My Top 10:

Peter Lorre in Fritz Lang's brilliant M

1. M
2. King Kong
3. Duck Soup
4. I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang
5. The Invisible Man
6. The Blood of a Poet
7. The Mummy
8. Little Women
9. Dinner at Eight
10. The Private Life of Henry VIII

Academy Awards:

• Best Picture:  Cavalcade
• Best Director:  Frank Lloyd  (Cavalcade)
• Best Actor:  Charles Laughton  (The Private Life of Henry VIII)
• Best Actress:  Katharine Hepburn  (Morning Glory)
• Best Adaptation:   Little Women (from the novel by Louisa May Alcott)
• Best Original Story:  One Way Passage

TSPDT Consensus Top 5 Films:

• M – #53
• Duck Soup – #103
• King Kong – #115
• Trouble in Paradise – #162
• Love Me Tonight – #405

Top 5 Awards Points:

1. Cavalcade – 265
2. I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang – 185
3. Little Women – 175
4. Lady for a Day – 170
5. A Farewell to Arms – 160

AFI Top 100 Films:

• King Kong – #43  (1998) / #41  (2007)
• Duck Soup – #85  (1998) / #60  (2007)

Nighthawk Awards:

Katharine Hepburn won the Oscar in 1933 for Morning Glory, but should have actually won for Little Women

• Best Picture:  M
• Best Director:  Fritz Lang  (M)
• Best Actor:  Peter Lorre  (M)
• Best Actress:  Katharine Hepburn  (Little Women)
• Best Supporting Actor:  Adolph Menjou  (A Farewell to Arms)
• Best Supporting Actress:  Elsa Lanchester  (The Private Life of Henry VIII)
• Best Adapted Screenplay:  I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang (from the book by Robert Burns)
• Best Original Screenplay:  M
• Best Foreign Film:  Boudu Saved from Drowning

Nighthawk Notables:

• Best Film to Watch over and over:  Duck Soup
• Best Scene:  The revelation of The Invisible Man
• Best Ending:  The dark despair of I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang
• Best Line  (comic):  “Go, and never darken my towels again.”  (Duck Soup – Groucho Marx)
• Best Line  (dramatic):  “How do you live?”  “I steal.”  (I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang – Helen Vinson and Paul Muni – final lines)
• Read the Book – Don’t See the Movie:  Oliver Twist

Ebert Great Films  (in order of being added):

• M
• Trouble in Paradise
• Duck Soup
• King Kong

This is the last combination of years as the Academy made their dates of eligibility August 1, 1932 to December 31, 1933, trying to align with the calendar year.  It was also the period when the National Board of Review decided to start giving out a Best Picture of the year, instead of simply a Top 10.  Horror films continued to be fantastic (three of my top 10), and once again, the best film of the year was a Fritz Lang film.  There is a current general consensus on the best films of the year (M, King Kong, Duck Soup) and they combined for 0 Oscar nominations.

Film History: Acts of the U.S. government allow for the vertical integration of production companies, essentially allowing them to act like monopolies, something that will last until the Supreme Court bans the practice in 1948.  Sergei Eisenstein flops in the Western Hemisphere, as, defeated by Hollywood, and unable to finish Que Viva Mexico, he returns to Moscow.  In response to AMPAS calls for wage cuts due to the Great Depression, both the Screenwriters Guild and the Screen Actors Guild are formed.  Flying Down to Rio is released, the first film teaming Fred Astaire with Ginger Rogers.  Fatty Arbuckle dies, 12 years after being banned by Will Hays.  Hedy Kiesler (soon to be Hedy Lamarr) creates an international sensation with her long nude scene in Ecstasy.  David O. Selznick moves from RKO to MGM, run by his father-in-law, Louis B. Mayer (prompting the comment “the son-in-law also rises”).  According to Fritz Lang he is offered the position of film supervisor by Josef Goebbels.  He flees for Paris that night, leaving behind his wife, Thea von Harbou, who had joined the Nazi Party the year before.  Darryl F. Zanuck forms 20th Century Pictures, which two years later will merge with the Fox Film Corporation.  The British Film Institute forms in London in September of 1933.

Academy Awards: Cavalcade was only the second film to win Best Picture and Best Director and according to Inside Oscar “received 50 percent more votes than first runner-up, A Farewell to Arms, with Little Women in third place”, but today it is largely forgotten (and not widely admired).  When Frank Lloyd won for Best Director, Will Rogers simply said “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.  Come up and get it, Frank!”  Except while he was talking to Lloyd, Frank Capra, nominated for Lady for a Day, got up, thinking he had won.  Capra had come in second, two votes ahead of George Cukor.  May Robson had finished a less distant second to Hepburn (20% behind) and Paul Muni close behind Laughton (10% behind).  A Farewell to Arms becomes the first film to ever win multiple technical awards (winning Best Cinematography and Best Sound).  Walt Disney winning the second of 8 consecutive Oscars for Short Subject (Cartoon), expresses thanks for winning an “Oscar,” the first public use of the term.  His Three Little Pigs gets 80% of the vote.

• Worst Oscar:  Best Art Direction for Cavalcade
• Worst Oscar Nomination:  Best Picture for She Done Him Wrong
• Worst Oscar Omission:  Best Sound for King Kong
• Worst Oscar Category:  Best Original Story – three lackluster candidates when they ignored King Kong, Duck Soup and Trouble in Paradise
• Best Oscar Category:  Best Actress – three of the four best and the other one was for Katharine Hepburn, who was already one of the nominees

Awards: The National Board of Review starts giving out, in addition to its Top 10 films and Top 5 Foreign Films, actual awards for Best Picture and Best Foreign Film.  For 1932, the winners are I Am a Fugitive for a Chain Gang (a full fourteen months before it would be nominated by the Academy) and A Nous La Liberte.  For 1933, the winners are Topaze (very difficult to see now) and Hertha’s Erwachen, a German film so forgotten now that the IMDb has no user votes and no user comments on the film.  It is hard to verify that the two Foreign films actually won.  Tom O’Neill’s book Movie Awards lists them as winners in the yearly recap, but not in the text and the official NBR list does not indicate any winners among the top 5 Foreign Films.

The Story of Temple Drake (1933): the pre-code film that helped bring on the Production Code

Over-looked film of 1933:

The Story of Temple Drake (dir. Stephen Roberts)

The film world has not been particularly kind to William Faulkner.  He worked in Hollywood for a while, but never particularly thrived there.  At one point he said that he was more comfortable at home than at a studio office and asked to write at home.  The studio was surprised to find that he went all the way home to Oxford, MS (Faulkner’s problems working in the industry and the heavy drinking he did in Hollywood are the basis for John Mahoney’s character in Barton Fink).  Faulkner would return in the 40’s and be a part of the two brilliant Bogie / Bacall / Hawks films: To Have and Have Not and The Big Sleep, but would fail to get Oscar nominations for either one (Have, based on Hemingway’s novel is the only film to make use of two Nobel Prize winning writers).  Faulkner’s own novels have had mixed success on screen, with several adaptations in the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s, none of them getting much in the way of an audience or critical approval and several of them getting big plot changes (The Sound and the Fury) or even title changes (Pylon was filmed as The Tarnished Angels).  Many of these films are now hard to find.

You could say part of the problem is Faulkner’s style, a stream of consciousness that doesn’t lend well to adaptation.  Part of the problem as well is that Faulkner’s dark, Southern Gothic aspects (rape, murder, incest) weren’t meant for films being made under the auspices of the Production Code.  But then why is it that no feature film has been made from one of his novels since 1969?  Several of his novels would lend themselves well to a new cinematic treatment and no one has bothered to make the attempt.  The prime example of what can be done when given the chance with a Faulkner novel is that The Story of Temple Drake, the first film version of Sanctuary, is probably the best film version ever made from a Faulkner novel.

Yet, in these days of DVD releases, with three box sets of “Pre-Code Classics” it still remains that the only place to see The Story of Temple Drake is on YouTube.  Given that Joseph Breen, the enforcer of the Production Code demanded that it never be re-released and it was lost until the fifties and still remains widely unavailable today, completely unavailable on either video or DVD, rarely even being aired on TCM, it is amazing it can even be seen on the web, but there it is, in its entirety.  I am not a fan of uploading copyrighted content to YouTube, but when a company (in this case, Paramount) either refuses to make a film available or no longer seems to have a copyright hold, then I relent.  Films should be available for people to see, and for classic films, if the companies won’t do it, and users can, they should.

Of course, there are numerous reasons why this film should be made available.  First of all, there are the Faulkner fans, and believe me, I am not the only one out there.  Most of the film versions of Faulkner’s novels are hard to find, but we’ll try to find them, because even if they’re terrible, it’s a chance to see it.  Then there is the historical aspect of the film.  It has been widely written about, is incorporated in many film history books as “the film banned by the Code,” with several pages describing the film, its plot and various critical reactions in Thomas Doherty’s Pre-Code Hollywood: Sex, Immorality and Insurrection in American Cinema, 1930-1934.  Then of course, there is the other reason to see it.  It’s a good film.

Again, it is probably the best adaptation of any Faulkner novel.  Tarnished Angels is mediocre at best, The Sound and the Fury and The Long Hot Summer suffer a bit from the overwrought Southern melodrama pushed in by the screenwriters, Intruder in the Dust and The Reivers are good, but not great and the Lee Remick version of Sanctuary is near impossible to find (Sound and the Fury isn’t easy either – I bought a VHS copy off Ebay several years ago).  But Story is a good film, with a very solid, sexually lurid performance from Miriam Hopkins as Temple.  It captures many of the best aspects of the novel (including putting the baby in a drawer to sleep to keep it safe from the rats), holds well enough to the story and the horror of the novel without bottoming out into the truly lurid details that even the Pre-Code Era wouldn’t have allowed on screen.  Yes, at the end of the film there is the trial and that seems to sum up and conclude the film in true Hollywood fashion, but it moves well, has good cinematography, is well directed and captures the essence of the novel more than I would have thought possible.  So see it, while you still can, even if you have to watch it online.  Because films are made to be seen and film history deserves to be preserved, even if it’s only in 10 minute long clips on YouTube.

Jenny and I have had some massive email brainstorming sessions about how to play out this 200th post, and this is what we’ve come up with for your reading pleasure: remixing clothes from our pasts that we haven’t worn in ages (and should probably be donated somewhere, if not for Sentimental Value) and having STORYTIME about said clothes. Which is all the more fitting for FFW, because my very first post was about my clothes and their happy/sad stories.

Could I look any more scowly in this photo? I think it’s because I’m dissatisfied with the pseudo-phallic crotch-knot.

No crotch-knot this time. The dress in its full glory.

In high school, I wore this dress all the frickin’ time. I’d bought it at Crossroads Recycled Clothing — which is where I also went and bought some boots during a bomb threat at school — and it appealed to this pseudo-vintage-loving self buried deep inside my outward self, which was often more invested in dressing “punk/riot grrrl/zine kid,” etc. Often my memories are interpreted through the lens of memories of photographs, and the photograph that this dress reminds me of the most is a class portrait of my Calculus BC class. I had big, curly hair (I guess that much hasn’t changed about me, but my choice of stylists has improved a lot) and had that sort of stick-thin figure that rapidly disappeared in my first year of college, and we were all standing in front of a board that depicted some sort of equation or proof — maybe about Riemann sums or the proof of a derivative/function/integral? (I’m sorry, Mrs. Rachtman!) As soon as I tried to remix this dress, I realized all over again why I NEVER wear this dress anymore. It just feels dowdy to me in a bad way, and my sad attempt at showing the underslip only resulted in failure.

Kova & T t-shirt, nostalgia skirt, UO scarf

This particular skirt is from my mother’s wardrobe when she was a young woman. May I also add that she was a young woman with a tiny waist. The tiny waist has prevented me from wearing this pleated and spotted pastel skirt in public, but I’m nostalgic about it because my mom didn’t keep many of her old clothes, and she gave this one to me a long time ago. It’s been in my possession/closet for ages, and I keep thinking I’ll wear it, but there are a lot of things that aren’t so much in its favor — it’s pastel pink (not “my color”), it’s too small, it’s an awkward length. Still. I refuse to donate it.

xo, mw

.

