Time is Dead Until the Watch Stops

Dear Father,

I can’t forget time anymore. You gave the watch to me so that I might forget, but I can’t anymore. It follows me and it won’t stop. I cannot forget what you said anymore, about anything. I can’t forget that time is only dead until the watch stops. I tried to make it stop, I did. I turned away but the day was sunny and the shadow kept coming and I failed. I failed at everything, Father. She asked me to do one thing for her and I couldn’t. Of course I couldn’t; I couldn’t do anything for her. No one would believe me when I tried to save her, not even you. She wouldn’t believe me. Well, no wonder. Everyone knew I was lying. But she wouldn’t let me save her. And then she went away and asked me to look after you, Father, you and Benjy. And instead of trying, I left too. And now even the broken clocks keep time and the shadows are always there because the day is sunny. I know now that none of it mattered to you, that it was all words and all made up and it didn’t hurt you and it didn’t matter. But it matters to me. It matters too much and I can’t fix it and I can’t stop it and I can’t save her. I can’t save any of us. I can’t save myself.

I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry I couldn’t forget. But I’m forgetting now. I hope that soon you can forget again, too.

Faulkner on Audio

OK, so….first blog entry. I suppose it’s better late than never. I’ve had a few problems with Faulkner so far, though most of them have nothing to do with the text itself. As a visually impaired student, it is difficult (at best) for me to complete reading assignments. I have been attempting to have The Sound and the Fury read to me by an 18 year old high school dropout. Don’t get me wrong, I love my future sister-in-law very much, but I should have thought it over a bit more before I handed her the book and told her to start reading to me. Oh well…hopefully she learned a little something about modernism and point of view before I told her to stop reading. The good news is that Audible.com has all of the novels we’ll be reading this semester available for download, so I figure that, with my monthly membership credits, I should be able to stay up to date from here on out, at least with the novel assignments. I’ll deal with the short stories as they come. Maybe my future sister-in-law will have less trouble with Faulkner’s short stories. Also, hopefully his love of showing off his expansive vocabulary will help expand her vocabulary. Today my Faulkner audiobooks finally downloaded onto my Kindle, and I have spent the day alternating between listening to The Sound and the Fury and taking naps. Coincidence? No not really. I was up really late last night, and so that is why I’ve been napping off and on. My pets, on the other hand, really don’t seem to be too fond of Faulkner on audio. There are several things going through my mind as I listen to this audiobook. First of all, I sort of wish that I weren’t blind because I think that the Benjy section would make considerably more sense if I could physically see the words on the page. As would Quentin’s section. But life hands you lemons, so you gotta make lemonade as best you can. I also have my pocket-sized DSM-IV sitting next to me on the couch. Occasionally I will take my magnifier, pause my Kindle, and read through a different developmental disorder in an attempt to understand Benjy’s mental state. I’m pretty sure that Benjy is autistic, though Faulkner never really reveals the full extent of what’s really wrong with Benjy. I don’t reckon it’s Down’s Syndrome, because Benjy would be more articulate if that were the case. From what I can tell, the only word he can coherently speak is “Caddy.” Hmmmmmm. I’m still looking through other disorders, though, trying to see if I can nail down Benjy’s condition better. Then again, I only have a pocket version of the DSM-IV, so there could be a more appropriate diagnosis that I just don’t have access to at this moment. I’m debating about whether or not to bring in my Abnormal Psychology professor in to brainstorm about this. I hesitate to ask him, though, because I don’t’ want to inflict Faulkner on him if I can help it. More interesting, though, is what the frack is wrong with Quentin. I see where J. D. Salinger might have drawn inspiration from when he came up with Holden Caulfield. The only thing I can guess at with regards to Quentin is that he is a pedophile, specifically interested in incest. I mean, OK, maybe not, but a lot of signs are there, at least when I look at the DSM’s way of diagnosing this “Sexual Disorder.” This seems like a really horrible claim to make and there’s not a lot of textual evidence to support it because Quentin (at least insofar as I have read at this point) doesn’t really seem to have sexual fantasies about Caddy. He’s just really protective of her. I mean, creepily so. So maybe he doesn’t explicitly talk about wanting to make the beast with two backs with his sister, but clearly he is too involved in her life to really be a normal, protective big brother. My fiancé is protective of his little sister, but not on the same level as Quentin. I mean, he thinks that any man that his sister is interested in isn’t good enough for her, but he doesn’t slap her around or anything like that. Quentin…..wow. Obviously, Quentin has depressive tendencies, seeing as he (spoiler alert) commits suicide, but I’m trying to figure out if it’s merely depression that causes his downfall or if there’s something co-morbidly going on in that Good Old Boy head of his. Another thing that keeps popping out at me is just how much V. C. Andrews drew from Faulkner, both pre-and post-mortum.Caddy reminds me on many levels of a typical V. C. Andrews heroine, such as Cathy Dollanganger or Dawn Cutler. She’s sort of torn between family loyalties and wanting to live her life for herself. Caroline Compson reminds me of most any given matriarch from a V. C. Andrews novel: obsessed with the family name and honor, crazy as all get-outs, and constantly lamenting everyone’s sins, especially her own. Basically, Caroline Compson is a martyr mother of the Old(ish) South. Then there’s Miss Quentin, the daughter/granddaughter trying to escape from all the sins and indescretions and, much like her mother, wanting to live her life for herself rather than for the sake of the family honor or anyone’s peace of mind. Male Quentin keeps making me think, very specifically, of Phillip Cutler, from the Cutler Family series (written after V. C. Andrews passed away). He’s so obsessed with Caddy, it’s really not healthy. Phillip Cutler was the same way about his sister Dawn, even though, unlike Quentin, Phillip didn’t know that Dawn was his sister until he was like 16 or 17. Obviously, both Faulkner and Andrews wrote Southern Gothic novels, so of course I knew that there were bound to be similarities, I just didn’t realize how many there would be. Yeah, I’ll admit it: I’m having a hard time keeping up with everything, but I figure that, once I finish the Quentin section, it’ll all be downhill from there. Not necessarily in a pleasant sort of way, but in a way that makes it easier to listen and hopefully wont’ put me to sleep.

