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Notes on the Delta Moment
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“I was outside time.”
—William Faulkner,
The Wild Palms
I keep coming back to the moment:
“…the saddest word of all there is nothing else in the world its not despair until time its not even time until it was / The last note sounded”—William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury
1. The moment as a withholding of information—the “docuverse” moment that never seems collected or resolved—the open-ended moment as a continuous collapsing of historical details—so that it appears and reappears—dovetailing differently at different times—the moment like a cubist reordering of our ways of perceiving—such as the introduction into the moment of atonality and avant garde modernist modes—the moment as telling and retelling—creating its own Narratology—this unfolding, cutting, clipping and pasting of the moment into itself—playing with words & images in the moment thru filmic montage = Snapshot Poetics…
2. Faulkner seems to me to be a more visceral kind of innovator—than Broch, Musil or Joyce—so that he internalizes interior monologue into the moment for his own practical purposes—rather than posing as a radical modernist experimenter—Faulkner wanting to undercut the traditional Narrative moment—shifting the traditional bildungsroman “disguised” autobiographical moment—toward a more independent authorial moment—moving away from linear narrative—to a more labyrinthine moment—full of convoluted incidents recurring simultaneously—memory, present tense, past tense, indistinct beginnings, indefinite endings—scrambling the traditional Aristotelian narrative strategy—into a new Moment—with quick snapshots inside the stream of consciousness itself—like taking pics into your Heart of Darkness…
3. The Delta moment opening up like a can of worms—“So my novel was created, almost in spite of myself”—Faulkner trying to keep up with Benjy—moving fast baby fast—catching on quick—a pretty good “quick study”—Benjy deserving more than just a page—opening up Benjy into a short story—then the whole ball of wax comes into play—Benjy the idiot savage now—not just the child idiot—but the philoprogenitive moment itself—TSATF opening up like an accordion—with the Caddy and Quentin and Jason snapshots—so that the moment becomes the Yoknapatawpha “privileged moment”—the special moment of the writer embedded in the moment—the boy as idiot-savant suspended in time—the boy-muse inside Faulkner right at that moment—when he gave up—gave up writing for others—freeing Faulkner from his publishers—freeing him from all that—by repudiating Time…
4. So that as Faulkner started writing for himself—thru the divine child archetype that was inside him—the boy inside him that was crying out for freedom and individuation—as astute Jungian critics would say—this Benjy-muse—the divine idiot-savant of Faulkner’s bruised and disappointed imagination—after having his fourth novel rejected for many years—finally just sitting there at his desk—finally giving up trying to please the editors and publishers in NYC—this sort of humble acknowledgment—that Count ‘No’ Count wasn’t maybe as good a writer as he thought—so that by giving up that style of performance art—he could start all over again—just doing what he liked anyway—writing for himself and nobody else—just himself doing the thing he loved to do—sitting at his desk in Rowan Oaks—sipping his whiskey and communing with the dearly beloved dead—who wanted desperately to come back to life again thru him—if only he’d let them come thru—thru the wisteria and bougainvillea night—drifting into his study for an evening of momentary pleasure and storytelling—the thing he was good at and the thing that made him special—the thing that made the moment authentic and real—the act of writing in the now—becoming his own moment—beginning with Benjy’s silent mute Voice—then moving thru Benjy into Quentin’s Voice—and thru Quentin into the Caddy-Dalton Ames Voice—each Voice uniquely telling and retelling the story in its own way—like friends on the verandah at night—doing what Southerners have always done—telling it the way it is—telling it the way it was—telling it conversationally—like I’m doing right now—like how many different ways can you see the light of August—coming down thru the afternoon magnolias and weeping Spanish moss—how many different ways to know the sadness of the melancholy moment—like I’m doing now—sipping my julep and thinking about what’s-his-name—the painter who did all those endless haystacks in the morning—haystacks at noon and later on haystacks in the evening—plus all those lily-pad paintings—by the picturesque pond—there at his home in the French countryside—seeing and looking and breathing it in—and duplicating it—the modernist moment with all its POMO intuitions from the future…
