Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Book Review: The Wild Palms by William Faulkner (48 in 2012? #30)



            I’ve come to find that I tend to read as two different people, the writer and the reader.  What each of these personalities likes and appreciates in a novel can be completely different.  The reader is looking for plot and character, a fun story with interesting characters that pulls me into the book and prevents me from putting it down.  The writer is looking for technique and word use, a well structured sentence or paragraph with deep description and intriguing word choice that leaves me in awe.  In a few very rare occasions there is a novel that appeals to both the reader and the writer, but usually if the reader is enthralled the writer isn’t all that impressed and if the writer is in awe the reader is left with a headache.  There is no doubt that William Faulkner is an author that appeals solely to the writer in me because the reader struggled with every minute I spent with Wild Palms.
            It was obvious from the first page that Faulkner was an author writing on a different plane then most I am use to reading.  His style is very stream of conscience, with long complicated sentences and flowery word choice.  One can’t breeze through a Faulkner sentence.  You need to take it slowly, soaking in every word and punctuation, because it won’t end where it started, nor will the journey be a straight line.  In Wild Palms, he seems to have thrown a parenthesis into every sentence, breaking the flow of thought to jump around in time and story.  It’s a technique that makes the novel hard to read and enjoy, but one that forces you to read closely and pay attention to every thing that occurs.  It’s something the writer in me can’t help but admire.  Reading someone like Faulkner as a writer can prove to be a slightly depressing exercise, because I know I will never be able to write a story with such a sense of art.
I’ll admit, I’m far from a fan of the stream of conscience style of story telling, yet I found Wild Palms to have more for the reader in me then anything written by Virginia Wolfe.  As much as Faulkner makes you work, there is something more accessible in this novel then I have found in most stream of conscience stories.  It may have been painful, and it may be a while before I choose to tackle another Faulkner novel, but nothing in Wild Palms made me swear off his work.  It certainly isn’t for the faint of heart, but there are enough enjoyable moments to give him another try.  If you are looking for light fun fare, Faulkner will never be for you, but if you are looking for a challenge, a story that you may admire more then enjoy, give Wild Palms a try.

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