I’m glad Meggy ended her post on a skirt that once belonged to her mother because all of my nostalgia outfits are completely entwined with memories of my mother. One of my first memories of vanity is standing outside of the bathroom and crying while my mother was applying make-up because I didn’t want her to be more beautiful than she already was. I also remember crying on an outdoor walk after my mom bent down to admire a flower, and like the brat that I was and still am today, I said, “You think the flower is pretty but not me?” I must have been four or five at the time. Anyway, after a lifetime of watching my mom getting ready and wearing beautiful clothes on her tall, swan-graceful frame, and her asking me to come into her bedroom while she tried on outfit after outfit (there was the all white silk pantsuit, the jewel toned ankle length floral skirt with lace-up boots, several 50’s polka dotted dresses with cinched waists, the red silk jumpsuit with matching neck scarf, the seafoam green silk qipao with slits so high she could only wear them to events where she didn’t have to sit down)–is it any wonder that my style has always been and is still greatly influenced by my mother? It’s my mom’s birthday tomorrow and my heart is full of love and gratitude to her as my fashion debt to her (not to mention all the other more spiritually taxing debts) keeps growing.

Scintillating blue skirt handmade by my mother, H & M black top, incredibly heavy vintage hammered belt (reminiscent of a belt my mom gave me 12 years that I lost 7 years ago)

Same shiny skirt but in silver, mom’s silver necklace, mom’s earrings

My mom used to work as a seamstress for a tiny fashion label run out of this lady Lisa’s apartment. Sometimes, she took me over there and Lisa’s mother, who we all called ‘mom,’ would make me sandwiches, which was amazing to me because my parents never bought sliced bread, had a toaster, or owned more than 2 forks until I was 15 (and actually we only had 2 forks in our home until I was 18 and a family friend donated their old IKEA silverware set to us.) I loved going to work with my mom because Lisa wore big jewelry and went to Italy in the summers for inspiration. Lisa was incredibly generous. She hired my mom even though my mom barely spoke English. In the mornings, she came down to help my mom parallel park our car because my mom was too scared to do it, gave us gifts all the time, and at one point, she hired my grandmother, who was newly arrived from China and living with us, to help with sewing and construction. The silver necklace I’m wearing in the second photo (which is having its last gasp before all the beads fall off) was a gift Lisa picked up for my mom in Italy. Up until a few years ago, she still sent us Christmas cards and sometimes little earrings in the mail. In the past few years, we’ve fallen out of touch. (Lisa, if you ever happen across this blog: my mom and I love you!)

Both of those skirts are Lisa’s designs. We used to own dozens of skirts and dresses and jackets in this fabric. I’ve never seen that fabric anywhere else–it’s so iridescent and shimmery, but not at all in a gaudy way. The silver skirt has a very wide cummerbund like waistband. My mom wore these two skirts all the time until I started begging her to let me wear them. I wore both skirts pretty much every week in high school after I got over my I’m a badass punker who only wears wide leg jeans phase. (I wasn’t as cool as Meggy to know about riot grrl yet.) I wore both skirts all year round. During the summer, with sandals, and during the winter, with clunky combat shoes and sometimes with a scarf tied around my neck (also inspired by my mom.) I wore them all the time in college too, often with a pinstriped blazer I got from H & M and Pepé Le Pew boots that I’ll show you guys another time. I can’t really wear these skirts anymore because they are ridiculously big on me (I must have worn them really low-waisted when I was younger,) and because they look so so so insanely 80s.

Here I’m wearing a green wool skirt my mom passed down to me in high school, around the time when I became obsessed with clothes again. (In elementary school, I used to come home and take out all of my mom’s dresses and wear them in front of her full-length mirror when she wasn’t home and then by 5:30, half an hour before she came home, I would put them all back. I never told my mom about it until one day I checked her closet and all of her dresses were gone. It turned out she had thrown her old clothes into a dumpster to make room in her closet, and only years later did I confess that I had been secretly coveting them for years! After that, I went through a phase when I dressed really badly and was bitter about everything.)

I used to wear this exact outfit (but with flat red mary janes or knock-off blue Converses with a cherry print) about once a week when I was a sophomore in college. I’m holding a copy of Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying because I came up with this outfit after I had a meltdown during my Faulkner seminar. We were discussing Absalom, Absalom! a book I hated at the time (I bet I’d like it now) in a class that I loathed with all of my heart and soul, and in the middle of a laborious close-reading of a single sentence in Absalom, Absalom! I realized that I hated being an English major, and I detested the English curriculum, and I detested the methodology of English literature studies, and that taking English classes was swallowing my love for reading and writing into a black vomit hole of hatred, and I got out of my seat in the middle of my professor’s lecture, ran all the way home, searched on the internet for ‘how to tie a tie,’ and started wearing ties four days out of the week. (I also switched my major to Ethnic Studies.) My favorite outfit to wear with a tie was this one. My mom’s wool skirt with pocket flaps in the front with this thrift store skinny green tie (now riddled with moth holes,) and this plain white button-down that my friend Diana bought in China but gave to me because the shoulders didn’t fit her well. I don’t wear ties anymore, mostly because I’m sick of people, friends and complete strangers alike, coming up to me and asking, “Hey are you trying to be like Avril Lavigne?” UM, NO YOU TWIT is what I want to say but never do.

Innocently clutching Absalom, Absalom! (Actually this is As I Lay Dying, which I fucking love, but I’m pretending it’s Absalom, Absalom! for the purposes of this post.)

Dear Absalom, Abasalom! I’m only smiling because I’m going to destroy you.

Now that you’ve been destroyed, I’m going after the English canon.

So now that we’ve shared our ghosts of fashion past and incorporated them into our present, do any of you have old clothes that you can’t bear to part with for nostalgic reasons?

Love, Jenny

from May 13, 2008

The Burden of Being Me
Or
Tell the Man Behind the Deli Counter that his Salami is Showing

(Pick whichever title you like. Neither has anything to do with this blog.)

So it has been an interesting two weeks. (EDUCATIONAL NOTE: Here is a hint for all of you aspiring writers out there. I started this blog with “so it has been” to give the feeling of picking up a conversation, to create the impression of already being in stride, to avoid all the awkwardness of writing things like introductions and explanations. Don’t do this on the Regents exam. Only do this in blogs.)

So it has been an interesting two weeks. As I have stated. (EDUCATIONAL NOTE: Don’t write like me.)

So it has been an interesting two weeks. (And by now you all know where this is going [EDUCATIONAL NOTE WITHIN A BRACKET: Don't start a sentence with "and."] so don’t complain later when you feel like you’ve read this blog three or four times before. And [SEE PREVIOUS EDUCATIONAL NOTE] [THE ONE WITHIN THE BRACKET.] [<- IGNORE THE SENTENCE FRAGMENT, PLEASE.] be sure, you’ll read this sort of thing again. I am truly sorry.)

(You know what is coming. Brace yourselves.) So (Don’t say you weren’t warned.) it has been an interesting two weeks. Firstly (WRITERS TIP 1: When using “firstly” be sure to follow it up with a “secondly.” Southern writers may choose to the more regional and less intelligent sounding “nextly.”). Firstly (sigh) I spent the week sick with an eye that belonged not so much to me as it did to the tiny little things swimming around in my bloodstream. I’ve already written about that in another blog you may have chosen to ignore. I did- I wrote it in my sleep! Secondly, (see?) I spent the last week at work (WRITERS TIP 2: Always follow up something labeled 1 with 2, even if you really have nothing to follow it up with. It is easier than going back, deleting something, etc. Forward! Progress! 1040 or fight! [Or whatever. Remember the Alamo!]) being stubborn and let me tell you (WRITERS TIP AND/OR EDUCATIONAL TIP, I’VE KIND OF GOTTEN THEM CONFUSED something: “let me tell you” is what we professional writers call a “rhetorical question.” [NOTE: It isn't actually a question. I know that.] It is a special type of grammatical statement invented by Margaret Mitchell in her 1936 best-selling novel “Gone With the Wind.” In that novel, Southerner Rhett Butler would often say things like “let me tell you” when addressing Scarlett O’Hara. For example, as Atlanta was burning, Rhett turned to Scarlett and said “let me tell you, that’s one helluva weenie roast.” Who can ever forget the ending of the novel when Rhett again turned to Scarlett and said “we’ll always have Paris,” to which she replied “forget it Jake, it’s Chinatown”? Let me tell you, Margaret Mitchell was one helluva writer.)

HA! See what I did? I totally screwed up that paragraph! You were so engrossed in my tale of how Margaret Mitchell invented the “Rhettorical” question (and marveling at my use of “helluva” which I never use. Except when I do.) that you didn’t notice that I never finished my sentence. Yup, that’s right. I began with “I spent the last week at work being stubborn and let me tell you” and that was it. (EDUCATIONAL WRITER’S TIP 8%: While repeating yourself is a good way of killing space, it is a bad way or writing. I learned that from William Faulkner. In his introduction to the 1961 edition of “As I Lay Dying,” he wrote “Let me tell you, while repeating yourself is a good way of killing space, it is a bad way of writing.” )

I am going to do you all a favor. I am going to recap this blog by reprinting all the actual subject stuff without any of the parentheses or brackets.

So it has been an interesting two weeks. Firstly I spent the week sick with an eye that belonged not so much to me as it did to the tiny little things swimming around in my bloodstream. I’ve already written about that in another blog you may have chosen to ignore. I did- I wrote it in my sleep! Secondly, I spent the last week at work being stubborn and let me tell you

Really, that’s it.

So to recap, what have we learned this week?
Firstly, I managed to fill a page and a half with crap.
Nextly, parentheses and brackets are good writer’s tools when you have nothing to say.
Thirdishly, Margaret Mitchell and William Faulkner are easy targets to make fun of. They are both dead and thus, or thusly, (?) unable to sue. Is Faulkner dead? I assume he is. He hasn’t written much lately. Maybe he’s just lazy.

WRITER’S EDUCATIONAL TIP The end: Permission is hereby granted by the author to reproduce this work for educational classroom purposes only. I dare you.

After nearly a week of exquisite rain and cold brought in by the remnants of Ida, today is a different kind of beautiful. The oaks and hickories are catching all the sun and reflecting it back into the blue, warm sky. Faulkner and I took a good walk into the deeper, unexplored parts of the church’s woods. And now I’m heading to the river with the kayak on the truck.

10. 1984
George Orwell

Orwell’s dystopian novel of a world controlled by Big Brother has become the quintessential cautionary tale for the far-reaching arm of government and the dangers of totalitarianism. Orwell has designed every corner of this futuristic world and transports us to a place where we may not want to be, yet cannot tear ourselves away from. It is a strong message about uniformity vs. individualism and makes us question what freedom really means while at the same time frightening us by showing that freedom may be slipping away from us as we speak.

9. To Kill A Mockingbird
Harper Lee

To Kill a Mockingbird is a tale of racism and bigotry seen through the eyes of a child. At first, the novel works as a story of what it is to be young and free. Then the novel moves into issues of social justice as Scout and Jem have their eyes open to the larger world. Atticus Finch is a hero of morals and values who fights to do what is right even when he knows he will lose. The novel is rich with themes and characters which are almost impossible to forget once you have read it.

8. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
James Joyce

James Joyce is one of the greatest writers of this century, and this semi-autobiography led Joyce’s movement into modernist literature. This novel outlines the main characters journey to grow in his intellect, philosophy and spirituality. Joyce’s style here is inventive and thought-provoking and has made this one of the best novels of the last one hundred years.

7. The Sound and the Fury
William Faulkner

A tale told from the viewpoint of multiple characters, The Sound and the Fury is a masterpiece at describing the thought processes of humans. Faulkner damn-near perfected the stream-of-consciousness thinking. Faulkner moves us with his tale of the decline of a southern family and their struggle to maintain honour.

6. The Catcher in the Rye
J.D. Salinger

Teen angst has never been so literary. Catcher in the Rye is one of the most popular books in the world. Its biting satire and well-constructed anti-hero have made this an exceptionally brilliant novel, definitely worthy in its inclusion as one of the greatest ever written.

5. The Grapes of Wrath
John Steinbeck

There may be no better written recording of the Great Depression than Steinbeck’s classic The Grapes of Wrath. It tells the tale of the Joad family on a quest for a better life in California and it is a tale of adversity and perseverance on a scale which sets the bar for all other American novels.

