“Waiting,” by Raymond Carver (1938-1988)

I read this poem today for the first time. A message from the past, just for me.

Left off the highway and
down the hill. At the
bottom, hand another left.
Keep bearing left. The road
will make a Y. Left again.
There’s a creek on the left.
Keep going. Just before
the road ends, there’ll be
another road. Take it
and no other. Otherwise,
your life will be ruined
forever. There’s a log house
with a shake roof, on the left.
It’s not that house. It’s
the next house, just over
a rise. The house
where trees are laden with
fruit. Where phlox, forsythia
and marigold grow. It’s
the house where the woman
stands in the doorway
wearing sun in her hair. The one
who’s been waiting
all the time.
The woman who loves you.
The one who can say,
“What’s kept you?”

Plant Hall Spooky Story Contest Winners

Formerly the Tampa Bay Hotel, the University of Tampa’s Plant Hall is the city’s most distinctive landmark overlooking the Hillsborough River, near where its black waters slide into Tampa Bay. It’s a beautiful old building with a rich history, and some say unexplainable things happen in its halls late at night. It’s a building full of stories, and it’s where writers meet twice a year for the University of Tampa’s Low-Residency MFA in Creative Writing program residencies. Inspired by the spooky nature of the surroundings and the inherent weirdness of writers, the program director sponsors a bi-annual contest for the best spooky story, open to writers of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry pursuing UT’s Low-Residency MFA in Creative Writing.

We students have been waiting to hear who won the competition, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who wanted to read the work. So, it’s my honor to share the two winning entries to the January 2015 Plant Hall Spooky Story Contest.

First, here are a few words from our director.

Please join me in congratulating Maggie Felisberto and Carolyn Eichhorn, who are the co-winners of the Plant Hall Spooky Story contest! There were a ton of good entries this time around, including some very impressive demonstrations of writerly ambition. We had poets writing stories, fiction writers trying poems, and nonfiction writers trying a little bit of everything.

—Steve Kistulentz, Director, University of Tampa MFA in Creative Writing

Without further adieu, here’s the first of our two spooky Plant Hall stories.

Office Hours

by Carolyn Eichhorn

CE

I spend a lot of time in this stairwell. The tiny one tucked at the far end of Plant Hall that no one uses. It’s quiet here and I can easily duck staff until everyone has gone home. Everyone but me. I haven’t been home for a long time. During the day, I am another young face, eager to learn, to soak up knowledge. Sociology, Composition, Art History, French. At night, I tuck into a corner unnoticed until day again brings the crowd into which I disappear.

I suppose my things are still at my apartment, though I haven’t been there for some time now. I have what I need. Mostly, that’s quiet. Time to study, to understand all that is available to me here. This week, Dr. Demopoulos has been taking his class through the Renaissance. In halting English, he shares Florentine frescoes, their beauty visibly moving him, and by extension, his rapt students. When he pauses, searching for just the right word, his graying temples tilted in thought, I have to stop myself from suggesting what he might be trying to say. I won’t dare to presume that I could anticipate his insights, but I so want to help, to assist him. I wait with the rest of the class, breathlessly, and with a self-deprecating remark, a half smile, Dr. Demopoulos woos us all into his beautiful world of art, of enlightenment, his accent making every word sound like that a lover. After an impassioned discussion of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, the female students, making up eighty percent of the class, release an audible sigh.

I can tell which of the young students is his current favorite because he is careful not to acknowledge her, not to call on her, as if by ignoring her existence in the classroom, he is saving his special attention for their time later in the privacy of his small office. Her questions will come at the end of his posted office hours, late enough that traffic in the building is minimal, though few are ever down by the tiny stairwell at the far end of Plant Hall.

On a few occasions, the desperate beauty of line or color or theme translates to a passion less academic in nature, always followed by tearful declarations of affection mixed with apology, gentle caresses, and compliments crafted and delivered in accented English complete with dramatic pauses as he searches for just the right word. As I did, they always rush to help him, their empathy desperate, wholly engaging, generous with youth and inexperience. These transgressions in professorial professionalism occur several times over the course of any given semester only to wither in time for the lengthy and difficult final exam.

I watch this over and over with a mix of contempt and regret, as I understand only too well the intoxication of special attention from Dr. Demopoulos. I am obsessed and I cannot turn away each time, observing from the small stairway by his office. The small office where he once made me feel distinctive, worthy of his attention. Before the test results came back. Before his fear and his passionate nature made him wrap those long fingers around my throat and squeeze. Before he tucked me into this place, just off the small stairway at the end of Plant Hall.

