Bests & Worsts Reviews from Amazon

I was re-reading this book last week, pen and highlighter in hand, when my husband walked into the living room and said, "What are you reading?" I lifted the cover. "Is it any good?" To which I replied, "No," and he responded, "Why are you reading it?" And, slightly irritated, I said, "For the same reason you are watching the American Idol Audition show. It's DEFINITELY not good, but you can't look away." And so it is with most of Faulkner's work. As a reader, you should not go into his work expecting anything "good." You won't find an easy or clear plotline, clear language, or (and this is USUALLY a major gripe of mine) likeable characters. But even though you don't really like what you are reading, you just have to know how it ends. You have to know what makes these reprehensible people tick. And, surprisingly enough, you are usually unsatisfied in the end, but not so much that you don't want to double back and have one more look at the car-wreck that is the work of Faulkner. And so it is with *As I Lay Dying*. It's a fascinating piece of work, masterfully crafted, ultimately depressing, and darkly funny all at once. Having been to Rowan Oak a few times, I can see Faulkner sitting in his front garden chuckling over the idea of Vardaman's infamous "My Mother is a fish," chapter and how it captivated the world with it's "brilliance." I also have no doubt, having grown up in Mississippi, that he was writing about real people, warts and all. I'm probably related to some of them. Maybe for that reason, Faulkner reads a little differently to locals. While I certainly appreciate his literary genius, the truth and realism of what he wrote also shines through. Reading Faulkner is a little like attending a funeral in Mississippi, something that closely resembles a family reunion set anywhere else - everybody's talking at once (in the most genteel manner, except for that blacksheep son - we all know he's not his Daddy's child, bless his heart - who keeps using bad language) about stuff that would absolutely curl the toenails of anyone is polite "society." The stream-of-consciousness style reminds me very much of what I picked up on as a child overhearing these conversations in the viewing room of the funeral parlor. So . . . read with an open mind. And if the humor throws you at first, find a copy of the short story of *A Rose for Emily*. It will help you to better understand what Faulkner considered funny. Though off on other literary journeys, I'm sure that eventually my morbid curiousity will draw me back to this trainwreck again before too long . . . just can't stop looking . . .