4. The Lord of the Rings
J. R. R. Tolkien

The Lord of the Rings has become a cultural phenomenon in the latter half of the twentieth century, a masterpiece of high fantasy on an epic scale in both scope and depth. Lord of the Rings is not a simple fantasy tale but is in fact a story rich in themes; loyalty, friendship, fate, duty, corruption, etc. Tolkien has created a world so full and complex you are immediately transported into it and become engrossed with every detail. Literary critics often dismiss The Lord of the Rings because of its genre, not able to look further to see that it is the masterpiece of its genre and is a work of genius.

3. Gravity’s Rainbow
Thomas Pynchon

Perhaps the greatest piece of post-modern literature, Pynchon’s masterpiece is a story about post-war Europe and the production of the V2 rocket. Pynchon’s novel is complex in its plot and structure. Gravity’s Rainbow also uses a lot of science and mathematics in its story, adding a level of sophistication and even greater complexity. Many critics argue that this may be the greatest literary work on the last one hundred years, while other claim it is far too difficult to be read. Nonetheless it is a massive achievement in writing and storytelling.

2. The Great Gatsby
F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby is often called “the great American novel”. Jay Gatsby is living the dream; riches, women, high society lifestyle. Everything seems to be going his way. Fitzgerald uses this character and situation to explore they areas of morality, materialism, and what it means to have wealth and worth. It is a true classic that was never recognized in its time, but grew into one of the most acclaimed novels of the modern era.

1. Ulysses
James Joyce

As almost any literary scholar what the work of the century is and you will almost get a unanimous decision: Ulysses. It seems to almost be a given that Ulysses is the best novel of the 20th century. Ulysses has strong characters, humour, technique, style; it is perhaps the most important piece of modernist literature. James Joyce is one of the greatest writers of the modern age and he has given us the greatest novel of the century.

Dilton Quadrangle: 1/2 mile east of Dilton Store on south side of Bradyville Pike,
Photographed by Patsy Paterson

2Pats2cats@comcast.net

Sophia C. Bynum

08 Jul 1891

11 Mar 1965

Will G. Bynum

20 Oct 1891

20 May 1969

Annie

Belle Arnette

1857

1939

Callie Arnette

15 Feb 1883

26 Nov 1973

Elizabeth D. Arnette

1887

1963

James L. Arnette

1880-1953

Grover C. Arnette

Tennessee

PVT 346 Co.

Motor Trans. Corps.

17 Aug 1892

1 Aug 1945

Nettie Arnette

07 Jun 1880

12 Jan 1974

Oscar Arnette

31 May 1878

11 May 1955

T. Hoyte Arnette

21 Jun 1885

04 Jan 1941

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NO STONE

Daughter

Barbara Gean Armstrong

Jun 1937

Apr 1939

William Hall Arnette

26 Sep 1894

30 Aug 1954

Willie Belle Arnette

03 Oct 1905

31 Dec 2001

William Hall Arnette

Waggoner Sup. Co 317 F. A. 81 Div

WWI

26 Sep 1894

30 Aug 1954

Dossie E. Arnold

24 Dec 1903

01 Feb 1970

Jimmie Snow Arnold

28 Dec 1912

07 Jun 1983

Mary Aliene Lee Arnold

12 Nov 1912

09 Aug 1994

Ruth Arnette Avaritt

07 Apr 1923

10 Jan 2001

Married 21 Jan 1945

Jesse T. (Tom) Avaritt

28 Jun 1920

30 Apr 2002

Jesse Thomas Avaritt

S SGT US MARINE CORPS

WWII
28 Jun 1920

30 Apr 2002

Purple Heart

Ruth A. Avaritt

1923

2001

——————–

NO STONE

R. B. Benson

31 Jul 1891

03 Apr 1921

——————-

NO STONE

J. N. Benson

20 Nov 1878

16 Apr 1906

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NO STONE

Victoria Wife of

G. W. Benson

02 Mar 1856

28 Dec 1924

—————————

NO STONE

G. W. Benson

27 Mar 1845

28 Dec 1924

——————————-

David M. Bivins

10 Nov 1873

01 Dec 1947

Myrtle H. Bivins

16 Apr 1884

30 Dec 1954

Will Bivins

Emoline Bivens

wife of D. M. Bivens

05 Mar 1831

11 Dec 1905

Fannie I. E. Bivens

22 Sep 1911

22 Nov 1911

J. H. Bivens

07 Jan 1863

19 Nov 1908

James D. Bivens

06 Oct 1903

22 Nov 1903

Mary Bivins

Daughter of David M. and Emma Bivens

21 Oct 1860

27 Jan 1891

Tom Bivens

1885

1933

Danny Brandon

16 Apr 1962

08 Jun 2000

G. David Brandon

12 Oct 1944

30 Mar 1972

George D. Brandon

Tennessee

SGT US Marine Corps

Vietnam P. H.

12 Oct 1944

30 Mar 1972

Mamie H. Brandon

06 Aug 1909

07 Jan 2003

Married 19 Jun 1979

J. G. "Jack" Brandon

17 May 1908

30 Sep 1983

Tennie H. Brandon

1883

1977

John A. Brandon

1876

1955

Kate Brandon

14 Aug 1883

23 Jan 1973

Neely Brandon

08 Oct 1880

05 Jun 1972

J. Palmer Brandon

1910

1963

Kathleen R. Brandon

1921

1992

Kayla Michelle Brandon

27 Mar 2003

28 Mar 2003

Annie Browley

Fines E. Browley

08 Apr 1891

12 Feb 1959

cemetery book says Brawley

Pauline Harrell Broyles

10 Mar 1914

10 Jan 1971

Lee Allen Broyles

09 Nov 1910

24 Jan 1953

Frank Brunskog and Sister

————————

Metal Marker in 1974

No Stone

O. M Bullard

13 Apr 1881

02 Apr 1949

————————————–

Tom Bullard

13 Apr 1889

02 Apr 1949

(this matches the O. M. Bullard listed in the cemetery book as a metal marker except birth year is 1881)

Cathie T. Bullard

13 Sep 1895

06 Nov 1974

B. I. Bynum

07 Mar 1852

04 Apr 1937

Julia Bynum

09 Jan 1868

12 Feb 1958

James D. Bynum

1877 1948

Vesta Lowe Bynum

1882

1955

Lowe Rene

Daughter of J. D. and Vesta Bynum

03 Dec 1906

15 Jan 1918

Mayme E. Bynum

wife of R. O. Bynum

27 Sep 1893

09 Sep 1913

Pearl V. Tribble Bynum

wife of R. D. Bynum

03 May 1903

06 Jan 1922

NO STONE

Josephine Brandon Cannon

17 Jan 1875

08 July 1958

——————–

NO STONE

Joe Ben Cooper

20 Aug 1920

09 Feb 1944

———————–

NO STONE

J.  Ervin Cooper

29 May 1916

16 Dec 1935

Sallie L. Cooper

27 Dec 1878

17 May 1946

D. R. Carter

17 Dec 1845

24 Mar 1928

Martha J. Carter

26 Mar 1839

13 Mar 1921

Peyton A. Carter

22 Feb 1846

23 Nov 1925

Mattie H. Carter

Wife of D. R. Carter

05 Jul 1863

20 Jan 1910

Bertha T. Clinton

1897

1945

Will (Boss) Clinton

1891

1965

Birtha Taylor

wife of Ross Clinton

10 Jan 1897

01 May 1945

Dorris Clinton

1923

1933

Ernest "Ernie" Elvie Clinton

17 Oct 1939

17 May 1999

Allie Gitchell Ownby

21 Dec 1933

——————

Henry "Hank" Clinton

02 Jun 1939

19 Apr 1994

Joanne E. Clinton

19 Mar 1941

22 Mar 1998

Samuel Alfred Cooper

20 Sep 1890

08 Sep 1991

Bessie Gilley Cooper

24 Dec 1906

23 Nov 1998

Lennie J. Cooper

18 Aug 1917

21 Nov 2002

William Hall Cooper

18 Feb 1913

05 Dec 1993

Rev. John Wesley Cooper

19 Oct 1874

28 Dec 1926

Hugh L. Davenport

08 Jun 1895

18 Jul 1984

Effie B.

06 Aug 1892

05 Jan 1982

Audie S. Dean

01 Apr 1890

10 Apr 1976

Pauline H. Dean

21 Aug 1905

10 Jun 1987

J. C. Dover

1936

1974

Freddie Dover

1940

1980

J. W. Duncan

23 Aug 1916

02 Oct 1996

Nadine H. Duncan

14 Oct 1914

12 Feb 1998

Pauline Earp

1911

1994

Freelin Earp

1895

1956

Married 09 Oct 1932

G. B. Edmonds

1866

1933

Effie Davis Edmonds

1868

1966

Herman Davis Edmonds

19 Oct 1905

27 Jan 1950

Carlisle Edwards

1887

1955

Louie B. Faulkner

11 Feb 1895

21 Nov 1979

Sarah E. Faulkner

06 Nov 1926

22 Feb 1982

Zada B. Faulkner

1892

1976

Ed Elliott Ferrell

22 Feb 1884

08 Sep 1915

Henry Clay Ferrell

1902

1920

James W. Ferrell Jr.

1907

1928

Marina W. Ferrell

18 Dec 1844

11 Apr 1898

Josephine Brandon Gannon

17 Jan 1875

08 Jul 1958

Alton D. Gilley

Tennessee

PVT US ARMY
WWII
26 Dec 1904

27 Apr 1974

E. D. Gilley

04 Aug 1869

30 May 1964

Bessie Sloan

25 Sep 1874

21 Dec 1952

—————————————-

NO STONE

Metal Marker (1974)

Sallie J. Gum

Died 03 Jul 1969

———————————

Charity Ferrell

wife of J. F. Gilley

02 Sep 1880

23 Jul 1917

J. A. Gilley

04 Feb 1843

14 May 1917

J. Frank Gilley

07 Ma y1872

30 Oct 1955

Nancy C.

wife of J. A. Gilley

25 Jul 1845

29 Aug 1912

Cornelius Gordon

1846

1911

Ecce H. Gordon

1877

1962

John T. Gordon

1882

1945

Mary E. Gordon

1874

1914

Mary Lee Gordon

1850

1931

Russell J. Gordon

1885

1931

Doyle Wilson Gum

20 Mar 1927

31 Jul 1990

Married 03 Oct 1948

Annie Jordan Gum

21 Sep 1930

—————

Doyle Wilson Gum

PVT US ARMY

WWII

20 Mar 1927

31 Jul 1990

Gary Phillip Gum

12 Jul 1958

24 Jun 1990

Gary Phillip Gum

SGT US AIR FORCE

12 Jul 1958

24 Jun 1990

Robt. L. Gum

15 Jun 1879

12 Mar 1920

His son

Herbet Gum

14 Aug 1904

12 Mar 1920

Sallie Jernigan Gum

1877

1969

John A. Gum

1875

1955

Oscar Hall Gum

13 Oct 1894

28 Jan 1962

Mattie Wilson Gum

19 Sep 1898

12 Feb 1986

Oscar H Gumm

Tennessee PVT 161 Infantry

WWI

13 Oct 1894

28 Jan 1962

Clara E. Harrell

1918

1928

Lyda Preston Harrell

04 May 1890

16 Sep 1987

Jesse A. Harrell

11 Feb 1889

28 Nov 1973

Jessee J. Harrell

31 Dec 1911

12 Apr 2001

Pauline B. Harrell

23 Nov 1913

02 May 1988

John Lee Harrell

son of L. D. and L. A. Harrell

13 Mar 1889

16 Jul 1889

Laura

wife of L. D. Harrell

08 Feb 1858

24 Mar 1889

Marrion F. Harrell

15 Oct 1851

19 Apr 1933

Mattie Elizabeth Harrell

13 Nov 1937

14 Nov 1937

Rufus Kelley Harrell

28 Jul 1891

21 Aug 1966

Mattie Overall Harrell

08 May 1892

16 Jan 1973

Reuben K.