Tick Tock

Father

You once told me that no battle is ever won, that they only reveal despair and victory is just made up by fools. I’m done fighting, there’s no point in fighting if I’m never going to win. I know you won’t believe me, just like you didn’t believe me about getting Caddy pregnant, but I’m going to kill myself. I will kill myself, father, I will. You told me clocks slay time, and I may be a clock. As long as the wheels keep clicking in my life, time will be dead. Once it stops, once the wheels stop turning I will be free, and finally time will come to life.

Tell Caddy that I am sorry, that I failed to save her reputation. Tell her that I’m sorry I didn’t take care of you and Benjy. I’m sorry that I didn’t save her. I didn’t save anything. None of it mattered.  I loved you all, and I tried but the truth is, there was no way to win. The battle is over, it’s time for the hands to stop ticking.

Sincerely,

Quentin

The odor of Honeysuckle

To whom it may concern,

   I tried. 
       Lord, knows I tried. I tried to save Caddy. I would've taken her anywhere, anyplace, just the two of us and His baby. We could've even taken Benjy. We could've done it. Then Benjy would get his money back...though he could never get his pasture back. For that I am sorry. Will you please tell Benjy I am sorry. Find him and make him understand. I am sorry. He deserved a better brother, hell, he deserved a better life. It's our curse: The Compson Curse. Maybe Mother was right and we just had too much of Compson in us. Caddy, Benjy, and I. I know she was right about Jason going to Harvard. He should've gone in my place. Tell him I am sorry. I should've been a better brother to him. He was always a Bascomb and he always deserved better. He deserved Harvard. He would've gotten along with men like Gerald and Spoade; he would've fit right in. Though I tried. God. I tried. All a man can do is try. What's he got left after that? 