Thanks, Carolyn.

You can find more of Carolyn’s writing at http://groundsforsuspicion.blogspot.com.

Next, we have…

The Bruja’s Gift to the Cat

by Maggie Felisberto

MF

The first to wake was the rat at midnight. She uncurled a broken toe, twitched a half-tail, then arched her back to stretch the stiffening out of her spine. She had died that morning. Outside, the moon was new and the clouds were thick. No light eked through the slitted windows of the minaret.

The others came slowly—shrews and voles and salamanders and mice—they stitched themselves back together from their fallen and splintered pieces. A young pipistrelle pulled wings and feet and ribs from the pellet he’d become in death. Though his flesh was missing, he flapped and flew in silent glides, pinpointing each lifeless one to rise within the bell of the minaret with soundless squeaks and echoes. The dead don’t talk, but the pipistrelle didn’t notice his own silence. Two small sparrows flitted at his side. Some of the company, like the lady rat, still bore their skins and faces, but even more had been whittled down to bone.

The last to wake was the cat. She linked herself together, bone to bone to bone to bone until she was complete. Her pearl jaw opened in a silent shout, and the company paid their predator heed. With this witching night, they would meet with the other minarets’ companies—the ones led by the owl, the eagle and the opossum were waiting at the Rathskeller. Each minaret housed a small universe of the dead.

Cat and Rat and Bat pushed and swung the door together until the shrews and voles and salamanders and mice had all escaped the tower top. The sparrows sped through on silent wings, beckoning Bat to join. The pipistrelle broke from the door and followed. The lady rat slipped past next, still favoring her broken toe. The cat checked for any remnants left behind, then shut their home behind her.

The shrews and voles and salamanders and mice, the two sparrows, Bat and Rat stood silent and steady, watching Cat and waiting. It was their first witching, and only Cat could lead them. In life, cat had loved a bruja who had granted Cat seven lives, but who had forgotten seven hearts and seven pairs of lungs and seven skins. Cat had one life left, but had waited forty years as bones for this witching night, a night she could regain a heart, lungs and skin and leave the old hotel again. The bruja smelled of sweat and cigars in Cat’s memory, like the hotel once had as well. Now the hotel smelled of stress and books and old carpeting. Cat knew that it had become a school.

The owl, the eagle and the opossum were already waiting at the bar. The ghost of the bruja served them a sweet vermouth, the wine of the dead. Cat’s company of shrews and voles and salamanders and mice each drank when they were served, the cool red liquid disappearing under invisible tongues and into silent mouths. Cat drank, too—dipped one paw into the wine and licked it clean with a bristled tongue only she could feel. The lady rat and the pipistrelle flanked the old cat on either side. Each of them drank vermouth.

“You know,” the bruja’s ghost said to Rat, “This bar is called the rat’s cellar.” Rat squeaked an inaudible reply.

Once each in their companies had drunk their fill, the owl, the eagle and the opossum led their groups of bone and flesh back to their own minarets. Cat’s company was the last to leave. The bruja’s ghost scratched Cat behind the ears, fingers rubbing solid air where fur would have been. Cat loved the bruja again, but was glad she’d been a bruja of seven and not a witch of nine. Nine-lived cats never died, but after six whole lives, Cat was ready for one last life and then rest.

Cat and Rat and Bat led the shrews and voles and salamanders and mice, along with the two sparrows, back to their home minaret. Cat pushed open the door, and the small boned creatures scurried and fluttered through the door. Rat and Bat were the last to go through, each turning to Cat and beckoning her in. But Cat shook her head. The lady rat and pipistrelle passed through the door with silent sadness.

Then Cat closed the door. Outside, the sun began to rise, and Cat began to grow. Fur and skin, tooth and claw, heart and lungs and liver. Muscle and blood and tongue. The new cat turned her head and licked the fur of her haunches. In this life, she would be a tabby. When she had finished her grooming, she yawned with a loud pop of breath, arched her back in a stretch and darted through the old hotel to the main doors. Once they were open, she would live her last hurrah before returning to the minaret, her home.

Thank you, Maggie.

If you enjoyed that, click the hyperlink to pop over to Maggie’s blog and let her know.

The next Plant Hall Spooky Story Contest is in June, and I hope to post those winning stories as well.