son of K and M Harrell

01 Feb 1916

15 Jul 1917

James Ellis Harris

05 May 1900

19 Apr 1988

Clara Parman Harris

07 Mar 1905

22 Jul 1993

J. N. Harris

18 Jul 1844

26 Dec 1921

Sallie A. Brown

16 Nov 1853

16 Jan 1922

Will R. Harris

1877

1969

Lela S. Harris

1873

1959

Daisy Knox Harvey

1879

1934

William Robert Harvey

1878

1953

J. D. Harvey

Tennessee

TEC5 Co A 186 Engr C BN

WWII

07 Aug 1913

16 Mar 1956

Nannie C. Harvey

1894

1981

John T. Harvey

1886

1965

Matha

wife of G. W. Hawks

09 Oct 1870

08 Jun 1912

William D.  Hawks

03 Nov 1888

19 Sep 1915

William B. Hayes

1872

1936

Florence Tolbert Hayes

1879

1962

William J. (Bill) Herrod

28 Nov 1904

26 Dec 1986

Ether Harrell

29 May 107

25 Aug 1993

Henry Ellis (Hank) Hirlston

19 Aug 1966

03 Jan 1992

Sally M. Holloway

15 Jun 1905

20 Sep 1986

Willard A. Holloway

TSGT US AIR FORCE

20 Aug 1905

23 Sep 1975

Horace

Margaret E. Howland

1921

1994

Roy H. Howland 1918

1989

Paul Howland

28 Apr 1914

18 Jun 1980

Thomas C. Howse

1863

1916

Mary Hudson

1856

1941

Arthur F. James

23 Dec 1896

13 May 1983

Lizzie Mai James

28 Jul 1902

29 Mar 1975

Alvin Jernigan

23 Mar 1909

11 Aug 1994

Claudie T. Jernigan

1896

1976

Austin F. Jernigan

1890

1947

Lula M. Jernigan

25 Sep 1915

03 Oct 1995

Ben A. Jernigan

11 Jul 1910

28 Aug 1976

Beulah A. Jernigan

12 Dec 1891

17 Apg 1965

William S. Jernigan

22 Oct 1878

07 Sep 1957

Oscar P. Jernigan

01 Sep 1887

21 Jan 1974

Elizabeth C. Jernigan

27 Aug 1889

15 Jul 1972

Emery B. Jernigan

13 Jan 1913

17 Jul 1974

Jesse Dill Jernigan

17 May 1909

15 May 1995

Fannie Bell Jernigan

12 Oct 1909

30 Nov 1968

Infant son of J. J. and O. M. Jernigan

J. A. Jernigan

31 Aug 1880

24 Nov 1906

Judy Frances Jernigan

29 Nov 1944

25 May 1945

————————————

NO STONE

Maggie Lizzie Jernigan

27 Aug 1889

15 Jul 1972

————————————————-

Medford Jernigan (cemetery book says William Medford Jernigan)

06 May 1906

28 Dec 1971

Susan E. Jernigan

06 Jan 1851

15 Feb 1907

W. M. Jernigan

24 Oct 1850

28 Sep 1914

E. M. Jones

08 Mar 1878

28 Feb 1949

Nora Landrum Jones

11 Jan 1889

11 Sep 1932

Ernest H. Jones

19 Apr 1912

06 Aug 1970

Ruby Blythe

02 Sep 1916

28 Nov 2001

Married 08 Aug 1933

Nina Y. Jones

1898

1989

J. Aubrey Jones

1898

1961

Sophia Mai Coleman Jones

05 Feb 1934

01 May 1954

J. C. Justiss

Apr 1903 Age 83 years

John Knight

1885

1958

G. W. Landrum

1888

1931

Leila B. Weeks

1890

1976

Hazel Landrum

02 Jun 1913

07 Jan 1979

John R. Landrum

31 Oct 1884

06 Feb 1965

Lettie O. Landrum

10 Jul 1880

10 Mar 1940

Narcissus J. Landrum

1863

1911

John Silas Landrum

1860

1914

Johnie Belle Landrum

Daughter of J. R. and L. O. Landrum

12 Aug 1911

08 Aug 1912

Lucille Landrum

19 Jul 1913

24 Aug 1944

Dorothy S. Lawrence

1931

1961

Ollie Eva Lawrence

30 Jun 1891

Can’t read dates

Verner Lawrence

19 May 1889

03 Jul 1964

Ella Harris Lee

wife of W. A. Lee

29 Jul 1858

24 Feb 1919

James Roy Lee

21 Dec 1915

03 Jan 1938

John Grady Lee

30 Aug 1902

24 Apr 1918

Vina Jernigan Lee

wife of John. J. Lee

28 Sep 1847

03 Dec 1923

John J. Lee

01 May 1845

08 Aug 1926

W. A. Lee

15 Nov 1874

22 Jul 1918

Zora Ellen Lee

19 Jul 1878

31 Jul 1911

Izzie M. Lowe

1885

1969

Willam N. Lowe

1879

1961

Alline Arnette Lyons

07 Apr 1923

06 Jan 1992

A. O. Mankin

1928

1913

Carl Edwards Mankin

27 Apr 1935

14 Aug 2002

Eva Summers Mankin

26 Feb 1885

07 Feb 1957

Cleveland G. Mankin

01 Feb 1886

29 Jan 1952

Lida B. Wilder Mankin

03 Apr 1906

29 Mar 1997

Jasper W. Mankin

25 Apr 1889

20 May 19??

Peggy Marie Mankin

12 May 1939

24 Sep 1963

Raybon M. Mankin

31 Oct 1909

21 Feb 1984

Mary F. Mankin

12 Jan 1920

Married ?6 Oct 1957

Lillie Birley Manus

29 Oct 1890

11 Nov 1953

Charlie Manus

30 Apr 1887

15 Nov 1957

Frank Manus

28 Apr 1913

15 Apr 2001

Willie Mae Manus

31 Aug 1908

19 Aug 1997

Married 08 Oct 1932

John T. Manus Sr.

09 Mar 1936

Lois J. Manus

28 Mar 1935

Ray Manus

1924

1930

Bessie Lee McCrary

Daughter of A. N. and Mattie

J. F. McCrary

1862

1932

Sarah McCrary

1867

1938

William J. McGill

16 Jun 1891

03 Mar 1981

Goldie I. McGill

17 Sep 1901

27 Apr 1978

Margaret Zelma McGill

1934

1951

Mary Annabell Harrell Medlock

26 Apr 1908

12 Nov 1989

(If someone can confirm that this is the daughter of Newton Harrell and Sarah Victory, or not, please contact Teresa at GenerationGoneBy@bellsouth.net

M. Jernigan Melton

21 Jul 1934

C. Michael Melton

05 Dec 1931

Randall David Melton

18 Dec 1955

05 Nov 2004

Ella T. Mingle

1886

1966

Burley I. Mingle

1887

1959

S. H. Mingle

1857-1907

His wife

Laura Mingle

1867-1907

Erley Mingle

1887-1917

Leathie D. Mingle

1865

1933

George W. Mingle

1863

1936

Janice R. Minnick

01 Apr 1942

Jerome L. Minnick Sr.

12 Feb 1948

25 Mar 2003

Cannon Justiss Overall

25 Nov 1899

07 Dec 1924

M. Virginia Bock

19 Jul 1905

09 Jun 1988

Thomas R. Overall

12 Oct 1857

31 Jul 1943

Fannie G. Justiss

24 Oct 1867

25 Jan 1940

Infant son of T. J. and Lucy Overall

Dead and Born 01 Dec 1919

——————————-

NO STONE

Infant son of

M. L. and W. F. Overall

24 Aug 1886

05 1886

—————————————-

John A. Overall

17 Nov 1851

24 Feb 1925

Mamie Overall

17 Mar 1888

24 Nov 1901

Mother

Mary Louisa Overall

Wife of W. F. Overall

13 Jun 1847

05 Sep 1887

Mattie

Daughter of Nace S. and P. A. Overall

26 Sep 1866

09 Mar 1892

Nace S. Overall

18 Jul 1815

03 Jan 1897

Permelia A. Kirby

Wife of Nace S. Overall

26 Nov 1822

05 Apr 1894

Bettie Roberts Pearcy

24 Nov 1864

17 Mar 1924

Rose Phillips

22 Jun 1882

29 May 1962

Henry L. Preston

1940

1959

Their Daughter

Annette

1959

——-

Juanita A. Preston

1938

——–

Married 24 May 1958

Henry Lee Preston

Tennessee

A03 US NAVY

29 May 1940

20 Nov 1959

J. A. Preston

22 Aug 1864

29 May 1915

Jennie Preston

Mother of Charlie–Mack– Joe Manus

Mary J. Harrell Preston

13 Apr 1882

20 Sep 1942

Noah L. Preston

15 Dec 1912

01 Aug 2003

Ruby H. Preston 15 Feb 1921

12 Sep 1995

Susie A. Higgins

wife of J. A. Preston

17 Oct 1853

08 Oct 1909

Ed. S. Puckett

18 Jan 1868

17 Aug 1923

His Wife

Belle Lee Puckett

09Oct 1869

14 Mar 1948

Gum Puckett

07 Jul 1894

22 Apr 1977

Mattie Puckett

28 Sep 1897

12 Jan 1984

James A . Reed

Husband of Gladys Jones Reed

25 Aug 1913

19 Dec 1943

Jesse G. Reed

1889

1968

Margaret Mim Reed

1887

1920

Charles R. Reeves

1918

1976

Mattie L. Reeves

1915

Clara Bain Reeves

04 Aug 1912

04 Jul 1991

John Ira Reeves

07 Aug 1908

M. Elizabeth Reeves

22 Apr 1914

25 Oct 1978

Robert A. Reeves

US ARMY WWII

11 Feb 1910

12 May 1983

Ann Roberts

Wife of D. M. Roberts

28 Jun 1835

14 Dec 1910

Anna Belle Becton Roberts

05 May 1893

21 Jan 1959

Wife of J. D. Roberts

Annie B. Roberts

Daughter of W. A. and S. J. Yearwood

22 Jun 1879

(can’t make out, may say married)

16 Feb 1911

Died

01 Jul 1911

Annie E.  Roberts

Daughter of W. A. and S. Y. Yearwood

Wife of J. D. Roberts

22 Jun 1879

01 Jul 1911

Cemeteries book says they were married 18 Feb 1911

Miss Callie Roberts

14 May 1871

13 Sep 1950

D. M. Roberts

1830

1900

Buried at Gully Burying Ground

John Drury Roberts

08 Mar 1866

10 Apr 1960

Uncle Dee was a pillar of the community, a lifelong worker for the church, and a benefactor to all who needed him. 

May his memory long live.

Murray L. Robertson

14 Nov 1906

18 Jul 1981

Mabel E. Robertson

20 Feb 1911

Bonnie M. Russell

1937

1977

Sallie F. Sagely

1853

1929

Sarah C. Paschal Sagely

12 Jul 1853

23 Jun 1929

———————–

NO STONE

America Marlin

Wife of Dr. E. A. Speer

23 Feb 1842

12 Nov 1916

————————–

Minnie Lee Sandford

15 Jyl 1887

24 Dec 1959

Sammie Lee Sanford

1892

1923

Lera J. Shires

10 Mar 1926

01 Aug 1975

Josie Fleming Singleton

23 Jan 1902

17 Nov 1993

George L. Singleton

27 Apr 1896

13 May 1969

Teresa’s note:  George is the son of John and Margaret Atlee "Maggie" Victory Singleton.  Anyone researching Maggie’s family, please contact me at cheasa@bellsouth.net.  Thanks!

Rosa Lee Smith

Daughter of R. B. and M. E. Pearcy

31 Jul 1888

14 Oct 1907

Married to G. S. Smith Jr.

25 Oct 1905

George Rufus Stephens

23 Dec 1870

29 Jan 1944

George Rufus Stephens

25 Dec 1902

21 Mar 1905

Henry Grady Stephens

13 Jul 1900

13 May 1902

Infant Daughter of G. R. and M. O. Stephens

14 Apr 1892

Minnie O. Stephens

03 Jun 1869

17 Nov 1921

—————————–

NO STONE

John Thomas Stephens

16 Aug 1908

16 Mar 1911

————————————

Babe M. Summers

22 May 1856

08 Dec 1848

Calvin

son of L. J. and E. M. Talbert

20 Jan 1881

05 Sep 1901

Mary M. Tarter

1898

1972

Alfred Taylor

08 Feb 1887

06 Feb 1955

Sudie Reed Taylor

22 Sep 1893

25 Jul 1969

Elmer Taylor

03 Mar 1922

13 May 1990

Mary Frances Taylor

14 Sep 1928

Married 24 Feb 1946

Fred W. Taylor

03 Oct 1915

31 Aug 1968

John Taylor

1858

1920

Helon Taylor

1866

1939

Izzie Bell Taylor

24 Apr 1902

08 Jun 1942

Sallie T. Taylor

1887

1969

John C. Taylor

1887

1961

S. B. Taylor Sr.

1902

1971

Maggie Taylor

1917

1939

Mrs. Maggie Taylor

1808

????