5. The more Faulkner gets into the moment—the more he authors his own Narrative method—like Quentin’s mind moving from TSATF into AA—the Quentin narrative both authorial and interior monologue—narrative coming out of some apocalyptic catastrophic whirlwind moment—dramatized as if present—seen thru flashback—performed thru disguise, defense, withdrawal, hiding, hanging out in the moment—there with Shreve his Cocteau guide thru the liquid mirror…
6. Faulkner’s moment not just literary method—it has its autobiographical dimension—secreting himself inside the moment—peeking out here and there—withholding, retreating, emerging now and then—so that as he’s inside the moment—he plays inside that moment like a boy playing hide & seek—letting the moment become aleatoric in the Huizinga sense—gaming with the moment to find new methods of narrative—both for his work and his life—so that be becomes the moment again & again—in more ways than one—working in the moment—playing in the moment—meandering in the moment—detouring thru the moment—the moment as Labyrinth—with him finding interstices within the moment—little cracks in the World Egg—creating voices thru storytelling in that maze-like moment—using short stories, characters and voices like a deck of cards—playing Solitaire with himself—those long humid Mississippi nights—doing the down-low on the Shadow…
7. This obsession to hide himself within the moment—to disguise himself and protect that disguise—thru long super-sentences that go on for pages—this is the maddening thing I experienced with Absalom, Absalom—the first time I read him long ago—it was frustrating for me because that’s not what I wanted back then—I didn’t want obfuscation and cat-and-mouse games—the way Faulkner hinted at things and hiding himself like a Cheshire Cat inside the moment—just enough to tantalize me and make me identify with Quentin—Quentin who was going thru the same changes I was going thru—but Quentin Compson was frustrating for me—in fact Quentin made me despair and gnaw on my knuckles—down there in the Library lounge late at night—biting my fingernails and talking with the guys just back from Nam—they knew the moment a lot better than I did—all I wanted was Identity the easy way—with books and language—rather than jungle warfare and all that shit—and I stuck with Quentin even tho he made me nervous and depressed—Quentin wasn’t exactly the quintessential Outsider—the one who’d be heroic Exemplar and Knight in Shining Armor—not with that unauthentic alternate lifestyle Quentin lived inside of dontchaknow—so that as I was going thru my own identity crisis at the time—I was struggling thru my first reading of AA and TSATF—thru the Quentin moment—a moment that seemed to accommodate everything but me—hinting at this and that and then hiding like a rat in the wainscoting—the whole identity thing I was going thru in the Sixties—being attracted and repulsed at the same time—to certain campus demigods in the dorms—this desire of mine for some golden Arcadian insight—some kind of Ariadnian thread thru the maze—the very real labyrinth of my mixed-up feelings and bildungsroman boo-hoo time—well, Faulkner’s AA storytelling being truly ironic—sometimes exquisitely relevant to my lifestyle—and yet at other times constantly receding from me just when I thought…
8. Quentin’s identity problem was my problem—not just a prurient “hobby-horse” interest in alternate lifestyles—but rather my own struggle with the moment—my own campus “Dalton Ames” relationships in the dorms and classes and social milieu at the time—playing roles like Faulkner did with his characters—eventually years later publishing what I’d learned which wasn’t much—other then the moment that was always bugging me back then—trying to get me into the storytelling mode—me fighting the gridlock of my feelings—as I descended into the pulp fiction moment—the paperback romance moment that was all around me—getting stuck with Hemingway all the time and his butchy moment—so that I ended up tiptoeing thru the tulips—delicately thru TSATF and AA—thru Quentin’s fuzzy, guilt-ridden consciousness—with no end in sight other than wishing I had my own Cliff Notes to the Now…