       His shadow and boat races, that's what. Tell my Father I can finally watch the boat races. I can only hope that it is as incomparable as you imagined. Will he finally be proud? Father. I know I've disappointed you, but you've disappointed me too. You were It. You were The Head of Household, you were supposed to be strong and tough, and teach me to be strong and tough. You were supposed to protect the Compson dignity, but you held to your bottle instead. Your eyes didn't blink when Caddy's reputation was destroyed. When mother rejected the Compson name, you didn't say a word. You are supposed to protect our name. But he didn't, so I had to. But I failed. I am sorry I failed, Father. But I tried. I tried. And now I can join my shadow and your boat races in the depths.
 
      Honeysuckle. I want it to be the last thing I smell. Home. Jackosn. Tell Caddy the last thing I smelled was honeysuckle. She will know. She will remember. Tell her...she was the last thing I thought of. Tell her it wasn't her fault. None of it. Dalton, the baby, nothing. I should've been able to save her. She just didn't know. She couldn't have known what she was doing. It ruined her. It ruined her. But I should've saved her. As a Gentlemen from the South, I should've been able to stop all harm, nothing should've broken her; she was supposed to be pure and dignified and honorable, and I couldn't save her. Tell her how important she was to me. Tell her. She means everything to me. Tell her. Tell her I smelled honeysuckle.

      Quentin Compson
 

My dear friend Shreve,

The time has come, but it has not come lightly mind you. Know that there was nothing you could have done to protect this. There was nothing you could have done to prevent this. There was nothing you could have done to remedy what has happened. Your companionship over the years has been cherished and appreciated. However, in light of my family’s circumstances, there is something that I must do.

My family is in distress Shreve, and I am unaware of any pertinent solutions. Caddy has made a mistake. A mistake that cannot be overlooked. She left a permanent mark on our family’s name that cannot be removed. This type of mark will stay with my name long after I am gone, but I will take some solace in knowing that my final act may combat her dishonor.

I have lived my entire life as a southern gentleman, and you have been invaluable with your friendship. This letter is intended for you, but I have also written one for my father. Even here, in my final hours, I am unable to generate enough gratitude that you both deserve.  You’ll find my watch in our room. It is broken, but it still ticks. Time is a delicate thing I discovered, and it should be handled as such. Feel free to keep it around if you so choose, but I completely understand if you choose to do otherwise.

People will start to talk; that much I know. But my actions should not be that ill-received. If anyone asks you, please tell them I did it for my family. In joining my shadow in the water, I am releasing some honor back to the legacy of the Compson name. They may not understand, but I hope that you do my friend.

-Quentin 

Dear Caddy

Dear Caddy,

I can hear the clock ticking. Time—it’s been consuming me lately.  I wish I could go back in time, I wish I could change everything, I wish I was stronger. You meant so much to me, yet you only cared for, Benjy and Father’s sake.  I let you down though. I couldn’t take care of Benjy. I couldn’t even take care of you.  I was willing to give up everything and take blame for your promiscuous sins.  Father didn’t even care! I didn’t understand it then, but I do now.  I have come to the realization that I was the only one that could have saved our family name, but failed.  There’s nothing else I can do. I ruined any chance I had with saving your reputation. I chased off the only man that could have made an honest woman out of you. 

               I blame myself for everything. Tell mother she was right, Jason should have had this opportunity at Harvard. All of Benjy’s pasture money is going to be wasted. Wasted. Wasted on me. There’s no other solution for the past. I cannot go back in time and fix everything that went wrong.  It’s all I ever think about. I can’t take it anymore.  The only way out is to end my time here. I will miss you. Please tell, Father I never meant to let him down.  My time is over. I can’t bare the thoughts anymore. The water is calling me and it’s welcoming me. I finally feel at peace. Please do not blame yourself for my choice. Tell everyone I love them.

With all my love,

               Quentin.