Phillip Loyd Taylor

13 Jun 1962

14 Jun 1962

Annie M. Taylor

26 Oct 1929

John Taylor

24 Feb ????

Phillip Loyd Taylor

13 Jun 1962

14 Jun 1962

Tennie

Abbie Lenar Thompson

11 Nov 1886

15 Jul 1906

————————–

NO STONE

Ella Overall Tolbert

1855

1938

——————————————–

Clarence Tolbert

03 Aug 1916

03 May 1979

Dellar J. Tolbert

1875

1966

William L. Tolbert

1877

1968

Delores Tolbert

Elam A. Tolbert

1906

1991

Elizabeth Tolbert

1915

1988

J. P. Tolbert

23 Feb 1867

22 Jan 1944

Eliza Youree

09 Dec 1863

09 Jul 1919

L. J. Tolbert

13 May 1846

02 Dec 1936

Elizabeth Bynum

20 Jan 1850

27 Oct 1930

————————————–

NO STONE

Calvin M.

Son of L. J. and E. M. Tolbert

20 Jan 1881

05 Sep 1901

——————————————-

Ella Overall Tolbert

1855

1938

Frank L. Tolbert

1882

1973

Carrie C. Tolbert

1888

1973

Howard Tolbert

Son of F. L. and Carrie Tolbert

18 Aug 1906

26 Jun 1907

Infant of J. R. and Lydia Tolbert

11 Sep 1902

James R. Tolbert

02 Jul 1855

04 Oct 1916

His wife

Lydia Tolbert

05 May 1883

03 Oct 1916

Hallie Mankin Tolbert

No Dates

Jim Alec

1908

1956

Leroy Tolbert

29 Feb 1884

08 Oct 1918

William H. Tolbert

01 May 1855

07 Jun 1915

Mary Alline Toombs

1917

1967

Willie Roy Travis

10 Feb 1915

25 Jul 1992

Aileen Harvey Travis

01 May 1913

02 May 1969

Warren L. Turl

03 Apr 1918

03 Jan 1984

Evelyn P. Turl

16 Feb 1921

18 Aug 2004

04 Apr 1942

Susan H. Wallace

04 Oct 1910

James W. Wallace

22 Oct 1912

12 Dec 1977

Same stone close up

James William Wallace

US NAVY

WWII

22 Oct 1912

12 Dec 1977

Maggie Lee Wallace

20 Nov 1871

24 Jul 1927

"Buddy"

W. M. Wallace

29 Apr 1940

09 Jun 1985

Phyllis Carol Walls

08 Jun 1939

22 Aug 1994

Albert Murry Watts

19 Jul 1927

21 Apr 1930

Arthur Murray Watts

17 Mar 1897

20 Aug 1986

Annie Puckett

08 Aug 1891

27 Aug 1970

George Ellis Weeks

1888

1991

Lala Landrum Weeks (cemetery book says Lola)

1891

1948

Charles P. Whitworth

09 Sep 1887

06 Dec 1952

Bessie L. Whitworth

21 Feb 1891

14 Jan 1989

Billie Dorris Whitworth

13 Jun 1934

16 Jun 1934

Albert Arnold Wilson

09 Sep 1927

21 Sep 1998

Albert D. Wilson

19 Mar 1866

20 Feb 1950

Sallie Pace Wilson

26 Jun 1872

16 Jan 1936

Henry L. Wilson

28 Apr 1896

06 Mar 1982

Celestine G. Wilson

06 Nov 1900

27 Apr 1983

Married

19 Sep 1919

Marshall Lee Wilson

16 Feb 1922

27 Feb 1995

Marshall Lee Wilson

M SGT

US ARMY

AIR CORPS

WWII

16 Feb 1922

27 Feb 1995

Mattie Mary Wilson

10 Feb 1921

13 Jan 1975

Ed M. Yearwood

09 Aug 1877

24 Dec 1949

J. A. Yearwood (cemetery book says W. A.-you decide)

24 Jan 1842

18 Dec 1922

John W. Yearwood

19 May 1888

25 Jun 1950

Tennie H. Yearwood (cemeteries book has W.)

1885

1972

Betty Carol Youree

1942

1943

Ethel Orr Youree

04 May 1888

31 Jan 1978

Floyd Youree

12 Feb 1903

03 Nov 1972

Evelyn

10 May 1915

—————–

J. F. N. Youree

25 Oct 1851

17 Jun 1920

J. R. Youree

1881

1921

James Wiley

son of W. A. and Z. E. Youree

29 Oct 1903

19 Feb 1916

Lucille Youree

05 Mar 1908

16 May 1999

Nora Youree

1884

1950

Raymond A. Youree

1906

1948

Susie M. Youree

1854

1943

Willie A. Youree

27 Nov 1877

16 May 1970

Zelma Youree

18 Apr 1882

23 Jan 1940

This an excerpt from a longer story I’m writing about how comments made in a high school lunchroom can spin out of control. I wrote the first half of it back in spring 2007 and am now trying to make the second half mesh with this one by maintaining the same style, and hopefully there won’t be a noticiable shift in tone, which can happen when attemping to finish a piece of writing after a long layoff.

I recently graduated from a community college and moved on to a private university that I thought would be better than the community college, considering how much you have to pay to go there, but I was wrong. The college I’m going to now is worse. The DSL connection borders on dial up speed and tables and chairs are constantly being moved around to accommodate clubs and special interest groups such as the feminist society, meaning that if you wanna sit and relax you have to try to squeeze your ass comfortably into cube shaped couches. Worst of all for a directionally challenged idiot like me, every building on the campus is brick and only labeled on one side with the name of some well respected board member who is probably dead.
When I asked a security guard where a building was, I usually got an answer like this, “You wanna get to the Jackson building? Well then turn right, then left, and then continue on and you’ll see it ahead of ‘ya—a brick building.”

With all the brick used on that campus, you’d think they’d just build some kind of walkway lined with commemorative bricks.
“Today marks a new beginning in the history of this university, and I am proud to commemorate the opening of our first ever walkway. Brad always said he wanted people to remember the contributions he made to this school in a special way, but I just couldn’t come up with a good idea to accomplish this. I thought about naming a star after him, but there’re a million of those things, it was expensive as hell, and I was never good at using a star chart. Plus I’m sure the only constellation his star could be a part of would be one of “Rocking bed”, as he rides that co-worker of his Terra all the way to The Big Dipper. Even before I caught them in bed I knew I couldn’t compete with her. She was 30 years younger than me and had twice my bust size. That’s when I decided the best way to honor him would be with a commemorative brick on this walkway. I take comfort in knowing every day now thousands of students will step on his name and slowly grind his memory down to dust. And so now without further to do I shall cut the ribbon with these giant scissors that are more like pruning shears. Here ya go kids, stomp him out!”

Another weird thing about the students from both schools is the University students are so unlike the community college kids, so—motivated. In my first semester there I found nobody I could relate to, no one like me in my literature class who thought, as I did, that we read too many novels and that our “classroom discussions” had so many awkward pauses they could drive an innocent man to admit to murdering the literary cannon. During these times I wanted to tell the teacher:

“Faulkner titled this book Absalom! Absalom!? It should be called Asshole! Asshole! to describe the arrogant, self sophisticated classical literature loving jerk that happens to read this book out of his own free will. Also, Al Borland called from the set of Tool Time and he wants his wardrobe back.”
I never said any of his though and instead sat in a room of kids who pretended to love the stuff we read and tried hard to come up with thought proving questions to bounce off the Al Borland clone. One girl always came to class with hundreds of sticky notes popping out of her book along with passages she had highlighted in six different colors that’d be sure to iniate at least one discussion question each class.. It was disgusting.

The last IVSA New Products Salon of the year was fun, crowded and full of new, tasty wines. The usual suspects were around and for the first time in a while I got to see the Wine Diva, Daenna Van Mulligen, tasting some sparkling wines of the Vino Allegro portfolio. For Daenna traveling has been intense recently and between flying, events and writing for her website, there is little time for anything else. As usual she was fun, friendly and looking spectacular. Oh, well, let’s not get carried away and onto the wines I tasted. I tried to taste more reds this time, as the three hours that these events last seem to shrink into some sort of time warp  and you never get to taste all the wines you planned.  I will cover the whites first, then bubbles and reds.

First I visited the Stewart Wine & Spirits booth, where I kicked off the night with the Bollini 2008 Pinot Grigio Trentino DOC. No surprises here, as the product is well established in the BC market. Fresh fruit and refreshing acidity held up by a slightly creamy texture. Always nice to find a Pinot Grigio which is not just another one. Under 20 dollars, this wine is an excellent pick any time. I followed with a Sauvignon Blanc by Bastianich, the “B” 2008. Compact and snappy, this would be a good alternative to Kiwi Sauv Blanc, especially on these cool days when the grassy character is not as attractive, and a more savory, almondy , less acidic wine seems to fit better the weather and gris November mood. This different Sauv Blanc will set you back 19.99. Give it a try. 

I have been waiting for a while to taste the Cuvee Claude Seigneuret Vielles Vignes Macon Bussieres AC 2007 by Domaine de la Saraziniere (what a mouthful of a name here) and I was not disappointed. Electric minerality upholds the….. (illegible!) fruit, better described as a touch of lemon juice squeezed through a filter of flint. Nice acidity and can see why this is a Liquid Art staff favorite. Now is one of mine too at 28.99 per bottle.

Wine Rhapsody brought a small yet tasty set of wines to the show. From the beautiful Loire, two Chenin Blanc offerings proved to be great wines for the season. The Chateau de Varennes Savennieres 2005 renders a textbook tasting of the appellation, with plenty of character, honeyfloralspicyacidity (did you get that? Im playing Faulkner here) at 30.00 dollars.  Also from the Loire and also Chenin Blanc but this time noblerotted, the Chateau Belle-Rive Quarts de Chaume 2003 is as beautiful as the sound of its name. This is all about texture texture and more texture against which fruit flavors, not-cloying sweetness and sober acidity plus a touch of minerality move in a seamless dance. 70.oo dollars for a 750 ml bottle is not bad at all, considering other similar products in the market. I wish I had had some blue cheese to go with. Hmm.

Among the most delicious whites of the evening was the Marina Cvetic 2007 Trebbiano d’Abruzzo. Represented by Burrows, Luongo & Associates, this high alcohol (14.5%) white surely stands up to its 62.99 dollar price tag. Audacious in its aroma spectrum and bodacious in mouth, this wine is round, intense and satisfying. For those lovers of good west coast halibut baked with herbs and rich sauces, this is the bottle to pick. Having been in the halibut fishing industry for several years, I guarantee it. Your money back? Go see the agents! ; ) 

Wine Quest never fails to surprise and this time they did it again with a delicious Ribolla from Colli Orientali del Friuli. This 2007 Gialla by Poggiobello salutes with a heap of wet hay, melon and pomme aromas followed by a medium bodied, crisp, clean-finish sip. 25.99. Also at this table, the unoaked 2007 IGT Prato Grande Chardonnay by De Angelis was fresh, flinty and fersistant. I meant persistant but got caught with the flow of f’s. Go figure. Figure it out. Ok, enouf –enough- of that. 18.52 for this interesting wine from Marche.

Legacy Brand Management treated me to their 2003 Eikendal Stellenbosch Reserve Chardonnay. I have been curious about the new South African Chardonnays that (like the Ataraxia) seem to be harvesting awards left, right and center. This one had a remarkably skillful use of oak giving structure to rich lemony flavors that persisted in the finish. Truly delicious at 30.99 almost ten dollars below the aforementioned Ataraxia Chardonnay.

The only Muscadet Sevre et Maine of the night I tasted was brought by La Boutique du Vin. The Chant de la Mer indeed carried some marine reminiscence in its briney nutty leesy minerality. I thought of oysters and kisses. Oh, well, maybe shouldn’t go there, but they go together don’t they. 18.99 makes perfect for a nice seafood dinner for two any evening.