Now go, all of you, and write something that scares the hell out of you.

Today’s word is “笑.” (Xiào)

I’ve been grouchy lately. I have several theories about why that is that I won’t go into here, but I’ve been thinking the past few days that I need to actively seek out joy and focus on the small things in life that make me smile. I need to laugh more. We all know that happiness is healthy. I read just this morning about a recent study that links cynicism and dementia.

So, what am I going to do about it? I decided a couple weeks ago to seek out friends more often, visit my mother and sister more than the once per month that seems to be the trend. Last week I took my Mom to a Lyle Lovett concert in Saint Petersburg, and we had a great time catching up and enjoying the music. She’s one of my favorite people, and I’ve always wanted to be more like her. As a bonus, I ran into two old friends at the Mahaffee Theater while waiting for the concert to start. So, I’d say I’m off to a good start on the road to being a more cheerful guy.

Here’s what prompted this semi-silly post. I’m training for a 15km run in February, so I’m working on increasing my weekly mileage. I ran 6 miles this morning and felt great. You can’t beat fall in Florida for perfect, cool, sunny weather in the mornings. On the way out, I passed by my youngest son’s middle school, and some of the older kids happened to be out on the field for recess or P.E. A group of three or four of them tried out their taunting skills on the old man jogging by with “run, Forrest, run,” and “work them skinny thighs!” As I continued to run, that encounter struck me as increasingly funny, and I laughed out loud as I tried to remember what being in 8th grade was like.

On the way back home, something caught my eye–the sun reflecting off a shiny surface on the sidewalk. I saw what looked like a Chinese character in red and, curiosity whetted, I turned back to look. What I found was a small, magnetic clip-on thingy, possibly intended as a bookmark, with the Chinese character for “laugh” printed on one side.

I recognize that I’m one of those people who looks for meaning in things, and I know I have to moderate that tendency with common sense, but this seemed like a benevolent message directly to me from the Universe. A sign, if you will. As soon as I got home, I went to the computer, dripping sweat on the keyboard, and looked up a pronunciation of the character in Chinese. What a fun language. Turns out it also means “smile.” I’ll be walking around the house today enjoying the taste of the word Xiào, and smiling.

Untitled, 2007

I found this in a journal I wrote in Baghdad during the “Surge.”

In Mesopotamia the god is angry,
The air stinks and the dogs are mangy.
Eye-for-eye and hand-for-hand,
And the blood of the people soaks the land.
From deep inside the Green Zone’s walls,
Send Hershey bars and soccer balls
to soothe angry fathers’ hearts
while they police the body parts.

Happy Holidays, and the Dog with No Name

Dog

Dear Readers,

Thanks so much for visiting now and then. Happy Holidays from me and from this cute critter I rescued yesterday from the Humane Society of Tampa. He and my family became instant friends. Now, it’s time to train him to be a polite member of society, but…he is currently known as the Dog with No Name. That doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue while teaching him to sit and breaking him of his paws-on-the-chest habit. So, I wonder if anyone out there on the interwebs has a clue what we might call this new addition to our household. Send me some ideas, won’t you?

Thanks.

February 2014 update: We named him Dexter. It seems to fit.

Denis Johnson’s Jesus’ Son

Image

I recently finished Denis Johnson’s collection of short stories called Jesus’ Son. The book follows a drug-addled character known as “Fuckhead” through several misadventures that are likely to produce a range of emotions from empathy to disgust, humor to anger. I met Denis Johnson back in June at the University of Tampa MFA summer residency where he appeared for a readings, question-and-answer, and had lunch with a small group of us star struck writing students. I seriously doubt he’d remember me, but I remember him as a polite and intense man with no time for bullshit. I liked him.

The overall effect of Jesus’ Son on me, once I got over being reminded that a layer of our society exists in a constant state of hopelessness fueled by a circular cycle of alcoholism, hard drugs, and bad decisions, was to ask myself what it is in human nature that nudges some of us toward self-destruction. I think these stories illustrate, like old-time fairy tales that teach children to obey their elders, what can happen when we value escapism more than establishing and maintaining meaningful relationships. To the question of how people can descend into a state that allows them to commit terrible acts without remorse, the stories in Jesus’ Son may provide some insight.
Denis Johnson may not have intended any sort of instruction when writing these stories, and perhaps they are as pointless as they seem, the ramblings of wasted losers clinging to the underbelly of society. I prefer to assign some sort of purpose to stories like these to counteract the realistic horror I find in them, and if readers are looking for a modern set of cautionary tales, Jesus’ Son fits the bill.