9. Quentin Compson coming to me in my dreams back then—complaining about this and that—mostly about the cold winters in Massachusetts—and how snotty everybody was up North—repeating the same Latin phrase over and over again—“Non fui. Sum. Fui. Non sum” (“I wasn’t. I am. I was. I’m not”)—the struggle of this boy with himself—and the moment that was him—the stream of Southern consciousness on that bridge with Dalton Ames—the murder-suicide pact with his sister Caddy—the dramatized ur-event of sexual discovery down there by the Tallahatchie River—seen as “right now” thru flashbacks—me in Dalton’s arms—no longer disguised and distanced—down there looking up at rusting old girders—on the bottom of the bridge—the bridge where Dalton made love to Quentin—the kind of love that Caddy got too—immediate and now—quick and catastrophic the first time—then long and drawn out the second time—no wonder Quentin dreamed of Dalton—no wonder Faulkner wanted different kinds of fonts and typefaces for what happened—mere italics and 50 pages of unpunctuated super-sentences really just don’t do the trick—
10. This autobiographical dimension of the moment—making it relevant to me—a Baby Boomer relevance thing—trying to read it like living it—as Faulkner lived and wrote it—hiding, disguising, retreating, emerging from it—illuminating and yet imaginatively rejecting nearly everything to preserve his disguise—trumping constantly any pretense of omniscient observerhood—in favor of an almost closet-case obsession for unreliable narrative—something I could identify with back then—the unreliable Quentin moment—a delicate moment for recognizing certain things—life as a bad throw of the dice—life compromised by prejudice and guilt—every breath I took—just another fresh cast with dice—dice already loaded against me—making me wonder if identity was really worth it?
11. That’s what Quentin asks—Is Dalton Ames worth it?—that’s the despair Quentin feels—not for Caddy but more for himself—his own virginity—and losing it that way with a man—the same man that took Caddy’s virginity—Dalton truly a young Yankee Devil—the Northern Dark Lord himself—pulling Caddy/Persephone down with him—pulling Quentin/ Euboeleus down to Hades too—over the precipice edge of the moment—the existential edge of the knife—when belief in oneself and the value of life disintegrates—confronted by things that make one question everything—it’s the classical Faulknerian moment—the apocalyptic destroying moment—when Renunciation is the only way out…
12. The apocalyptic moment—isn’t it always apocalyptic? Isn’t it the Black Hole that sucks everything into it? Gravity, light, narrative, planets, stars, maybe time and space itself? What if the moment was actually like that? A unique peak Experience—unlike anything else? What if Faulkner fell into it—“sinking” into it like Sartre says? Is that what Absalom is all about—the red dwarf remains of a supernova experience?—Faulkner learning how to lose control of the novel—letting TSATF become a truly irrational experience? Followed by an AA afterglow—trying to recapture what Benjy showed him…
13. Ben Wasson thinking Faulkner lost it—lost control of the novel—that it wasn’t coherent—that the material was out of control—that it had become so personalized—that even Faulkner had lost control of it—that TSATF had become so incoherent and disorganized—that Wasson felt he had to make changes—introducing italics—and inserting breaks to indicate temporal shifts—to somehow make the novel more organized and publishable—all of which was rejected by Faulkner…
14. For example, the way Faulkner fragmented TSATF into strange time “sections” rather than normal chapters—the April Seventh 1928 Section, the June Second 1910 Section, the April Sixth 1928 Section, the April Eighth 1928 Section—why this strange ordering of events and narrative—why make the already irrational life of Quentin and his brothers—even more irrational with temporal sections rather than normal novel chapters?
15. Perhaps because disorganized incoherent time was central to Faulkner’s narrative purposes—along the strategic lines of modernists like Joyce and Proust? Perhaps because the Compson family was so dysfunctional, fatigued and pathological—their story needed a temporal method for perceiving it obliquely?
