When I hadn't yet finished Light in August, I had a conversation with some of my choir friends. They saw what I'd been reading and asked, "Do you actually like Faulkner?" Well, yes. I think so. I don't know. Should I? Well, hm.
One friend noted that the explicit nature of some of the happenings in Faulkner's stories, often described in very communicative detail, presents our minds with an occasion to be soaked in something unhealthy and possibly harmful. My response was that those less than pleasant elements of his novels are not gratuitous; good literature is truthful, is an accurate representation of our world, and not everything in life is shiny and rosy.
I've previously made mention of the Hemingway/Woolf phase that I went through in college, and I'm still not really out of the Fitzgerald phase. Granted, there is a difference in tone among these three novelists, but they're all part of that Lost Generation. Ultimately, as my much loved and wonderful mother worriedly assured nineteen-year-old me, they're lacking something. Their novels are not the answer. These authors are not called "Lost" for no reason. They don't realize that, all things told, the story of the universe is essentially one of comedy, not tragedy. Nevertheless, I maintain my position that there is a place for such novels; there is a place for such darkness.
If you object, I have a few things to say to you: King Lear. Hamlet. Sophocles. Dido. The Book of Job. "Darkling I listen; and, for many a time, I have been half in love with easeful death." We will all of us meet our wicked sisters, our blinded fathers, our conniving Uncles, our own damning Hubris, our physical and spiritual trials, and, many of us, a death of love that makes us want to kill ourselves. As The Thin Man has it, "The theme of Oedipus Rex is: Life's the pits, and then, you die." Of course, experience is in many cases the best teacher. But it doesn't hurt to have some vicarious experience and knowledge of the depths before you fall into them yourselves. In the good and the bad, this, I think, is a summary of the value of literature. It teaches us enormous truths in human terms, and so teaches us how to cope with our day to day human lives. Christ taught in parables, not syllogisms; He was, He is, a storyteller. And, if you recall, there was death and damnation in some of His stories.
All of that being said, we all know that virtue lies in moderation and balance, not in extremes. I am quite thankful that I had the foresight to do my senior thesis on Willa Cather rather than Hemingway, as I had first thought that I would. Too much dwelling in darkness isn't a good thing. It's easy to forget about the light if we never read comedies. However, the experience of life as a solitary vale of tears is only compounded if a soul never has the cathartic purging of living tragedy in art. Misery loves company is not a jesting and trivial phrase. It is deeply profound, deeply human, and speaks to the nature of man being a social animal and needing to know that there is someone, anyone, who understands and can help him through the dark night in which he finds himself. Even if that help is only in the form of companionship, even if it can't give all the answers, that standing together is necessary for survival. This is, at least in part, why tragedies are necessary.
Back to my friends' question on Faulkner. In thinking over it more since finishing the book, I wonder if perhaps I was wrong. Not in theory, but in the particular instance of this book, perhaps the darkness was too explicit. Balance is difficult to achieve (Yes, that is my profound statement of the century. Duh.), and it is possible that art that is in many ways excellent can be over-the-top in others. This is how I feel about Bruckner's Christus Factus Est, which I sang with one of my choirs a few times this Lent. Just chill, buddy. And then there is some art, there are some stories, that I think can never be justified. Movies about demonic possession, for example, are incredibly foolish. Not in the, "This is dumb," sense. No; Because such things are far more real than most people want to acknowledge, voluntarily dwelling on Satanic powers is unnecessarily putting oneself in real danger. To a less immediate degree, dwelling intensely on any sort of wickedness or darkness for extended periods of time is a danger. When the enemy is smarter than you, stay away from him.
When I discovered that both my mother and my older brother had stopped reading Light in August partway through, citing the intensely immoral parts of it as one of their roadblocks, I naturally began to question my previous position that it was not gratuitously, well, messy. I had defended the inhumanity of some of the characters to my questioning friends by saying that part of Faulkner's purpose is to highlight the grace and beauty that still can exist, in characters like Lena and Byron, in a society that has been conquered and is fallen. I still think that this is true, but I do wonder if he needed to focus on the fallen part of that world as much as he did. I'm curious to hear your thoughts on the matter. Even if you haven't read this particular novel, where do you come down on this question?
In the meantime, I've moved on to the much lighter and thoroughly enjoyable E.M. Forster novel, A Room With A View. Excerpts to follow.