Lanigan & Edwards Wine Merchants import the wonderful 2006 Estate Chardonnay by Trefethen, the house that produces famed Cabernet Sauvignon. A mouth coating, unambiguously Californian Chardonnay, at 34.99 this creamy white puts La Crema in the back seat. Chard lovers pay attention.

That’s all folks.

Ciao for now.

Ivan

British singer/songwriter Newton Faulkner managed to regain his place back in the hearts of the public last night with the release of his second album at a secret launch party in Covent Garden.

Faulkner disappeared from the charts following a disastrous injury that prevented him from following up on the immediate success of his number one album “Handbuilt By Robots” in 2007. A broken wrist and dislocated right hand meant an unwelcome interlude for the guitar-wielding indie singer. Despite this unfortunate setback however, Newton defiantly struggled to claw his way back into the music scene by recording his second album “Rebuilt By Humans”, which is a direct reference to his career-threatening injury.

With true bulldog spirit, Faulkner managed to re-seduce the press and competition winners at the exclusive party in the (appropriately named) Hospital Art Gallery in London. In true Faulkner fashion the event had several potentially crippling drawbacks, starting when one of the technicians failed to arrive until an hour and a half after the event was scheduled to start. Not long afterwards, his performance of new song “Won’t Let Go” was cut short by a technical failure with a cassette tape being used as an accompaniment, causing him to instead entertain the audience with his hit single “Dream Catch Me” whilst it was being repaired, only to snap a guitar string halfway through. Once again though, Newton managed to effortlessly enchant his agitated audience, by convincing them to participate as backing vocalists in various songs as he played through some tracks from his new album, including new single “If This Is It” and old favourite “Gone In The Morning”.

Photo and article by Ryan Brailsford (29/09/09)

Siguiendo con la onda de la entrada “Un festín literario” debo decir que he continuado leyendo intensamente y de todo ; leer ,haciendo una analogía , es como echar a correr las neuronas … la nómina de los libros leídos es la siguiente :
- Diario de una mujer en Berlín , Anónimo ; un excelente y muy bien escrito diario y documento acerca de la situación de la mujeres en esa ciudad durante los últimos días de la Segunda Guerra Mundial y los primeros de la posguerra ; lo mejor que he leído últimamente .
-La posibilidad de una isla , de Michael Houellebecq , es la historia de una antiutopía sexista , racista y egoísta , como suelen ser los textos de este escritor .
-En picada , de Nick Hornby , el mismo de “Alta Fidelidad” , se trata de una novela interesante , aunque no genial , mejor que la anterior .
- Santuario , de W. Faulkner , un clásico complejo que es como un fresco del sur profundo de USA , lleno de maldad , prejuicios , violencia y odios surtidos , vale recordar que este escritor creo un condado mítico en el que transcurre gran parte de su obra.
-El ángel callaba , de Heinrich Böll , uno de mis escritores favoritos y del que debo haber leído no menos de una docena de trabajos , de muy alto nivel en general ; esta novela trata de la historia de una serie de personajes en la destruida ciudad alemana de Colonia , terminada la guerra , interesante y complementaria , con el diario de una mujer en Berlín.
-Chesil Beach , de Ian Mc Ewan , una novela corta y bien escrita , muy superior a “Sábado ” ,por ejemplo , pero inferior a “Expiación” o “Los perros negros” de este mismo escritor .
-Los sueños de Bunker Hill , de J. Fante , un genial escritor norteamericano , narra los desafortunados comienzos de un guionista de Hollywood , de una forma muy lograda , muestra el sucio mundillo del cine de los años 30 .

i read the sound and the fury
in high school and felt smart
you said i’m funny but you make me laugh
like the mouth of the nutcracker
on my great-grandmother’s kitchen counter,
you make me laugh like the mouth
of my great-grandmother gasping for air.

it sucks that we kill animals, it sucks
that they taste so damn good, it sucks
how you can get enough protein every day
but you’re still going to die.

“Good”. “Talent”. These words were up for discussion at Nathan Bransford’s blog today.

Nathan gets reams of comments on every post, and I told myself in no uncertain terms — stop reading the comments! You don’t have time. You’re supposed to be WRITING A NOVEL. But what a lovely avoidance technique, just a comment or two. It’s like eating those evil Halloween treats — candy corn — just one, just one more, just two, soon I have an upset stomach, or in the case of blog comments, soon I’ve run out of time to write.

Today, reading all the comments was time well-spent. It was interesting to notice various definitions of “good” and “talent”, but those definitions aside, here are two excerpts that made my day, my week, possibly my year:

One commenter quoted Faulkner responding to a question on the elusive concept of “talent”. I only captured the bit that struck me: The most important thing is insight, that is to be–curiosity–to wonder, to mull, and to muse why it is that man does what he does, and if you have that, then I don’t think the talent makes much difference, whether you’ve got it or not. Isn’t that what drives us all to write? Isn’t that where stories bubble up and get their death grip on us, from that wondering: why?

The second comment that thrilled me is from Lydia Sharp of The Sharp Angle: I feel every writer has an audience out there somewhere, they just have to find it.

Doesn’t that keep you going? It does me.

To a very particular sort of person, the Paris Review “Art of Fiction” & “Art of Poetry” interviews are pure heroin. Heroin as endorsed by Keith Richards, whispering in your ear, “You’ll never die. It opens the doors of perception. It’s better than everything else in the universe.”
I am exactly this kind of person.

This is why I fucking love Picador’s The Paris Review Interviews Vol. I-IV. To celebrate the arrival of Volume IV, they’re pressing a limited run of box sets of the whole shebang. Like, only 500 copies. And word is most are sold already via pre-order. I’m lucky enough to work with Picador, so I have my volumes. They’re well-thumbed and much-loved.

Some choice lines:

“The good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he admires the old writer, he wants to beat him.” -William Faulkner

“On the eve of the first day I know what will happen in the first chapter. Then, day after day, chapter after chapter, I find what comes later. After I have started a novel I write a chapter each day, without ever missing a day. Because it is a strain, I have to keep pace with the novel. If, for example, I am ill for forty-eight hours, I have to throw away the previous chapters. And I never return to that novel.” -Georges Simenon

“I describe. I write. Now as for the color yellow, there is a physical explanation of that. When I began to lose my sight, the last color I saw was yellow, because it is the most vivid of colors. That’s why you have the Yellow Cab Company in the United States. At first they thought of making the cars scarlet. Then somebody found out that at night or when there was a fog that yellow stood out in a more vivid way. . . . Now when I began to lose my eyesight, when the world began to fade away from me, there was a time among my friends . . . well, they poked fun at me because I was always wearing yellow neckties. Then they thought I really liked yellow although it really was too glaring. I said, ‘Yes, to you, but not to me, because it is the only color I can see, practically!’ I live in a grey world, rather like the silver screen world. But yellow stands out.” -Jorge Luis Borges

Anytime I’m feeling over-extended, tired of publishing, or bleary-eyed from reading all day, I’ll pick up an interview at random. I get my fix; I’m good for another month. Haven’t OD’d yet!

Related: The Paris Review | Full Graham Greene Interview (PDF)

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Ho trovato in rete alcune interessanti recensioni del romanzo “L’Urlo ed il furore” di William Faulkner. Vi propongo un sunto delle più significative

Per me è stato come un puzzle. All’inizio molti passaggi sono difficili, la struttura è molto complessa, forse addirittura fastidiosa, rischi di smarrirti e ti vien quasi voglia di mollare. Ma poi le tessere vanno al posto giusto e il quadro si delinea nella tua mente e finalmente apprezzi la lettura di questo capolavoro. Tra i monologhi di Benjy Quentin e Jason, sicuramente il secondo è stato quello in cui ho fatto più fatica, a motivo forse del più complesso profilo psicologico del personaggio e del dramma da lui vissuto. In definitiva un libro da leggere sicuramente, di un grande autore del panorama letterario americano tra le due guerre.

Considerato da molti il vero capolavoro di Faulkner ed il migliore da lui stesso, che amò definirlo “il mio splendido fallimento”, L’urlo e il furore è diviso in quattro parti, ha quattro voci narranti e si svolge in quattro diversi momenti narrativi. La stessa storia è raccontata quattro volte, come in altri romanzi dell’autore. Il titolo prende ispirazione da un verso di Macbeth: (life) “It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury Signifying nothing.” La prima parte è narrata proprio da un idiota, il trentatreenne Benjy Compson, a data 1928. Moltissime le critiche e le opinioni divergenti per un’opera che è indubbiamente complessa e fornisce, proprio per questo, numerosi spunti diversi. Dalla visione distruttiva della famiglia al ruolo simbolico di Benjy l’idiota, che non ha il senso del tempo, né coscienza, ma si eleva ad unico personaggio senziente. Ogni personaggio è ossessionato dal passato e rivede la propria vita attraverso flashback, in una sorta di impari lotta contro il tempo. Sono antieroi disperati, oscuri e dannati sull’orlo dell’abisso e le loro vicende provocano spesso, nella testa di chi legge, uno smarrimento che si desta soltanto per la drammaticità di quanto accade.

Toccante e geniale, difficile da amare e da dimenticare, L’urlo e il furore è sicuramente uno dei romanzi più grandi del novecento. E’ un’impresa ardua entrare in casa Compson, un mondo torbido e labirintico che soprattutto all’inizio risulta davvero impenetrabile. Eppure, le oscure vicende dei suoi protagonisti renderanno impossibile uscirne.

William Faulkner è uno scrittore che non può essere affrontato a cuor leggero. In questo romanzo, in particolare nei primi due capitoli, viene utilizzato lo stile narrativo del “flusso di coscienza”, mutuato da Joyce. Per questo motivo può risultare all’inizio assai difficile la comprensione della trama. Superata questa difficoltà, “L’urlo e il furore” si rivela un’opera assolutamente straordinaria, i cui personaggi acquisiscono un drammatico spessore tragico. Su tutti emerge la figura del povero Ben, il figlio minorato, apparentemente isolato dalla sua insanabile demenza, in realtà testimone, a suo modo sensibile e commovente, del drammatico evolversi delle vicende della famiglia Compson. L’alcolismo del padre, la salute malferma della madre, amori incestuosi, suicidi, miserie e violenze minano alle fondamenta la storia di questa famiglia del profondo Sud americano. Ben e Dilsey, l’anziana domestica di colore, ne sono i testimoni più tragici ed impotenti.

Folgorante il primo capitolo; altissimo il quarto; osticissimi gli altri due. si sente molto lo sforzo che l’autore fa per essere NUOVO. destruttura il linguaggio – che è insistentemente sperimentale, tendendo a tratti verso un barocco tipico faulkneriano. troppo lavoro sulla forma, per i miei gusti, seppur sostenuto da solide basi concettuali, da una Forma-Sostanza forte, da una possanza invidiabile.