16. For example, the Benjy section—improvising on time with somebody for whom time is meaningless. Or the Quentin section—needing a temporal sequencing to combine past and present together to give meaning to apocalyptic moments—moments like the Dalton Ames incident on the Bridge—or the long stream of apocalyptic moments retold and relived with Shreve—the catastrophic moments that led to Henry Sutpen falling in love with his own mulatto older half-brother—running away from home and his inheritance—to be with Bon in New Orleans—then going off to the Civil War together and all those wartime experiences reeking with apocalyptic bloody battles—only to end up with Henry tragically shooting Bon dead at the gates of Sutpen’s Hundred
17. As Sartre says in his essay on Faulkner and Time—the story doesn’t “unfold” in a linear, sequential mode. That wouldn’t have conveyed the incoherence, irrationality and self-destructiveness of the Compson family. Instead the reader “sinks” into the moment—into the seamless moment which only sections of time rather than chapters—work to perform rather than just portray the story itself…
18. Sartre says that Faulkner’s present is essentially “catastrophic”—it creeps up on us like a thief in the night—huge unthinkable then disappearing. Beyond the Moment—there is nothing. The moment rises up from sources unknown to us—driving a wedge into the next moment. The moment is always new—forever beginning all over again. The apocalyptic moment—repudiates everything and everybody—just ask Ike McCaslin…
19. Faulkner appropriates this “Apocalypsehood” with long intense stretches of super-sentences—like the 58 pages of Part 4 of ”The Bear” in Go Down Moses—a narrative collage of ledger notes and internal dialogic discovery—about Carothers McCaslin and his shadow-family—the interracial tortured genealogy of blaxploitation intertwining the two Family Trees together thru time—or on a lighter note in Absalom the revealing confrontation between Quentin and Herbert Read—Caddy’s fiancé who seems attracted to Quentin in the same way that Dalton Ames was—both Dalton and Read seeing Caddy’s beauty in Quentin as well. Followed by Quentin’s meditation on that—as well as race and family—supposedly resulting in Quentin saying one has to take people for what they think they are and then leave them alone—but that presents serious problems for Quentin—since Quentin can’t accept himself—for what he thinks he is—because the can of worms Dalton Ames opened up—is too much for the closeted kid to take—the way Quentin feels about Dalton—to say nothing of that other catastrophic relationship—between Henry Compson and Charles Bon—no wonder poor Quentin is perplexed
20. Quentin living in the moment—like someone who is always remembering things in the past as Sartre says—Faulkner’s biographer Frederick Karl saying that had Faulkner “not utilized a complicated temporal method” then he couldn’t have revealed himself and his own sense of family as intensely and obsessively as he did….
21. So that the sections in TSATF are actually temporal modes to see thru the eyes of the Compson family—the shadow-family that lives in the same moment—like Faulkner’s apocryphal family—with all its pastness and presentness locked up in a mausoleum of Time…
22. Which brings up Quentin’s often discussed incestuous desires for Caddy—where does that come from? Karl says that Quentin’s response to incestuous longings for Caddy—resulted in the Fall. The Fall and exile from the Garden of Eden—and that the Fall is the “emblem” of the Fallen South? I don’t think so…
23. But imho it’s Quentin’s feelings for Dalton Ames—that’s what causes the Fall and subsequent Exile from the Garden. The theme of male incest between Henry Sutpen and Charles Bon brought out in Absalom, Absalom—emphasizing the same troublesome perhaps even apocalyptic events between Dalton and Quentin there on the Tallahatchie Bridge—making this male-bonding tragedy “emblematic” of really nothing as great as the Fall of the South or the Fall of the Roman Empire—rather it’s just a minor everyday thing in the affairs of young men and women—wanting authenticity…
24. “Go Down Moses” continues Faulkner’s meditation on male bonding, sexuality, incest and the miscegenational consequences for two Family Trees weaving their roots in and around each other—told in a series of short stories like “Delta Autumn” and “The Bear.” Perhaps all these short stories fit together one way or another. “The Big Shot” foreshadowing Sanctuary with Popeye and Temple Drake—another way of looking at the alienated moment—thru a keyhole in Miss Reba’s whorehouse—or hidden away in Miss Rosa’s attic…
