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William Faulkner

 I am reading Faulkner again. I think the last time I read his work was while I was getting my undergraduate. Texas A&M curriculum for engineers at that time included a fair amount of liberal arts elective requirements (including language studies). I took several anthropology and literature courses. They were relatively easy ways to hold my GPA up against my mediocre calculus grades.

I think I read "The Bear" (yes kids, a story by that name was around for a long time before Hulu existed). I don't think I read any of his novels. This time I am reading a collection short stories. 

As a young man, I did not appreciate how beautiful and compelling his writing is. I could not appreciate the feelings of emotional intensity. Even though I really like(d) my own 50-cent words and subjective parenthetical language, I think I struggled with his prose.

Today I am mesmerized by his story telling. These stories are sad, and lovely, and moving - in ways 20 year old Robert could not allow himself. I don't think I had enough appreciation and acceptance of the joy and sorrow of life at that time to realize how his craft moves. I remember feeling like it was arcane and out of touch. Now, with the fortune to still be alive in spite of myself, I can feel it. In some way I also feel it in my memories of those moments my life has past through. There is a long line in "A Rose for Emily" where he talks about older people viewing their past as a meadow they are wandering around in and connected to in ways that, historically speaking, never happened. Apparently, almost 100 years ago when he wrote that (in his mid-30s), he knew me.

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