 

Reading Journal #2 Stefan Kiesbye, Your House Is on Fire, Your Children All Gone (Penguin, 2012)

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My second novel annotation for September is a wonderful little angstfest that would be a great October read…if you enjoy squirming in your seat and–what’s the German word for ‘heebie-jeebies?’ It’s not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach.

As always, these annotations are bound to contain SPOILERs, so if you haven’t read the book, I recommend you do.

 

Topic: The Effects of Multiple Narrators in Stephan Kiesbye’s Your House Is on Fire, Your Children All Gone

Excerpt 1, Martin p. 72: Alex Frick’s Boyhood Crush on Anke Hoffman

Last year, Alex had fallen mortally in love with Anke and had tried to get her to unbutton her blouse, and she had declined. He’d tried the whole fall and enlisted Broder as the messenger for his lovelorn letters.

Comment:

This passage serves as the ‘gun on the mantelpiece’ that later discharges in the form of Alex casually raping Anke in the back of a sedan. Without the knowledge that Alex had wanted Anke from childhood and been frustrated, the rape would have seemed disconnected and improbable. Knowing what we do from Martin’s account of Alex’s feelings, as well as other descriptions of Alex’s psychopathic behavior, Anke’s rape, while shocking, is no surprise.

Excerpt 2, Martin p. 73: Christian’s Atonement

“You didn’t bring me any luck with your sister,” Alex said.

“She didn’t like you,” Broder said brightly. We all laughed; it was the truth. Even quiet Christian laughed. He was a pale boy, his hair and eyebrows so light he looked naked. He had lost his father two years before, and when he changed his sports clothes at school, we could see the scrapes and bruises on his arms and back. But he never complained.

Comment:

Having smothered his sister at the age of seven and willfully, if indirectly, caused the death of his father at age eleven, Christian’s passive behavior makes sense. Showing his acceptance of his mother’s constant physical abuse through another’s eyes deepens this character. It hints at a need in Christian to be punished for his crimes. He is no less an irredeemable monster, but at least he seems to have a sort of twisted conscience.

 

Excerpt 3, Linde p. 82: The Early Redemption of Martin

Then there was Martin, the Gendarme’s son, who’d asked me for a barrette I’d worn when we’d run into each other the previous week. Was he serious about me? He was only sixteen and owned no moped, only an old bicycle. Last winter he’d been with the other boys the day Broder Hoffman had drowned. But only Alex Frick had been found guilty and been sent to a correctional facility. Since that accident, Martin acted different, seemed older, more mature than even Torsten. Anke said that she liked Martin best, but that none of my admirers had a future and that her mother had admonished her that we should save ourselves for better men.

Comment:

Linde and Anke liked Martin best of all the village boys, despite his relative youth and poverty in comparison with the others. Linde describes Martin as acting more mature and seeming older after Broder’s death. Seeing Martin positively changed by an experience casts him as the only person in Hemmersmoor who may not be a complete psychopath. Additionally, this passage shows Anke’s early lack of faith in Linde’s future prospects, which foreshadows Anke’s future rationalization for betraying her friend.

Excerpt 5, Linde p.105: Anke’s Desperation

“It looks like Rutger Kamphoff,” I said.

“He’s chasing after Anna.” Sylvia was the tallest of us and had been the first to get breasts. She’d kissed two boys, while neither Johann nor Torsten had ever asked me again if I wanted to kiss them behind the school or by the river at night.

“It can’t be,” Anke said, infuriated.

“Sure can,” Sylvia replied.

“He’ll never marry her. Never ever.”

“As if you stood a chance.”

Anke closed her book and pouted.

Comment:

Linde first reveals more of her own insecurity about her looks, her prospects with boys, and the beginnings of a future disdain for all males. She then shows Anke’s desperation to win Rutger and live in the Big House, and a motive for Anke’s brutal betrayal years later after she drops Anna Kamphoff’s baby on the floor.

 

Excerpt 6, Martin p. 164: Linde likes it rough.

After dark the scars on her face vanished, and her skin glowed very white, and she wrapped herself around me and demanded that I slap her face or hit her with my belt. Only when I obeyed her did she permit me to unbutton my pants.

 

Comment:

In this account of a typical sexual encounter with Linde, Martin reveals that her father’s disfiguring attack years earlier did more psychological damage to Linde than physical. We see through Martin’s experience what could never be revealed as effectively by Linde herself.