—William Faulkner,
The Wild Palms
I keep coming back to the moment:
“…the saddest word of all there is nothing else in the world its not despair until time its not even time until it was / The last note sounded”—William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury
1. The moment as a withholding of information—the “docuverse” moment that never seems collected or resolved—the open-ended moment as a continuous collapsing of historical details—so that it appears and reappears—dovetailing differently at different times—the moment like a cubist reordering of our ways of perceiving—such as the introduction into the moment of atonality and avant garde modernist modes—the moment as telling and retelling—creating its own Narratology—this unfolding, cutting, clipping and pasting of the moment into itself—playing with words & images in the moment thru filmic montage = Snapshot Poetics…
2. Faulkner seems to me to be a more visceral kind of innovator—than Broch, Musil or Joyce—so that he internalizes interior monologue into the moment for his own practical purposes—rather than posing as a radical modernist experimenter—Faulkner wanting to undercut the traditional Narrative moment—shifting the traditional bildungsroman “disguised” autobiographical moment—toward a more independent authorial moment—moving away from linear narrative—to a more labyrinthine moment—full of convoluted incidents recurring simultaneously—memory, present tense, past tense, indistinct beginnings, indefinite endings—scrambling the traditional Aristotelian narrative strategy—into a new Moment—with quick snapshots inside the stream of consciousness itself—like taking pics into your Heart of Darkness…
3. The Delta moment opening up like a can of worms—“So my novel was created, almost in spite of myself”—Faulkner trying to keep up with Benjy—moving fast baby fast—catching on quick—a pretty good “quick study”—Benjy deserving more than just a page—opening up Benjy into a short story—then the whole ball of wax comes into play—Benjy the idiot savage now—not just the child idiot—but the philoprogenitive moment itself—TSATF opening up like an accordion—with the Caddy and Quentin and Jason snapshots—so that the moment becomes the Yoknapatawpha “privileged moment”—the special moment of the writer embedded in the moment—the boy as idiot-savant suspended in time—the boy-muse inside Faulkner right at that moment—when he gave up—gave up writing for others—freeing Faulkner from his publishers—freeing him from all that—by repudiating Time…
4. So that as Faulkner started writing for himself—thru the divine child archetype that was inside him—the boy inside him that was crying out for freedom and individuation—as astute Jungian critics would say—this Benjy-muse—the divine idiot-savant of Faulkner’s bruised and disappointed imagination—after having his fourth novel rejected for many years—finally just sitting there at his desk—finally giving up trying to please the editors and publishers in NYC—this sort of humble acknowledgment—that Count ‘No’ Count wasn’t maybe as good a writer as he thought—so that by giving up that style of performance art—he could start all over again—just doing what he liked anyway—writing for himself and nobody else—just himself doing the thing he loved to do—sitting at his desk in Rowan Oaks—sipping his whiskey and communing with the dearly beloved dead—who wanted desperately to come back to life again thru him—if only he’d let them come thru—thru the wisteria and bougainvillea night—drifting into his study for an evening of momentary pleasure and storytelling—the thing he was good at and the thing that made him special—the thing that made the moment authentic and real—the act of writing in the now—becoming his own moment—beginning with Benjy’s silent mute Voice—then moving thru Benjy into Quentin’s Voice—and thru Quentin into the Caddy-Dalton Ames Voice—each Voice uniquely telling and retelling the story in its own way—like friends on the verandah at night—doing what Southerners have always done—telling it the way it is—telling it the way it was—telling it conversationally—like I’m doing right now—like how many different ways can you see the light of August—coming down thru the afternoon magnolias and weeping Spanish moss—how many different ways to know the sadness of the melancholy moment—like I’m doing now—sipping my julep and thinking about what’s-his-name—the painter who did all those endless haystacks in the morning—haystacks at noon and later on haystacks in the evening—plus all those lily-pad paintings—by the picturesque pond—there at his home in the French countryside—seeing and looking and breathing it in—and duplicating it—the modernist moment with all its POMO intuitions from the future…
