How (and why) to read William Faulkner - Sascha Morrell

You’re halfway through

what’s supposedly one of the greatest novels of the 20th century,

but nothing quite makes sense.

Narrating characters offer clashing versions of the same story

and often seem unsure who, what, or when they’re talking about.

Seemingly minor details trigger intense emotional reactions you don't understand.

And the prose is loaded with convoluted sentences and outlandish imagery.

Confused? Good— that means you’re on the right track.

William Faulkner is considered one of America’s most remarkable

and perplexing writers.

Fortunately, he wasn’t just toying with his audience.

Faulkner used confusion intentionally,

to explore the most mysterious parts of the human mind

and investigate pressing issues of personal, racial, and regional identity.

The result is a body of work that’s shocking, inventive, and often hilarious—

but above all, challenging.

So what clues should readers look for to navigate his literary labyrinths?

Many of Faulkner’s novels are set in the fictional county of Yoknapatawpha—

a fantastical reimagining of Lafayette County, Mississippi,

where he spent most of his life.

Born in 1897, Faulkner grew up steeped in oral storytelling traditions,

from folklore and family histories to local legends of Civil War glory.

However, these grand myths didn’t match the messy reality of the American South,

divided by racist Jim Crow laws

and plagued by the legacies of slavery and colonial violence.

All these tensions come alive inside Yoknapatawpha.

Full of horror, humor, and human tragedy,

Faulkner’s stories feature many memorable characters,

like the spurned bride who sleeps beside her would-be husband’s corpse,

or the duped sharecropper obsessively hunting for imaginary coins.

At first glance, these characters seem grotesquely absurd.

But under the surface, they all reflect his obsession

with how people process the past—

what they stubbornly hold on to, unwittingly forget and willingly distort.

Much of Faulkner’s fiction is told from multiple perspectives,

offering the reader several versions of the story’s events.

For example, “The Sound and the Fury” combines the narratives

of Benjy, Quentin, and Jason Compson,

three brothers haunted by memories of their sister Caddy.

One brother's narration will occasionally fill the gaps left by another's,

but just as often, their accounts contradict each other.

To make things more confusing, Benjy’s narration is disjointed in time,

slipping between past and present without warning.

Meanwhile, Quentin's section confuses fact and fantasy

as it jumps backward in time from the day of his untimely death.

Only the aggressive, money-hungry Jason attempts to embrace the present—

but even he is constantly overtaken by past resentments.

Following these threads can be bewildering,

but Faulkner wants the audience to share in the characters’ confusion.

This approach allows readers to understand the Compsons’

biases and blindspots firsthand.

And since his characters’ distortions of the past

often reflect larger denials of Southern history,

it also allows Faulkner to explore his own anxieties about the South.

For example, his novel “Light in August” deliberately induces ambiguity

about a character’s racial origins in ways that undermine rigid Jim Crow policies.

And in “Absalom, Absalom!” narrating townsfolk

remark that “no one knew how”

a local landowner had come into his property,

and that his house was built “apparently out of nothing.”

This kind of evasive language shows how characters are desperate to cover up

the region's intolerable history of genocide and slavery.

But even when exploring the heaviest topics,

Faulkner spellbinds readers with verbal acrobatics.

One particularly bewildering sentence in “Absalom, Absalom!”

runs 1,288 words long,

and features locals haggling over “violently-colored candy,”

a “cloudy swirl of chickens,” and a hard-drinking planter

who’s compared to both a worn-out cannon and a showgirl.

Even his jokes can breed more confusion,

such as when Benjy Compson conflates his sister Caddy with golf caddies.

Reading Faulkner is rarely easy, but it is deeply rewarding.

He invites readers to contemplate the unreliable nature of history and memory.

And in teaching us to embrace confusion

and recognize the limits of our perception,

Faulkner can help us listen for hidden meanings

in the sound and fury that surround us.