La contea di Yoknapatawpha è un territorio inesistente, o meglio, un territorio che esiste, con quel nome, solo nella geografia personale di uno scrittore. Yoknapatawpha (che suona come un nome indiano e si pronuncia “ioknapatofa”) è una contea del Sud degli Stati Uniti, quella dove è nato e a lungo vissuto William Faulkner, grande scrittore, premio Nobel (nel 1950), gentiluomo eccentrico, personalità arrogante, celebre bevitore, rampollo di una aristocratica famiglia meridionale che ha nutrito dei suoi ricordi, problemi, tragedie, ossessioni, tradizioni buona parte dei romanzi del Nostro.
Yoknapatawpha County, dunque. Nella realtà si chiama Lafayette County. Ed è la terra dei Faulkner. La terra del bisnonno di William, il colonnello Falkner (il nipote aggiungerà la “u” al cognome), che era avvocato, scrittore di successo, uomo politico, soldato, industriale (costruì in Tennessee una linea ferroviaria che fece la fortuna della famiglia), e litigioso: non solo finì coinvolto in una serie di processi per omicidio in cui se le cavò benissimo, ma finì lui stesso abbattuto dal suo ex socio, pazzo di gelosia, mentre era candidato all’assemblea legislativa del Mississippi (volete sapere come andò a finire? Il socio venne assolto. Siamo nel profondo Sud, quasi nel West).
Perché si parla tanto del bisnonno? Perché il colonnello Faulkner, sotto il nome di Sartoris, tornerà di prepotenza nei libri del suo bisnipote, assieme alle storie del vecchio Sud “antebellum”, quello di prima della guerra di Secessione. Perché i libri di William Faulkner si nutrono di questi personaggi, di questi sfondi, di queste atmosfere, di queste eredità. Sartre diceva che per Faulkner il futuro non esisteva. Mentre esisteva il passato, con tutto il suo peso deformante. La memoria del Sud, la realtà del Sud, il mito del Sud, il tutto concentrato in un mondo speciale, suo, Yoknapawpha, la sua “ostrica”, a cui Faulkner ha dedicato quindici dei suoi diciannove romanzi. Di cui L’urlo e il furore è il quarto, dopo un libro di poesie (The Marble Faun, 1924), dopo il libro del debutto, La paga del soldato, pubblicato nel 1926, dopo Mosquitoes (1927) e Sartoris (1929), in cui, appunto, le memorie della tradizione familiare ritornano appena velate dal cambiamento dei nomi.
Anche se venne pubblicato nel 1929, L’urlo e il furore è uno dei primi romanzi scritti da Faulkner. E gran parte della critica, per non dire a suo tempo Faulkner stesso, ritiene che sia il suo più bello. Anche se non cambiò granché la sua precaria situazione in quel momento. Era un irregolare, il giovane Faulkner, come anche suo padre, che aveva continuato a cambiare lavoro, instabile e inconcludente. Il giovane William – che era nato nel 1987 – aveva dalla sua il talento. Aveva cominciato a scrivere poesie da giovanissimo. Aveva tentato di arruolarsi nell’aeronautica degli Stati Uniti, ma, troppo basso di statura, era stato rifiutato e aveva dovuto rivolgersi ai Flying Corps canadesi – e l’armistizio fu firmato il giorno in cui il suo corso finiva. Festeggiando la pace con qualche bicchiere di troppo (l’inizio di una rispettabile carriera di bevitore) si era ferito a una gamba.
Era ritornato a Oxford, si era iscritto un po’ controvoglia all’università, aveva cominciato a scrivere per riviste e giornali universitari. Aveva lavoricchiato per l’università e mollato presto il lavoro. Quando era uscito, The Marble Faun aveva venduto poco ed era stato maltrattato dalla critica. Aveva cercato di andarsene e si era arenato a New Orleans nella cerchia di Sherwood Anderson. Aveva cominciato, incoraggiato e ispirato da lui, a scrivere romanzi…
Il 1929, è superfluo dirlo e citarne le ragioni, fu un anno horribilis e cruciale. Depressione o non depressione è stato certo cruciale in letteratura. Nel 1929 venne pubblicato Niente di nuovo sul fronte occidentale – che avrebbe venduto in diciotto mesi tre milioni e mezzo di copie e spinto Remarque a dubitare di se stesso perché si sentiva l’autore di un libro solo. E due settimane esatte prima del crollo di Wall Street, il 7 ottobre, uscì The Sound and the Fury, che nello stesso periodo di tempo, nonostante una buona accoglienza critica, vendette solo millesettecentoottantanove copie – e ci vorranno più di dieci anni, fino al 1943, perché la casa editrice di Faulkner, Jonathan Cape and Harrison Smith, riesca a venderne altre mille copie.
Cape e Smith si rifaranno in parte con Sanctuary, pubblicato nel 1931 (seimila copie di venduto, e un successo, in parte dovuto allo “scandalo”, come Faulkner difficilmente raggiungerà fino al Nobel).
In quell’atmosfera è uscito il meraviglioso, complesso, impegnativo capolavoro del modernismo che è L’urlo e il furore: il mio “splendido fallimento” lo definiva Faulkner, “un vero figlio di puttana”, “un libro in cui ho riversato le mie viscere”. Un romanzo sperimentale che, se fosse passato per le mani disciplinanti e disciplinate di un editor, avrebbe trovato probabilmente una forma più normalizzata di quella che ha invece trovato nella fantasia di Faulkner.
Se non le viscere certo Faulkner ci ha riversato molte passioni private. L’urlo e il furore racconta il crollo dell’aristocrazia di provincia, il declino della cultura gentilizia del Sud, la fine di un mondo amato e odiato, e intimamente conosciuto, attraverso la storia della decadenza della famiglia Compson – che assomiglia tanto anche se non letteralmente ai Faulkner. Una grande famiglia del Sud, con i suoi segreti, le sue tare, i suoi peccati, i suoi silenzi. Genitori, figli, servitori, odi, passioni, tenerezze, orrori.
Una tragedia in tre atti e un prologo, raccontata attraverso la voce interiore di tre personaggi, e conclusa da una quarta parte “oggettiva” (che è secondo molti la voce di Dilsey, la vecchia “mammy” nera): i diversi punti di vista si spostano dall’anno (1928) e dai tre giorni in cui la storia si sviluppa fino al passato, secondo una struttura complessa e un flusso di coscienza tanto più avventuroso e sperimentale in quanto il primo episodio del trittico si propone di riprodurre l’andamento dei pensieri di un minorato mentale, un commovente “idiota” di trentatre anni, Benjamin. Mentre, al centro della storia e dei pensieri delle voci narranti (che raccontano con una stupefacente libertà di lingua e di lessico: John Faulkner ricorda che il fratello si lamentava del fatto che la lingua inglese non avesse abbastanza parole che servissero i suoi scopi) il personaggio dominante è Caddy, la sorella bella e libera – troppo, per l’epoca – che abita le fantasie dei suoi fratelli, fino a conseguenze tragiche.
Arrivarono poi Santuario, Luce d’agosto, Assalonne, Assalonne!, Scendi Mosè, Requiem per una monaca. Arrivò anche Hollywood, dove Faulkner venne chiamato per sceneggiare Santuario (che divenne un film di Stephen Roberts con Miriam Hopkins) e a sceneggiare, tra l’altro, Il grande sonno (con Chandler) e Avere e non avere fianco a fianco con Hemingway.
Tra libri e cinema al figlio della grande famiglia decaduta arrivò una relativa ricchezza, che venne investita in una vecchia casa a Oxford, Rowan Oak, il monumento al suo successo. Arrivò, nel 1950, il Nobel. Quanto a L’urlo e il furore divenne nel 1959 un film (modesto) di Martin Ritt, con Joanne Woodward e Yul Brinner, che neanche lentamente poteva riprodurre la ricchezza e la complessità di una prosa che è tra le più belle espressioni della letteratura americana del ventesimo secolo.

There’s no secret that I’ve got a lot of books I say I’ll read but then never get around to. Luckily, I’m a senior, so I’ll get some time to do so after Christmas break when I’m done with college apps, but I’ll also get to work on the list now, during October break. Anyways, here are the books:

1. In Retrospect: The Tragedy & Lessons of Vietnam by Robert McNamara

2.The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown

3. In the Beauty of the Lillies by John Updike

4. The Essential Hemingway by Ernest Hemingway

5. The Sound & The Fury by William Faulkner

6. An Army at Dawn by Rick Atkinson

Unfortunately, I’ll probably read most of these, but there will be a few that, due to a lack of interest (or interest in something else), I won’t be able to read. If anyone out there in the Internet community would like to suggest something for me to read, or totally bash one of the above choices, please leave a comment!

PS. Pictures for viewing pleasure:)

Binnenkort meer naar aanleiding van mijn Daodejing-vertaling, over het schrijven aan mijn nieuwe roman, over het werk aan de nieuwe vertaling van Faulkners The Sound and the Fury, en meer.

di Giorgio Agamben

Faulkner ha scritto una volta che il vero problema del nostro tempo è che non ci sono più problemi spirituali.

Il significato di questa diagnosi è più spietato di quanto sembri e ci riguarda molto da vicino. Che non ci siano più problemi spirituali, che essi non siano più sentiti come qualcosa di decisivo e di ineludibile, genera, infatti, un’ angoscia senza precedenti. Lungi dal liberarci dal malessere, il fatto che i problemi dell’umanità siano diventati calcolabili, questioni fattuali urgenti e eventualmente complicate, ma che, in ultima istanza, richiedono di essere governate e non vissute né pensate, proprio questo ci consegna a un’angoscia speciale, tanto più intollerabile quanto più, almeno in apparenza, risolvibile. Nel suo diario, Fallot racconta così di aver provato l’esperienza più profonda dell’angoscia di fronte alla morte quando, dopo aver ordinato al ristorante il suo solito dessert , si sentì rispondere che quel giorno non c’era. In quell’istante egli seppe con assoluta certezza che di quell’angoscia non si sarebbe più liberato, che essa l’avrebbe accompagnato per tutta la vita.

Se il film giallo è il paradigma di un mondo in cui tutto dipende unicamente dalla soluzione di un problema fattuale, allora, in un universo senza più problemi spirituali, gli uomini stanno ansiosi ed estranei di fronte alla loro vita come i personaggi di una detective story davanti al delitto. E mentre economia, medicina e tecnologie di ogni specie (che sono sempre, in ultima analisi, tecniche di governo) assumono la guida delle sorti umane, i problemi spirituali (e le tecniche che ne trasmettevano l’esperienza: poesia, filosofia, arte) scivolano insensibilmente nella sfera della cultura, cioè cessano di essere decisivi. Poiché –occorre ricordarlo?- oggi si continuano a costruire musei (perfino, senza accorgersi della contraddizione, “musei di arte contemporanea”), auditori e teatri, ma è chiaro che tutto ciò non riguarda più le questioni che decidono della nostra possibilità di vivere e di essere felici. Il cosiddetto “spirito”, che non era altro che il nome che gli uomini davano al punto di maggior intensità in ogni ambito della loro vita, diventa così una sfera autonoma e separata, tutto sommato trascurabile e spesso noiosa. Ciò per cui ciascuna cosa vale la pena di essere vissuta si trasforma in uno svago sempre più incrinato dal dubbio che, forse, “non ne vale la pena”, che vivere si possa soltanto cercandosi in internet un’altra vita e un volto che sembra più vero, proprio in quanto è costitutivamente segnato dalla falsità e dalla maschera.

Significa questo, come certi benpensanti consigliano, che si debba tornare alle “cose dello spirito” (espressione ancora più contraddittoria che “museo di arte contemporanea”), quasi che poesia, arte e filosofia se ne stessero in attesa, separate e accessibili, da qualche parte? O che, piuttosto, come suggerisce Humphrey Bogart alla fine del Falcone maltese, che veramente spirituale e poetica è la consapevolezza che le cose e i fatti cui siamo irrevocabilmente consegnati sono, come la statuetta del falco, soltanto “la materia di cui sono fatti i nostri sogni”? Che, nel nostro errare fra i fatti e le cose, non dobbiamo smarrire il ricordo di quel punto di intensità (spirituale, cioè evanescente e sottile) che decide ogni volta del nostro desiderio e della nostra forma di vita?

Många säger att det är fruktansvärt svårt att läsa William Faulkner, men fortsätter i samma andetag att han minsann är en av giganterna i den anglosaxiska litteraturen. Att hans böcker ju nog är bra, men svåra. Jag har funderat på det här med det svårtillgängliga hos Faulkner.

För visst är ju hans prosa lite väl tät och mustig ibland. Folk säger att hans språk är för komprimerat för casual reading. Jag tror att det har att göra med att det händer så mycket i hans meningar. Varje sats liksom pushar handlingen framåt. Och så finns det mycket under- och överordning i de långa meningarna. Små informativa bisatser infogas efter och mellan huvudsatser. Och för det mesta innehåller bisatserna information om personerna, hur de beter sig, vad de har på sig för kläder, hur de rör sig, och huvudsatserna handlar om själva handlingen, vad som händer och hur saker och ting utspelar sig. Det här stämmer kanske inte för alla hans böcker, men åtminstone i Sanctuary, som jag läser nu, verkar det vara på det viset. Kanske är det det som gör att man uppfattar Faulkner som svår. Att man har många trådar att hålla reda på samtidigt, i samma andetag. Faulkners grepp om texten och intrigen är hårt.

Jag tycker mycket om Faulkner. Man måste bestämma sig för att verkligen läsa honom. Har ni läst Faulkner? Åsikter?

