My boss is a classicist. i don't know if that's a word, but he believes in Beethoven and Aristotle and thinks everything modern is rubbish. i, as you know, disagree with that philosophy completely. He gamely offered to read any one book i gave him, so i brought forth a selection he could choose from. The selection included: One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, Farewell Summer, The Princess Bride, and The Sound & The Fury. He chose the latter, which i thought was brave, or stupid, or both (as is often the case with such things). This literary gem takes place over 18 years and is told from 4 different perspectives, one of which is mentally handicapped. Oh, and it's stream of consciousness. So bye-bye traditional sentence structure, chronology and all those fun installments of language. It's a daunting read. The first experience i had with Faulkner and stream of conciousness literature was under the guidance of one Dr. Karl Martin, so it was safe environment and very educational. i highly recommend this approach. For a layman to approach this kind of writing inexperienced and unguided is risky. But i digress.
My boss started the book and is, unsurprisingly, quite frustrated with the writing. He has a hard time seeing my point that it may be better writing (in style, at least) than, say, Dickens. i see Faulkner like cummings: as transcending traditional English language using imagination and a mastery of said language. My boss sees it as laziness and insists that art must have some aboslutes, lest we slide into 'anything goes'. i see his point, but respectfully disagree.
So here are two excerpts (which is a fantastic word). The first is from The Sound and the Fury and the second is from Dickenseses The Pickwick Papers. i'd like to know which you think demonstrates 'better writing', whatever that is.
When the shadow of the sash appeared on the curtains it was between seven and eight o' clock and then I was in time again, hearing the watch. It was Grandfather's and when Father gave it to me he said I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it's rather excruciating-ly apt that you will use it to gain the reducto absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his father's. 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. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.
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As brisk as bees, if not altogether as light as fairies, did the four Pickwickians assemble on the morning of the twenty-second day of December, in the year of grace in which these, their faithfully-recorded adventures, were undertaken and accomplished. Christmas was close at hand, in all his bluff and hearty honesty; it was the season of hospitality, merriment, and open-heartedness; the old year was preparing, like an ancient philosopher, to call his friends around him, and amidst the sound of feasting and revelry to pass gently and calmly away. Gay and merry was the time; and right gay and merry were at least four of the numerous hearts that were gladdened by its coming.
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