 

The Takeaway:

As in William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying, Kiesbye’s Your House Is on Fire presents multiple narrators with chapters headed by each narrator’s name rather than a number. Kiesbye does not overlap narrations in the same way as Faulkner, who shows different narrators describing the same events. Instead, Kiesbye’s chapters are separate events, most of which can stand alone as separate and complete stories.

While Faulkner deepened each of his characters by showing individual reactions to shared events and internal thoughts from different points of view about those events, Kiesbye uses his separate and distinct story-chapters to reveal characters through the observations of one of four narrators.

Perhaps Kiesbye could have created a deeper empathy with his characters by adopting Faulkner’s method of overlapping narrations and showing how each reacts to the same events as the others, but Kiesbye’s choice to reveal characters through the eyes of his four narrators is nearly as effective. Kiesbye uses one narrator to show the characteristics of each of the others, providing motivation for and foreshadowing of each character’s later actions, or in the case of this novel, crimes.

Reading Journal #1 William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying, from Novels 1930-1935 (The Library of America, 1985)

I’m deep-reading and annotating two novels per month and choosing a topic to discuss as a requirement for the University of Tampa MFA program. Since I’m often at a loss (for time) for blog content, it seems like a good idea to post the contents of my reading journal here.

The latest creepy novel I read was Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying. It struck me as a weird coincidence that I chose this book for the same month as Kiesbye’s Your House Is on Fire. The two have their similarities. I enjoyed Kiesbye’s novel much more than Faulkner’s. Yes, I said it, and it’s true. Some books you keep and read over and over. For me, As I Lay Dying isn’t one of those. Having said that, I did learn an effective and artful technique from Mr. Faulkner for character development. Here’s the spiel, which may not tell you much if you haven’t slogged through the book. (Spoiler Alert)

Topic:

    The Effects of Overlapping Narrators in Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying: Three examples of how showing the same scene from different points of view adds depth to the narrative.

Darl’s Departure

Excerpt A: Cora, p.17

“What you want, Darl?” Dewey Dell said, not stopping the fan, speaking up

quick, keeping even him from her. He didn’t answer. He just stood and looked at

his dying mother, his heart too full for words.

Excerpt B: Dewey Dell, p.18

“What you want, Darl?” I say.

“She is going to die,” he says. And old turkey-buzzard Tull coming to

watch her die but I can fool them.

“When is she going to die?” I say.

“Before we get back,” he says.

“Then why are you taking Jewel?” I say.

“I want him to help me load,” he says.

Comment:

According to Cora, Darl says nothing, whereas Dewey Dell’s is an account of a telepathic conversation between her and Darl that reveals the intimate nature of their relationship, Darl’s knowledge of Addie’s impending death, and a load of baggage about Dewey Dell’s sexual encounter with Lafe in the ‘secret shade’ of the cotton field, all communicated without spoken words.

Addie’s Death

Excerpt A: Peabody, p. 31

Behind us the girl says, “Paw.” I look at her, at her face.

“You better go quick,” I say.

When we enter the room she is watching the door. She looks at me. Her eyes

look like lamps blaring up just before the oil is gone. “She wants you to go

out,” the girl says.

“Now, Addie,” Anse says, “when he come all the way from Jefferson to git

you well?” She watches me: I can feel her eyes. It’s like she was shoving at me

with them…I leave the room. Beyond the porch Cash’s saw snores steadily into the board. A minute later she calls his name, her voice harsh and strong.

“Cash,” she says; “you, Cash!”

Excerpt B: Darl, p. 32

He [Anse] stoops laying his hand on hers. For a while yet she looks at him, without reproach, without anything at all, as if her eyes alone are listening to the irrevocable cessation of his voice. Then she raises herself, who has not moved in ten days. Dewey Dell leans down, trying to press her back.

“Ma,” she says; “ma.”

She is looking out the window, at Cash stooping steadily at the board in

the failing light, laboring on toward darkness and into it as though the

stroking of the saw illumined its own motion, board and saw engendered.

“You, Cash,” she shouts, her voice harsh, strong, and unimpaired. “You,

Cash!”

He looks up at the gaunt face framed by the window in the twilight. It is

a composite picture of all time since he was a child. He drops the saw and lifts

the board for her to see, watching the window in which the face has not moved.

