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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