You know the Esquire Big Black Book for Fall 2009 has fallen into hands it shouldn’t have fallen into if they’re choice of the “The Most Important Meal of the Day” is breakfast, and the breakfast James Bond supposedly has is “Scrambled eggs with chopped chives, served on hot buttered toast with pink champagne.” That sounds more like what James Bond’s mom might have for breakfast. Or James Bond when he’s cross-dressing. Or what he might order for the Bond girl before he leaves her at the hotel, where she then dies all coated in gold paint. James Bond has Scotch for breakfast. (Or is that just me?) Or at least a strong espresso.

Although I did like their list of books to help you sleep: Swann’s Way by Marcel Proust, Moby-Dick by Herman Melville, The Metaphysical Club by Louis Menand, Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace, and Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. The last one was also a finalist for the National Book Award’s Best of All Times Category, which tells you something about the people there (i.e. they don’t read like I do much). That and that they all seem to have voted for Flannery O’Connor, who is nice in that grandmotherly sort of way, and that’s why I’ve always tried to like her, but is she really the BEST? I guess most readers must be grandmothers. That would make sense. I voted for Faulkner.

I also agree with quite a few of their “Nineteen Things a Man Should Never Say.” With the obvious exceptions – “Teens,” “cool,” and “bye-bye” get a pass from me. Instead I’d add “bro/bra,” “word,” and “totally.”

The next book I’m going to read while I’m pretending to get writing done is David Finkel’s Good Soldiers. I’m looking forward to it. It’s time to replace Vietnam as the dominant American war story in fiction and near-fiction, and these sort of well-written book-length exposés might do it.

And finally, in case I haven’t mentioned it, I’m not the most creatively gifted of my siblings. My younger sister is. She’s a photographer. She took the picture up in my blog header. Apart from author portraits, she also does photo shoots that turn average brides into models, average grooms into sujets d’arte, and, most recently, my nephews into advertisements for the fact that my family makes endearing children…

Jonah

Abner

El sacerdote

      Había casi terminado sus estudios eclesiásticos. Mañana sería ordenado, mañana alcanzaría la unión completa y mística con el Señor que apasionadamente había deseado. Durante su estudiosa juventud había sido aleccionado para esperarla día tras día; él había tenido la esperanza de alcanzarla a través de la confesión, a través de la charla aquellos que parecían haberla alcanzado; mediante una vida de expiación y de negación de sí mismo hasta que los fuegos terrenales que lo atormentaban se extinguieran con el tiempo. Deseaba apasionadamente la mitigación y cesación del hambre y de los apetitos de su sangre y de su carne, los cuales, según le habían enseñado, eran perniciosos: esperaba algo como el sueño, un estado que habría de alcanzar y en el cual las voces de su sangre serían aquietadas. 0, mejor aún, domeñadas. Que, cuando menos, no lo conturbaran más; un plano elevado en el que las voces se perderían, sonarían cada vez más débiles y pronto no serían sino un eco carente de sentido entre los desfiladeros y cumbres mayestáticas de la Gloria de Dios.
      Pero no lo había alcanzado. En el seminario, tras una charla con un sacerdote, solía volver a su dormitorio en un éxtasis espiritual un estado emocional en el cual su cuerpo no era sino un letrero con un mensaje llameante que habría de agitar el mundo. Y veía aliviadas sus dudas; no albergaba duda ni tampoco pensamiento. La finalidad de la vida estaba clara: sufrir, utilizar la sangre y los huesos y la carne como medios para alcanzar la gloria eterna, algo magnífico y asombroso, siempre que se olvide que fue la historia y no la época quien creó los Savonarola y los Thomas Becket. Ser de los elegidos, pese a las hambres y las roeduras de la carne, alcanzar la unión espiritual con el Infinito, morir, ¿cómo podía compararse con esto el placer físico anhelado por su sangre?
       Pero, una vez entre sus compañeros seminaristas, ¡cuán pronto olvidaba todo aquello! Los puntos de vista y la insensibilidad de sus condiscípulos eran un enigma para él. ¿Cómo podía alguien a un tiempo pertenecer y no pertenecer al mundo? Y la pavorosa duda de que acaso se estaba perdiendo algo, de que acaso, después de todo, fuera cierto que la vida se limitaba sólo a lo que uno pudiera obtener en los breves setenta años que al hombre caben. ¿Quién lo sabía? ¿Quién podía saberlo? Existía el cardenal Bembo, que vivió en Italia en una era semejante a plata, semejante a una flor imperecedera, y que creó un culto al amor más allá de la carne, esquilmado de las torturas de la carne. Pero ¿no sería esto sino una excusa, sino un paliativo a los terribles miedos y dudas? ¿No era la vida de aquel hombre apasionado y hacía tanto tiempo muerto semejante a la suya; un tejido de miedo y duda y una apasionada persecución de algo bello y excelso? Sólo que algo bello y excelso significaba para él no una Virgen sosegada por el dolor y fijada como una bendición vigilante en el cielo del oeste, sino una criatura joven y esbelta e indefensa y (en cierto modo) herida, que había sido sorprendida por la vida y utilizada y torturada; una pequeña criatura de marfil despojada de su primogénito, que alza los brazos vanamente en la tarde que declina. Para decirlo de otro modo, una mujer, con todo lo que en una mujer hay de apasionada persecución del hoy, del instante mismo; pues sabe que el mañana tal vez no llegue nunca y que sólo el hoy importa, porque el hoy es suyo. Se ha tomado una niña y se ha hecho de ella el símbolo de los viejos pesares del hombre, pensó, y también yo soy un niño despojado de su niñez.
      La tarde era como una mano alzada hacia el oeste; cayó la noche, y la luna nueva se deslizó como un barco de plata por un verde mar. Se sentó sobre su catre y se quedó mirando hacia el exterior, mientras las voces de sus compañeros se iban mitigando a su pesar con la magia del crepúsculo. El mundo sonaba afuera, y se eclipsaba; tranvías y taxímetros y peatones. Sus compañeros hablaban de mujeres, de amor, y él se dijo a sí mismo: ¿Pueden estos hombres llegar a ser sacerdotes y vivir en la abnegación y en la ayuda a la humanidad? Sabía que podían, y que lo harían, lo cual era más duro. Y recordó las palabras del padre Gianotti, con quien no estaba de acuerdo: “A través de la historia el hombre ha fomentado y creado circunstancias sobre las que no tiene control. Y lo único que podrá hacer es dar forma a las velas con las que capeará el temporal que él mismo ha provocado. Y recordad: la única cosa que no cambia es la risa. El hombre siembra, y recoge siempre tragedia; pone en la tierra semillas que valora en mucho, que son él mismo, ¿y cuál es su cosecha? Algo acerca de lo cual no ha podido aprender nada, algo que lo supera. El hombre sabio es aquel que sabe retirarse del mundo, cualquiera que sea su vocación, y reír. Si tienes dinero, gástalo: ya no tienes dinero. Sólo la risa se renueva a sí misma como la copa de vino de la fábula”.
      Pero la humanidad vive en un mundo de ilusión, utiliza sus insignificantes poderes para crear en torno un lugar extraño y estrafalario. Lo hacía también él mismo, con sus afirmaciones religiosas, al igual que sus compañeros con su charla eterna sobre mujeres. Y se preguntó cuántos sacerdotes de vida casta y dedicados a aliviar el sufrimiento humano serían vírgenes, y si el hecho de la virginidad supondría alguna diferencia. Sin duda sus compañeros no eran castos; nadie que no haya tenido relación con mujeres puede hablar de ellas tan familiarmente; y sin embargo llegarían a ser buenos sacerdotes. Era como si el hombre recibiera ciertos impulsos y deseos sin ser consultado por el autor de la donación, y el satisfacerlos o no dependiera exclusivamente de él mismo. Pero él no era capaz de decidir en tal sentido; no podía creer que los impulsos sexuales pudieran desbaratar la filosofía global de un hombre, y que sin embargo pudieran ser aquietados de ese modo. “¿Qué es lo que quieres?”, se preguntó. No lo sabía: no era tanto el deseo particular de alguna cosa cuanto el temor de perder la vida y su sentido por culpa de una frase, de unas palabras vacías, sin ningún significado. “Ciertamente, en razón de mi ministerio, deberías saber cuán poco significan las palabras”.
      ¿Y en caso de que hubiera algo latente, alguna respuesta al enigma del hombre al alcance de la mano pero que él no pudiera ver? “El hombre desea pocas cosas aquí abajo”, pensó. ¡Pero perder lo poco que tiene!
      El pasear por las calles no hizo que viera más claro su problema. Las calles estaban llenas de mujeres: chicas que volvían del trabajo; sus cuerpos jóvenes y airosos se hacían símbolos de gracia y de belleza, de impulsos anteriores al cristianismo.“¿Cuántas de ellas tendrán amantes? —se preguntó—. Mañana me mortificaré, haré penitencia por esto mediante la oración y el sacrificio, pero ahora abrigaré estos pensamientos en los que ha tanto tiempo he deseado pensar”.
      Había chicas por doquier; sus delgadas ropas daban forma a su paso en Canal Street. Chicas que iban a casa para almorzar —el pensamiento de la comida entre sus dientes blancos, de su placer físico al masticar y digerir los alimentos, encendió todo su ser—, para fregar en la cocina; chicas que iban a vestirse y a salir a bailar en medio de sensuales saxofones y baterías y luces de colores, que mientras duraba la juventud tomaban la vida como un cóctel de una bandeja de plata; chicas que se sentaban en casa y leían libros y soñaban con amantes a lomos de caballos con arreos de plata.
      “¿Es juventud lo que quiero? ¿Es la juventud que hay en mí y que clama hacia la juventud en otros seres lo que me conturba? Entonces, ¿por qué no me satisface el ejercicio, la contienda física con otros jóvenes de mi sexo? ¿0 es la Mujer, el femenino sin nombre? ¿Habrá de venirse abajo en este punto toda mi filosofía? Si uno ha venido al mundo a padecer tales compulsiones, ¿dónde está mi Iglesia, dónde esa mística unión que me ha sido prometida? ¿Y qué es lo que debo hacer: obedecer estos impulsos y pecar, o reprimirlos y verme torturado para siempre por el temor de que en cierto modo he desperdiciado mi vida en aras de la abnegación?”.
      “Purificaré mi alma”, se dijo. La vida es más que eso, la salvación es más que eso. Pero oh, Dios, oh, Dios, ¡la juventud está tan presente en el mundo! Está por doquiera en los jóvenes cuerpos de chicas embotadas por el trabajo, sobre máquinas de escribir o tras mostradores de tiendas, de chicas al fin evadidas y libres que exigen la herencia de la juventud, que hacen subir sus ágiles y suaves cuerpos a los tranvías, cada una con quién sabe qué sueño. “Salvo que el hoy es el hoy, y que vale mil mañanas y mil ayeres”, exclamó.
      “Oh, Dios, oh, Dios. ¡Si al menos fuera ya mañana! Entonces, seguramente, cuando haya sido ordenado y me convierta en un siervo de Dios, hallaré consuelo. Entonces sabré cómo dominar estas voces que hay en mi sangre. Oh, Dios, oh, Dios, ¡si al menos fuera ya Mañana!”
      En la esquina había una expendeduría de tabaco: había hombres comprando, hombres que habían finalizado su jornada de trabajo y volvían a sus casas, donde les esperaban suculentas comidas, esposas, hijos; o a cuartos de soltero para prepararse y acudir a citas con prometidas o amantes; siempre mujeres. Y yo, también, soy un hombre: siento como ellos; yo, también, respondería a blandas compulsiones.
      Dejó Canal Street; dejó los parpadeantes anuncios eléctricos que habrían de llenar y vaciar el crepúsculo, inexistentes a sus ojos y por lo tanto sin luz, lo mismo que los árboles son verdes únicamente cuando son mirados. Las luces llamearon y soñaron en la calle húmeda, los ágiles cuerpos de las chicas dieron forma a su apresuramiento hacia la comida y la diversión y el amor; todo quedaba a su espalda ahora; delante de él, a lo lejos, la aguja de una iglesia se alzaba corno una plegaria articulada y detenida contra la noche. Y sus pisadas dijeron: “¡Mañana! ¡Mañana!”.
      Ave Maria, deam gratiam… torre de marfil, rosa del Líbano…