Sunday, August 14, 2011

QotD: Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting

Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting.They were coming toward where the flag was and I went along the fence. Luster was hunting in the grass by the flower tree. They took the flag out, and they were hitting. They put the flag back and they went to the table, and he hit and the other hit. (William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury, 1929).

Starting a little vacation time in Brewster, Mass. One of the benefits is that I look out right over a golf course (too bad I don't play golf). So this morning, at 6:04 a.m. they were out mowing the grass ("greens"?) and such. Shortly after they finished, I heard the "pock, pock" of the driving. The sound made me think to that wonderful opening scene of Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury where Luster is out with Benjy hunting for golf balls on the side of the course that was the land that properly belonged to Benjy had not the weight of being a Compson crushed down the that which was the being of Caddie and Jason, and Quentin, yes, even Quentin; Quentin that was not even Quentin. That weight, which, some would say was not the weight of being a Compson, but rather was the weight of dirt and blood that was what it was to mean The South at that point in time, or was it truly all times and only that which causes us to rail at the moil and tumult of stirrings, that causes us to think of the tomorrow and tomorrows that exist only to wreak upon us frailties of the todays and yesterday?

1 comment:

S Pilsk said...

What does it mean when I, vacationing in a different place - actually in the south... in Atlanta where the PGA golf tournament is going on .. where in the lobby is a small, tasteful sign pointing to the PGA office... with people still having the heat radiate off them from watching the morning round and are now having an afternoon drink in the bar ... some with there tournament passes still around there necks; another wave of people pass by as they come in from the complimentary shuttle service... and I think not of Faulkner but realize I've never read any PGWoodhouse's golf stories?