74: As I Lay Dying, 1930, by William Faulkner (1897–1962)*
I read this book in college years—
And it confirmed my Faulkner Fears:
So many voices tell the tale—
Some are insane—beyond the pale.
I was confused at twenty-one:
I didn’t get this kind of “fun.”
I didn’t get this kind of “fun.”
A book should go from A to Z—
Not purely puzzle clueless me.
So what’s the truth? we’re
forced to ask.
What creature lies beneath the
mask?
To whom should we attend with
care?
And does this trip go anywhere?
I grew to love the book—with age—
And found delight on every page …
Delight, disgust, surprise, and pain.
I read the book, again, again
And taught it for a decade, too.
And drove old Mississippi through—
Upon the route the book records—
I saw the farmland, saw the fords
Where Faulkner’s folks and demons met—
Where things occurred I won’t forget—
Where I can say, “Oh, yes, indeed!
Old Faulkner taught me how to read!”
*I'm nearing the end of my journey through all of Faulkner’s novels now.
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