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| A Just and Holy Cause? |
I grew up stopping at almost every historical road sign on byways of the south. I weaned myself off of it a bit while living in Europe, because you'd never get where you were going because you'd always be reading about what happened before. But even the monuments in the south are monuments themselves. Take this obelisk dedicated to Confederate Soldiers, erected in the early 20th century.
I just read a book review in the Wall Street Journal by Barton Swain about Tracy Thompson's "The Mind of the New South," and several of the passages stuck with me. One particular section discussed Southerner's obsession with the past as well as the fatigue of, as the author of the article writes,
the sanctimonious browbeating and ridicule constantly issuing from the entertainment industry, academia and the national news media? Most Southerners are prepared to live with the incessant reminders that their history and culture were corrupt from the beginning. What they aren't prepared to do is go looking for more such reminders.
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| Oxford Cemetery |
Perhaps it's due to my Southernness, perhaps I can contribute it to my English major nature, but I was the only visitor to make a Faulkner Haj. Other than watching a beloved friend get married, this was the top of my list of things to do in Oxford. Using a little pamphlet included in the wedding baskets, I went on a run through the square, past Faulkner's grandparents' house (the Falkners, the author added the "U" after returning from a stint in the Canadian military. Make of that what you will) and on down to Rowan Oak, the home of William Faulkner for over thirty years.
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| British and American Oxford notes |
This quote has stuck with me ever since I took an American Literature class with professor Jim Hans at Wake Forest University. I definitely think that Faulkner's writing would have remained obscure to me without his guidance through some of the more difficult passages. Granted, those are few of the shortest sentences Faulkner ever wrote, but still. Even in 2013, we're weighed down by history. It's almost paralyzing if we let it.
What I never needed help appreciating, was Faulkner's ability to describe what it felt like to be in the South. While I was in Oxford, I was reading Light in August, and I began to underline passages that struck me. Here are a few:
Beyond the open window the sound of insects has not ceased, not faltered.
...feeling the intermittent sun, the heat, smelling the savage and fecund odor of the earth, the woods, the loud silence.
He remembers it now, sitting in the dark window in the quiet study, waiting for twilight to cease, for night and the galloping hooves. The copper light has completely gone now; the world hangs in a green suspension in color and texture like light through colored glass.
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| Rowan Oak |
As if I'm accustomed to hearing galloping hooves.
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| Cedar lined driveway |
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| Faulkner walked here |
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| Faulkner ate here |
So the next day, before the wedding, I took a little trip to Square Books to peruse the Faulkner section. There must be one, right? Now I had heard quite a bit about this bookstore. It's the Powell's books of the south. First I walked into a small book store, and it was only children's books. Then I walked clockwise around the square until I found another square books. Ahh, this must be it. I ambled up and down the rows, but it still felt amiss. While there was a little homage to Garden & Gun magazine, I found no Faulkner section and not even a fiction section. I was confused. I asked for directions.
Clearly I wasn't from around here, because the lovely lady explained I was in the home and style section of the store. If I would just exit the front door and walk three doors down, I would find the main store and an ample Faulkner section. Just like my first trip down Hawthorne Boulevard in Portland, when I went into the wrong Powell's. The lady in Oxford was a little less condescending.
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| Faulkner Mecca |
As it turns out, Faulkner's mother was Maud Butler and she has the same birthday as me: November 27. I couldn't help but feel connected to her. I may just have to name my future daughter Maud in honor of our connection. Of course I haven't read that chapter. I could be both embarrassed to be a Butler as well as a Sagittarian.
As the weekend culminated in the actual wedding that brought the Pacific Northwest to the Southeast, I was illuminated by the father of the bride that the ceremony would take place on Faulkner Ridge. Apparently he participated in hunting parties here. Perhaps nothing ever happens and is finished.
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| The view from Faulkner Ridge |
