He was a man past middle age, who with nothing to start
with but sound health and a certain grim and puritanical affinity for
abstinence and endurance had made a fair farm out of the barren scrap of
hill land which he had bought at less than a dollar and acre and married and
raised a family on it and fed and clothed them all and even educated them
after a fashion, taught them at least hard work, so that as soon as they
became big enough to resist him, boys and girls too, they left home (one was
a professional nurse, one a prostitute; the oldest had simply vanished
completely) so that there now remained the small neat farm which likewise
had been worked to the point of mute and unflagging mutual hatred and
resistance but which could not leave him and so far had not been able to
eject him but which possibly knew that it could and would outlast him, and
his wife who possibly had the same, perhaps not, hope for resisting, but
maybe staff and prop for bearing and enduring.
W. Faulkner |
|
Instead of the staccato cadences of short, choppy
sentences, we hear the flowing cadences of Faulkner’s inordinately long
sentences; in fact, the entire paragraph is one long sentence, with the ebb
and flow of a minister intoning dire predictions about the wages of a life
of sin. Next, Faulkner almost miraculously compresses one man’s history
from youth to “past middle age”—including what happened to his five children
and an observation on his wife’s personality—into one brief vignette.
Finally, the language is far more demanding than Hemingway’s: observe such
words as “affinity,” “eject,” “puritanical,” “endurance,” and “abstinence.” |