He drags a second plank into position and slants the two of them into their

final juxtaposition, gesturing toward the ones yet on the ground, shaping with

his empty hand in pantomime the finished box. For a while still she looks down

at him from the composite picture, neither with censure nor approbation. Then

the face disappears.

She lies back and turns her head without so much as glancing at pa. She

looks at Vardaman; her eyes, the life in them, rushing suddenly upon them; the

two flames glare up for a steady instant. Then they go out as though someone had

leaned down and blown upon them.

Comment:

    From Dr. Peabody’s limited and reproachful point of view, his work as physician is finished the moment Addie banishes him from the death room. He is outraged that Anse Bundren waited until it was too late to call him and horrified that Cash would work on Addie’s coffin a stone’s throw from her bedside window.

Darl’s account, despite his physical absence, is full of his perception of the meaning of the scene to everyone present. He appears to know their hearts by the same preternatural power that allows him to see Cash’s reaction to Addie’s voice and the light snuffing from her eyes.

Carrying the Coffin from House to Wagon

Excerpt A: Cash, p.62

It won’t balance. If you want it to tote and ride on a balance, we will have–”

“Pick up. Goddamn you, pick up.”

“I’m telling you it wont tote and it wont ride on a balance unless–”

“Pick up! Pick up!, goddamn your thick-nosed soul to hell, pick up!”

It won’t balance. If they want it to tote and ride on a balance, they will have

Excerpt B: Darl, p.64

We carry it down the hall, our feet harsh and clumsy on the floor, moving

with shuffling steps, and through the door.

“Steady it a minute, now,” pa says, letting go. He turns back to shut and

lock the door, but Jewel will not wait.

“Come on,” he says in that suffocating voice. “Come on.”

We lower it carefully down the steps. We move, Balancing it as though it

were something infinitely precious, our faces averted, breathing through our

teeth to keep our nostrils closed. We go down the path, toward the slope.

“We better wait,” Cash says. “I tell you it aint balanced now. We’ll need

another hand on that hill.”

“Then turn loose,” Jewel says. He will not stop. Cash begins to fall

behind, hobbling to keep up, breathing harshly; then he is distanced and Jewel

carries the entire front end alone, so that, tilting as the path begins to

slant, it begins to rush away from me and slip down the air like a sled upon

invisible snow, smoothly evacuating atmosphere in which the sense of it is still

shaped.

“Wait, Jewel,” I say. But he will not wait. He is almost running now and

Cash is left behind. It seems to me that the end which I now carry alone has no

weight, as though it coasts like a rushing straw upon the furious tide of

Jewel’s despair. I am not even touching it when, turning, he lets it overshoot

him, swinging, and stops it and sloughs it into the wagon bed in the same motion

and looks back at me, his face suffused with fury and despair.

“Goddamn you. Goddamn you.”

Comment:

As he does in the one previous instance of his narration on page 53, Cash states the bare physical facts of the situation. He is establishing that he warned the others of the imbalanced state of the coffin, and that they ignored him. This short section under Cash’s name ends abruptly, mid-sentence, as though once the coffin passed the tipping point and fell, he simply moved on to the next problem to solve. This chapter reveals Cash’s mind as logical and methodical—in no hurry to rush to conclusions and unable to understand why others act rashly. He doesn’t comment on Jewel’s swearing, only on the inevitability of his prediction that his mother’s carefully crafted coffin “won’t balance.” Cash makes the point that the coffin is unbalanced because Addie’s body was wrongfully placed upside-down in the box to avoid crushing her dress. Perhaps he is upset and expressing it in the only way he can, by calmly stating one more fact.

Though in Darl’s account, he urges Jewel to wait, Cash isn’t aware of Darl’s attempt to help, only of Jewel’s angry impatience. It isn’t in Cash to think of the details Darl shows in his account of the same event.

 

The Takeaway:

Like the differently colored lenses of cinema 3-D glasses, each scene with narrator overlap creates depth. Faulkner’s maddening head hopping is the price we readers pay for such profound character development. By the end of the novel, we know each of the characters more thoroughly than some of our own family members.

In my opinion, Faulkner’s relentless changes of point of view were too much to endure for enjoyment alone. However, a deeper reading reveals the art beneath the confusion. I suppose there is no requirement for great art to be easily accessible, and I found this revered novel nearly unintelligible on the first reading. It was during a second trip down the road and across the river with Faulkner that I gained an understanding of the nature of each of the characters and their relationships.