5. The more Faulkner gets into the moment—the more he authors his own Narrative method—like Quentin’s mind moving from TSATF into AA—the Quentin narrative both authorial and interior monologue—narrative coming out of some apocalyptic catastrophic whirlwind moment—dramatized as if present—seen thru flashback—performed thru disguise, defense, withdrawal, hiding, hanging out in the moment—there with Shreve his Cocteau guide thru the liquid mirror…
6. Faulkner’s moment not just literary method—it has its autobiographical dimension—secreting himself inside the moment—peeking out here and there—withholding, retreating, emerging now and then—so that as he’s inside the moment—he plays inside that moment like a boy playing hide & seek—letting the moment become aleatoric in the Huizinga sense—gaming with the moment to find new methods of narrative—both for his work and his life—so that be becomes the moment again & again—in more ways than one—working in the moment—playing in the moment—meandering in the moment—detouring thru the moment—the moment as Labyrinth—with him finding interstices within the moment—little cracks in the World Egg—creating voices thru storytelling in that maze-like moment—using short stories, characters and voices like a deck of cards—playing Solitaire with himself—those long humid Mississippi nights—doing the down-low on the Shadow…
7. This obsession to hide himself within the moment—to disguise himself and protect that disguise—thru long super-sentences that go on for pages—this is the maddening thing I experienced with Absalom, Absalom—the first time I read him long ago—it was frustrating for me because that’s not what I wanted back then—I didn’t want obfuscation and cat-and-mouse games—the way Faulkner hinted at things and hiding himself like a Cheshire Cat inside the moment—just enough to tantalize me and make me identify with Quentin—Quentin who was going thru the same changes I was going thru—but Quentin Compson was frustrating for me—in fact Quentin made me despair and gnaw on my knuckles—down there in the Library lounge late at night—biting my fingernails and talking with the guys just back from Nam—they knew the moment a lot better than I did—all I wanted was Identity the easy way—with books and language—rather than jungle warfare and all that shit—and I stuck with Quentin even tho he made me nervous and depressed—Quentin wasn’t exactly the quintessential Outsider—the one who’d be heroic Exemplar and Knight in Shining Armor—not with that unauthentic alternate lifestyle Quentin lived inside of dontchaknow—so that as I was going thru my own identity crisis at the time—I was struggling thru my first reading of AA and TSATF—thru the Quentin moment—a moment that seemed to accommodate everything but me—hinting at this and that and then hiding like a rat in the wainscoting—the whole identity thing I was going thru in the Sixties—being attracted and repulsed at the same time—to certain campus demigods in the dorms—this desire of mine for some golden Arcadian insight—some kind of Ariadnian thread thru the maze—the very real labyrinth of my mixed-up feelings and bildungsroman boo-hoo time—well, Faulkner’s AA storytelling being truly ironic—sometimes exquisitely relevant to my lifestyle—and yet at other times constantly receding from me just when I thought…
8. Quentin’s identity problem was my problem—not just a prurient “hobby-horse” interest in alternate lifestyles—but rather my own struggle with the moment—my own campus “Dalton Ames” relationships in the dorms and classes and social milieu at the time—playing roles like Faulkner did with his characters—eventually years later publishing what I’d learned which wasn’t much—other then the moment that was always bugging me back then—trying to get me into the storytelling mode—me fighting the gridlock of my feelings—as I descended into the pulp fiction moment—the paperback romance moment that was all around me—getting stuck with Hemingway all the time and his butchy moment—so that I ended up tiptoeing thru the tulips—delicately thru TSATF and AA—thru Quentin’s fuzzy, guilt-ridden consciousness—with no end in sight other than wishing I had my own Cliff Notes to the Now…
