If William Faulkner Were A Sculptor - or When Unclear Goes Nuclear
Some writers are like Nabokov. They're cool, and fluent, and elegant. And their elegance resides in the fact that they conceal their labour.
Countless hours of work and litres of red ink go into producing their compositions, no doubt; but they perform this labour so that the final product seems smooth, effortlessly elegant.
Even when you pull up short and look at rather than through their writing, their art retains its patina of patrician nonchalance—even under the microscope. Because part of their art is to conceal its scaffolding. If Nabokov, or Dunmore, or Flaubert were sculptors, they would shape their hunk of marble with magnifying glasses, emeryboards, and a kidskin chamois.
If William Faulkner were a sculptor, he'd have at the fucker with a chainsaw, a pickaxe, a jackhammer, and teams of oxen, so that when you saw the final product, carved into it—etched into its cracks and fissures—would be all the blood, sweat, tears and swafiga that went into making it. You see, Faulkner doesn't care to conceal his industry. He builds it right into the work of art. No illusion of art easily obtained with WF, no sir.
Honestly, has a writer ever tortured the English language with the unflagging enthusiasm of Faulkner? Even his brilliance is never far from toppling headlong into boorishness and barbarianism. I remember reading Absalom, Absalom! and thinking, 'What the fuck?' or variations thereof ('You're kidding? Huh? Wha?).
For all three-hundred pages I was transfixed in an unbearable state of suspense and indecision: was this the worst writing I'd read, or the best?
And that's how it is with Faulkner: no middle ground, at least not in my case. Love or loathe, baby. Love or loathe. In his hands convoluted, clumsy, and beautiful combine, until you're not sure which is which. In his hands—with just nip here, a tuck there—unclear goes nuclear.
-- Hans Fruck
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