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.