Dear Shreve

This isn't a letter written from some tantrum that'll eventually lead to relief. My shadow knows it is time. It begs for it. This is out of your control, but I felt I should help you understand what I've done and failed to do.  You were a true friend, and you deserve to receive a letter just as my Father will. Please read all the way through. You won't be able to stop me.  I'll be gone long before you get this.
A deep, slick guilt has burrowed its way into me. I can't wash it off. I can't ignore it as it continues to pull at my arms and legs, making it hard to move. I loved my sister, and she asked me to care for our little brother. Instead, I took his pasture so that I could come here for some supposed betterment. My experiences then have been tainted through failing my sister in her one request. I can't live with that anymore. If I could, I'd give this to my other brother who wouldn't feel this way, as he cared for neither Caddy nor Benjamin.
This is not all I've done. Not only have I failed my family this way, but I have also failed to protect Caddy.  She disgraced our family and herself through her promiscuous actions. Dalton Ames. I tried to fix everything, to re-establish our family's honor. Perhaps it takes death to atone for what she has done.
I was supposed to protect my family in all ways. I could not do that.
Now all I want is death. I find myself stomping out my shadows. 
Understand it is what must happen.

Thank you for your invaluable friendship

June

June is not just a month for the frolicking boat races of young men, it’s about weddings and more specifically the bride. But who is Caddy the bride of; the man she loved and lost her virginity to, the man who fathered her child, he that she married? And I, defeated by the honor which in this family is most difficult to uphold. That is why I cannot do this, protecting all of you while only hurting you in return. Caddy, you lost Dalton because of me, the only man who would have made an honest woman out of you. You were ashamed of us, weren’t you? That’s why you could never bring your men home to us, what would have become of them at our hands? So instead you deserted us after we took everything from you. I don’t blame you, I probably would have done the same thing. So please don’t blame me for this last act, there’s nothing to be done to fix what I’ve ruined, what we’ve all ruined. 

Benji, I’ve failed you most of all. I know why you adored Caddy, she looked after you while everyone else tried to ignore your existence. We were buds once you’d grown, you didn’t make sense half the time, but I never really cared. I didn’t need Harvard at your expense, you deserved better. I hope you survive our parents better than I have. 

This stupid boat race, it means so much to you don’t it Ma? It’s the crowning glory of Harvard as this education is the crowning glory of your status and I’m just going to screw it up like I do everything. Well, be happy that this is the last thing I'm capable of ruining in your life. This thing they call chivalry in the south, well I can’t quite figure it out. You try to uphold the family name, be an upstanding gent, protect your siblings especially the women. You’re supposed to help me aren't you, both you and Pa to uphold the family honor? Do you see what I’ve become at the hands of your neglect? No of course not, because everyone would rather not see me. So I’ll end this eternal June that I’m living because it displeases all of you to have me as a son, brother, lover…I will leave the wreck of lives I’ve done everything to protect by not protecting myself.

Husband

Dear Shreve,
    Although we have only known each other for less than a year, the times we have shared have meant so much to me. All my life I have been striving to become the ideal "Southern gentleman  that my father never was. It is simple enough to say that has been my only motive in trying so hard at manly perfection, but there is another reason; a more secret reason. All my life I have been over powered by people. My sister with her noble airs always telling me what to do even as we grew older. Her suitors always getting the best of me and making me look like a fool in what was supposed to be a noble act of chivalry towards one's sister. And then even my retarded younger brother has bested me. If my assumptions are true then he committed a vile act to which I tried to convince everyone I did in order to show some form of manliness, but no one would believe that I would be "man enough" to do it.
    Coming to Harvard and meeting you brought me great joy, for here was someone who wouldn't judge on pass deeds. Here was someone who I could start fresh with. At school I could focus on the outwardly appearance of what made a man a gentleman. While it was different than what I had been shown as the picture of what made a man a man, it was a start. For a while I thought my new life was working, but alas, time caught up with me. For a while now I have been trying to trick my shadow, but I'm too exhausted. I can't keep running from my past just as I can't keep running from the truth. The truth is that all this time I've been deluding myself. I've been trying to become something I'm not. I'm not a conventional image of a man; in fact I'm the exact opposite. The point of this letter is to convey what I have been trying desperately to overcome and that is my feelings for you. I love you. Ever since I first met you I have admired your cavalier attitude towards societal conventions.
   I will always love you; I'm sorry I was not strong enough to overcome my past and familiar expectations in order for us to be together. I have failed you just like I have failed everybody else, which is why I see no other option. My shadow has overtaken me. It is time for me to leave this world before I mess anything else up.
                                                                                                                                    Sincerely, Husband
Referance page 164: In this section where Shreve is trying to take care of Quentin it just reminded me of an old married couple nagging each other. Also, while Quentin was worried about his clothes (a more feminine reaction) Shreve was getting angered by the nerve of Gerald for beating Quentin up. Could just be a friends reaction... or something else.

