Good-Bye Faulkner

In attempting to analyzing Faulkner, I have decided that not even old William himself knew what the heck he was talking about half the time. He was a pathological liar, claimed that things meant nothing when they really did and vice versa, none of it makes sense-kind of like his writing. On the surface everything is chaotic, out of order, and just plain weird and it gets written off because it's a pain to sift through. But I think that's how he wanted it to be, he wrote for a very small audience, he didn't write for popularity and the comfort of the masses, he wrote for the people who cared enough to trudge through it and in their trudging could find beauty. 

Overall, I admire Faulkner's ability to send subliminal messages through his stories. His giant Screw Yous to the critics, his critiques of Southern culture and traditions and his cynicism all shine through the complicated sentences and overabundance of characters. I admire the beautiful simplicity of the stories once you sift through the complicated sentences and format. Faulkner's writing is all contradictions, all beautiful contradictions.