Word: faulknerisms
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...other work is trivial. In the work of a more rounded novelist, Willa Cather ... success is admired, but only success in the past: the new men that have arisen to seize it are grubby, narrow, without vision, unlike the heroic pioneer generation with its integrity, honor, heroism. William Faulkner turned in a similar performance in [several] of his novels, whose point was often that in contemporary life only the swinish succeed, that the day of the men of character is past...
Your paean to the Agrarians is a reminder of just how willfully blind Southern intellectuals were and are. Of all the Southern writers, only the greatest of them, William Faulkner, had the courage to examine the true paradox of the South-the julep-sipping Southern gentleman who bought and sold human beings. The Agrarians ignored the dominant fact of their history: that their "New World Eden" fed upon an evil far greater than the industrialization they lament...
Novelist John Marquand called him the third best editor he had ever known, after George Horace Lorimer and Maxwell Perkins. William Faulkner, Rebecca West, Willa Cather and other major writers found him a staunch and generous companion. Marc Connelly and William Saroyan phoned him when they needed money. One of the few dissenters was Evelyn Waugh, who called him, with characteristic bile, "an emaciated Jew lately promoted within the Hearst organization from editing a weekly paper devoted to commercial chemistry...
Welty began writing after William Faulkner and before Flannery O'Connor, and her achievement has been partly eclipsed by theirs. All of them began with roughly the same material: life, odd and otherwise, in small towns of the rural South. Given this common starting point, comparisons of the three were probably inevitable, but they also were, and remain, misleading. Each looked at the South in a different way. Faulkner saw the tailings and butt ends of a long tragic myth; O'Connor perceived a gallery of grotesques testing the limits of God's mercy to man. Welty...
Minutes pass. The phrase "folk music" appears in one of my sentences. Forbert launches a gravelly monologue on the theme "What is folk music, really?" Then we find safe, pleasant ground in a mutual admiration for Mississippi novelist William Faulkner. Somehow, that subject takes an uncanny turn toward Forbert soliloquizing about how people need direction and motivation, how--if they haven't found it yet--they should continue to search. For the first time, eloquence of a sort enters the room. Out of the mud, the lotus flower blooms. I extend a handshake, happy to have what few notes...