To the man I called Father

Jason,

You told me years ago not to be worried or consume myself with time, but time consumes us all. I can't come to terms with the pressures: carrying on the family name alone I now realize is a futile endeavor; I loved you all, but none of you could see it. I couldn't protect Caddy, I couldn't please mother, and I couldn't garner your affection: only now in this late hour do I see my folly.

The shadow had been creeping in for a long time now, and now I know what to do, what its beckoned me to do. I won't be able to see the boat races from the shore this year, but I might get a chance to see them up close. You had told me that my feelings were meaningless, and soon they will be. If I could call Caroline mother, perhaps I could've confided in her my guilt over Caddy's tragedy; if you had taken some stock into my alarm, my tragedy, perhaps I could work through it, redeem it somehow. But it's meaningless to you, despicable to Caroline, my shame is meaningless to you, despicable to Caroline.

It's too late for all of us, I tried to stop time, to stop it from consuming me; but the incessant ticking refused to cease. I know how to stop it now. The world forgot me, forgot my responsibilities; the Dalton Ames' and  Gerald Blands' run the world. They're the ones the Caddys' love, the ones that will move forward. I know you won't be upset--because it's all meaningless--but this is the only way to preserve the family and salvage the virtues that made the Compsons great.    

Tell Caddy I love her, tell her sorry I couldn't take care of Benjy. Tell Caroline she should've sent Jason. You were wrong though, you should have taken me, and yourselves, more seriously.

Suicide Letter: Dear Father

Dear Father,

            I know you may not understand why I am doing this, but know that it was the right time for me. I frequent trips to the river and see my shadow…waiting for me. This world has become too much for me to handle, and I’m constantly filled with feelings of disappointment. I know that you do not believe in the love I have for Caddy, or that we were ever more than just brother and sister. You need to know that she is reason I cannot remain in this world. She has torn me apart and left promises broken, just like my heart. She is the reason for my inner turmoil, the very reason I do not wish to be here another day. Grandfather’s watch is a daily reminder that yes indeed time is ticking on, and I feel as if I’m just wasting it continuing my life. Despite the fact you told me to never try to conquer time, time has conquered me. I’m haunted by time, and the ticking of the clock, by the smell of honeysuckle that reminds me of Caddy, and any object I come in contact with triggers a tragic memory. These things are no longer worth living for or rather living through. She has moved on, in fact, I do not believe there was ever anything emotional for her with me.

            Father, I love you dearly, and only hope that you will pass this news on to mother gently. Take care of Caddy and Benjy, and never forget me.

Love always,

Your son, Quentin

The Sound & The Fury timeline

From class monday night:

http://www.william-faulkner.net/sound_fury/chronology.htm

Dear Father

Dear Father,

It’s time. My shadow has been waiting. I have seen it following me in the river. When you gave me grandfather’s watch you said, “I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it” (p.76). My time has come. My shadow is now complete with my body. Father, after I told you I committed incest you said “too people cannot do anything very dreadful at all they cannot even remember tomorrow what seemed dreadful today” p.80).  Father, I am haunted. By honeysuckle, by time, and I am haunted by memories. You told me “clocks slay time” and that “time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life” p.85). I am ready to come to life because I am not living. Caddy has broken me. From the moment she said, “We did how can you not know it…it cannot be hid, you think it can…poor Quentin you’ve never done that have you” (p.148). I followed Caddy, I watched her with the wind blowing honeysuckle my way. I couldn’t help but want what they had. When she told me, “Yes I will if you want me to I will” (p.156), I couldn’t help but take what I had been wanting for months. But then she was teasing and I had to hold her down. I said, “I used to hold you like this you thought I wasn’t strong enough didn’t you” (p.135). Today I am still haunted by her. Did I get some or even any? I got some cheap feels and thrills off my sister for sure. My secrets will die with me. Only time will tick on.

i dont know which was worst that i couldnt save her from herself or that i couldnt have her for myself.

