that these other authors can't write different character types. They can. But Faulkner steps inside these different characters' heads in a way that Huxley, Steinbeck, and Austen do not. Different craft, not superior. But let us give Faulkner his due, and more importantly, let us recognize as readers the spectrum of humanity provided in As I Lay Dying.

If we flinch, perhaps it is because he writes for us. That is crazy.

Emotional, Not Just Depressing

I've had several students recently ask me "Why does everything we read in English have to be so depressing?"

Good question, gentle reader. But let's clarify the terms. Let's demand specificity, because that is precisely what our authors expect of us (remember, Blake told us that "to generalize is to be an idiot"). Instead of leaning on depressing as our umbrella term, let us instead consider the alternative emotional.

We will quickly find that emotional is more apt. I don't necessarily seek out depression in my reading, but I do need to be moved. Not merely entertained, but moved. Great literature lends itself to pockets of high emotionality. It isn't just that Holden is so damn depress-ed/ing; it is that even though he is, he still loves his sister unconditionally. And it isn't quite so important that Ros and Guil die(?) in the end of their play; it is much more important that we-as-audience are rooting against their demise and, therefore in the process, holding fast to our own humanity. Also, it isn't quite about the fact that Beowulf dies; it is that he (or anyone) cannot become legend until he (anyone) first stops moving. Of course Beowulf needs to die. Are facts depressing?

Make no mistake, I love happy endings. And, I am not a literary snob. I love reading fun and funny things. I love good guys winning well. I fell in love with Tolkien's epic quest, and I revisit it now and then because I know that it turns out okay in the end. But even this tale has sacrifice also, has darkness also. Because that's what great literature has: goodness, sacrifice, darkness. Parceled out in pieces. Jigsawing, jockeying, juxtaposing for footing in our hearts and minds.

I don't read McCarthy because I want to see the evidence of the deepest pits of hell on earth. Yikes. But when I read McCarthy, I am reminded of just how the abyss looks from where I am seated, and just how close it can sometimes be. And then I look around again and smile, because it's just a book, no matter how close to real life--on any plane--it strikes.

That is the glory of reading, yes? The smile just after.