9. Quentin Compson coming to me in my dreams back then—complaining about this and that—mostly about the cold winters in Massachusetts—and how snotty everybody was up North—repeating the same Latin phrase over and over again—“Non fui. Sum. Fui. Non sum” (“I wasn’t. I am. I was. I’m not”)—the struggle of this boy with himself—and the moment that was him—the stream of Southern consciousness on that bridge with Dalton Ames—the murder-suicide pact with his sister Caddy—the dramatized ur-event of sexual discovery down there by the Tallahatchie River—seen as “right now” thru flashbacks—me in Dalton’s arms—no longer disguised and distanced—down there looking up at rusting old girders—on the bottom of the bridge—the bridge where Dalton made love to Quentin—the kind of love that Caddy got too—immediate and now—quick and catastrophic the first time—then long and drawn out the second time—no wonder Quentin dreamed of Dalton—no wonder Faulkner wanted different kinds of fonts and typefaces for what happened—mere italics and 50 pages of unpunctuated super-sentences really just don’t do the trick—
10. This autobiographical dimension of the moment—making it relevant to me—a Baby Boomer relevance thing—trying to read it like living it—as Faulkner lived and wrote it—hiding, disguising, retreating, emerging from it—illuminating and yet imaginatively rejecting nearly everything to preserve his disguise—trumping constantly any pretense of omniscient observerhood—in favor of an almost closet-case obsession for unreliable narrative—something I could identify with back then—the unreliable Quentin moment—a delicate moment for recognizing certain things—life as a bad throw of the dice—life compromised by prejudice and guilt—every breath I took—just another fresh cast with dice—dice already loaded against me—making me wonder if identity was really worth it?
11. That’s what Quentin asks—Is Dalton Ames worth it?—that’s the despair Quentin feels—not for Caddy but more for himself—his own virginity—and losing it that way with a man—the same man that took Caddy’s virginity—Dalton truly a young Yankee Devil—the Northern Dark Lord himself—pulling Caddy/Persephone down with him—pulling Quentin/ Euboeleus down to Hades too—over the precipice edge of the moment—the existential edge of the knife—when belief in oneself and the value of life disintegrates—confronted by things that make one question everything—it’s the classical Faulknerian moment—the apocalyptic destroying moment—when Renunciation is the only way out…
12. The apocalyptic moment—isn’t it always apocalyptic? Isn’t it the Black Hole that sucks everything into it? Gravity, light, narrative, planets, stars, maybe time and space itself? What if the moment was actually like that? A unique peak Experience—unlike anything else? What if Faulkner fell into it—“sinking” into it like Sartre says? Is that what Absalom is all about—the red dwarf remains of a supernova experience?—Faulkner learning how to lose control of the novel—letting TSATF become a truly irrational experience? Followed by an AA afterglow—trying to recapture what Benjy showed him…
13. Ben Wasson thinking Faulkner lost it—lost control of the novel—that it wasn’t coherent—that the material was out of control—that it had become so personalized—that even Faulkner had lost control of it—that TSATF had become so incoherent and disorganized—that Wasson felt he had to make changes—introducing italics—and inserting breaks to indicate temporal shifts—to somehow make the novel more organized and publishable—all of which was rejected by Faulkner…
14. For example, the way Faulkner fragmented TSATF into strange time “sections” rather than normal chapters—the April Seventh 1928 Section, the June Second 1910 Section, the April Sixth 1928 Section, the April Eighth 1928 Section—why this strange ordering of events and narrative—why make the already irrational life of Quentin and his brothers—even more irrational with temporal sections rather than normal novel chapters?
15. Perhaps because disorganized incoherent time was central to Faulkner’s narrative purposes—along the strategic lines of modernists like Joyce and Proust? Perhaps because the Compson family was so dysfunctional, fatigued and pathological—their story needed a temporal method for perceiving it obliquely?