Your son,

Quentin

Modernism, Anchors, and Cancer

I admit Modernism is my least favorite artistic genre. I understand the concept well enough, but this misplaced affection with the disjointed and disjunctive too often aggrandizes hackneyed works like Rothko's "Orange, Red, Yellow" or Serrano's "Piss Christ." Much of the art within the Modern or Post-Modern genre is borderline absurd, if not totally obstructionist; as if many artists just assume the role as pretentious con-artists intent on suckering spoiled pseudo-intellectuals into spending millions on a piece often imitated by kindergarten art classes.

That being said, if there is some merit to Modernism, it might be found within a wilder time in my life in downtown Austin. "Bill," a friend since early childhood, and I spent most evenings tearing through downtown  ATX like demons unleashed: our booze-induced inclinations often led us to the dark corners and recesses far removed from the throngs of trendy hipsters that swarmed the main hangouts. One such evening, long after the bars closed and we managed to repel every living person within a ten-mile radius, Bill and I were smoking cigarettes from his third story apartment, debating the merits of suicide.

"What's keeping us here?" he asked. "Why shouldn't we just jump off and be done with it?"

"Surely there's some absolute, some reason we all keep plugging along," I said. "For me, I'd rather take my angst out on other people rather than punish myself for my short-comings."

"Bullshit," he said.

"How so?" I asked. Bill was never tactful, but I was a little jarred by his sudden rebuke.

He smiled, "Your spite, my mother's religion, indeed everyone's philosophy; it's all the same thing: it's just something to cling to."

"Just that simple? I asked, "Just one addiction leading into another?"

"Sure," he replied, "think about it: we're all aware of our demise, hell the smart ones are even aware of their own insignificance. Addiction, delusion, rationalization, it all stems from this primal urge to belong; to feel anchored in this vast, indistinguishable ocean."

He paused, letting his words sink, "It's really just that simple."

"So, what's your anchor?" I asked, intrigued and a little perturbed.

"Cancer."

"You're going to have to do better than that, cancer is an end, not a means."

Bill dropped his head slowly and leaned over the balcony, "Not in the literal sense, although you're right: unless I jump off, cancer is a likely end." He flicked his cigarette over the edge, it fell slowly and clumsily to the sidewalk, the cherry bursting out from the end, scattering in all directions.

"If it's all futile rationalization," he continued, "then it stands to reason that whatever I choose is destructive and will consume me...like cancer."

"So why stick around?" I asked, "If you refuse to drop anchor and cling to some false sense of purpose, why play the game?"

"That's what I've been trying to figure out," he replied, sullen and despondent.

"Sounds like you've resigned yourself to the fate," I said. "If I could make a suggestion: kill yourself slowly. Wouldn't be fair for the rest of us suffering fools if you got to abruptly end your life."

I grabbed two tall beers from the cooler and handed one to Bill, "To cancer." I raised my can up to him, "May it rot our insides with an insidious efficiency we could only hope to inflict on everyone else's miserable existence."

"Cheers," he said and took a long pull from the can.

Bill was the embodiment of the Modernist philosophy: he rejected the morality, spirituality, and ordered reality for a subjective world that forced him to embrace pain, disillusion, his inevitable demise, and dissolution from the collective consciousness; not as part of a greater whole or by design, but simply because. My time with Bill, this and countless other conversations, provided great insight to the Modernist point of view (although I admit I was unaware of it at the time), and is the chief reason I approach the genre with skepticism and suspicion. For every genuine artist like Bill, there are dozens like Rothko or Serrano.

It would be unfair to judge Faulkner so early, and I approach his works with as open a mind as I can, but doubts persist.