16. For example, the Benjy section—improvising on time with somebody for whom time is meaningless. Or the Quentin section—needing a temporal sequencing to combine past and present together to give meaning to apocalyptic moments—moments like the Dalton Ames incident on the Bridge—or the long stream of apocalyptic moments retold and relived with Shreve—the catastrophic moments that led to Henry Sutpen falling in love with his own mulatto older half-brother—running away from home and his inheritance—to be with Bon in New Orleans—then going off to the Civil War together and all those wartime experiences reeking with apocalyptic bloody battles—only to end up with Henry tragically shooting Bon dead at the gates of Sutpen’s Hundred
17. As Sartre says in his essay on Faulkner and Time—the story doesn’t “unfold” in a linear, sequential mode. That wouldn’t have conveyed the incoherence, irrationality and self-destructiveness of the Compson family. Instead the reader “sinks” into the moment—into the seamless moment which only sections of time rather than chapters—work to perform rather than just portray the story itself…
18. Sartre says that Faulkner’s present is essentially “catastrophic”—it creeps up on us like a thief in the night—huge unthinkable then disappearing. Beyond the Moment—there is nothing. The moment rises up from sources unknown to us—driving a wedge into the next moment. The moment is always new—forever beginning all over again. The apocalyptic moment—repudiates everything and everybody—just ask Ike McCaslin…
19. Faulkner appropriates this “Apocalypsehood” with long intense stretches of super-sentences—like the 58 pages of Part 4 of ”The Bear” in Go Down Moses—a narrative collage of ledger notes and internal dialogic discovery—about Carothers McCaslin and his shadow-family—the interracial tortured genealogy of blaxploitation intertwining the two Family Trees together thru time—or on a lighter note in Absalom the revealing confrontation between Quentin and Herbert Read—Caddy’s fiancé who seems attracted to Quentin in the same way that Dalton Ames was—both Dalton and Read seeing Caddy’s beauty in Quentin as well. Followed by Quentin’s meditation on that—as well as race and family—supposedly resulting in Quentin saying one has to take people for what they think they are and then leave them alone—but that presents serious problems for Quentin—since Quentin can’t accept himself—for what he thinks he is—because the can of worms Dalton Ames opened up—is too much for the closeted kid to take—the way Quentin feels about Dalton—to say nothing of that other catastrophic relationship—between Henry Compson and Charles Bon—no wonder poor Quentin is perplexed
20. Quentin living in the moment—like someone who is always remembering things in the past as Sartre says—Faulkner’s biographer Frederick Karl saying that had Faulkner “not utilized a complicated temporal method” then he couldn’t have revealed himself and his own sense of family as intensely and obsessively as he did….
21. So that the sections in TSATF are actually temporal modes to see thru the eyes of the Compson family—the shadow-family that lives in the same moment—like Faulkner’s apocryphal family—with all its pastness and presentness locked up in a mausoleum of Time…
22. Which brings up Quentin’s often discussed incestuous desires for Caddy—where does that come from? Karl says that Quentin’s response to incestuous longings for Caddy—resulted in the Fall. The Fall and exile from the Garden of Eden—and that the Fall is the “emblem” of the Fallen South? I don’t think so…
23. But imho it’s Quentin’s feelings for Dalton Ames—that’s what causes the Fall and subsequent Exile from the Garden. The theme of male incest between Henry Sutpen and Charles Bon brought out in Absalom, Absalom—emphasizing the same troublesome perhaps even apocalyptic events between Dalton and Quentin there on the Tallahatchie Bridge—making this male-bonding tragedy “emblematic” of really nothing as great as the Fall of the South or the Fall of the Roman Empire—rather it’s just a minor everyday thing in the affairs of young men and women—wanting authenticity…
24. “Go Down Moses” continues Faulkner’s meditation on male bonding, sexuality, incest and the miscegenational consequences for two Family Trees weaving their roots in and around each other—told in a series of short stories like “Delta Autumn” and “The Bear.” Perhaps all these short stories fit together one way or another. “The Big Shot” foreshadowing Sanctuary with Popeye and Temple Drake—another way of looking at the alienated moment—thru a keyhole in Miss Reba’s whorehouse—or hidden away in Miss Rosa’s attic…
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