Product Description

The 2005 Summer Selection is available in an exclusive three volume boxed edition that includes a special reader's guide with an introduction by Oprah Winfrey.

Titles include:
As I Lay Dying
This novel is the harrowing account of the Bundren family's odyssey across the Mississippi countryside to bury Addie, their wife and mother. Told in turns by each of the family members-including Addie herself-the novel ranges in mood from dark comedy to the deepest pathos. Originally published in 1930.

The Sound and the Fury
First published in 1929, Faulkner created his "heart's darling," the beautiful and tragic Caddy Compson, whose story Faulkner told through separate monologues by her three brothers-the idiot Benjy, the neurotic suicidal Quentin and the monstrous Jason.

Light in August
Light in August, a novel about hopeful perseverance in the face of mortality, features some of Faulkner's most memorable characters: guileless, dauntless Lena Grove, in search of the father of her unborn child; Reverend Gail Hightower, who is plagued by visions of Confederate horsemen; and Joe Christmas, a desperate, mysterious drifter consumed by his mixed ancestry. Originally published in 1932.

Take a seat in Oprah's Classroom and sign up for Faulkner 101 on oprah.com/bookclub.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #17308 in Books
• Published on: 2005-06-03
• Released on: 2005-06-03
• Format: Box set
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 3
• Binding: Paperback

Features

• ISBN13: 9780307275325
• Condition: NEW
• Notes: Brand New from Publisher. No Remainder Mark.
• Click here to view our Condition Guide and Shipping Prices

About the Author
William Cuthbert Faulkner was born in 1897 in New Albany, Mississippi, the first of four sons of Murry and Maud Butler Falkner (he later added the "u" to the family name himself). In 1904 the family moved to the university town of Oxford, Mississippi, where Faulkner was to spend most of his life. He was named for his great-grandfather "The Old Colonel," a Civil War veteran who built a railroad, wrote a bestselling romantic novel called The White Rose of Memphis, became a Mississippi state legislator, and was eventually killed in what may or may not have been a duel with a disgruntled business partner. Faulkner identified with this robust and energetic ancestor and often said that he inherited the "ink stain" from him.

Never fond of school, Faulkner left at the end of football season his senior year of high school, and began working at his grandfather's bank. In 1918, after his plans to marry his sweetheart Estelle Oldham were squashed by their families, he tried to enlist as a pilot in the U.S. Army but was rejected because he did not meet the height and weight requirements. He went to Canada, where he pretended to be an Englishman and joined the RAF training program there. Although he did not complete his training until after the war ended and never saw combat, he returned to his hometown in uniform, boasting of war wounds. He briefly attended the University of Mississippi, where he began to publish his poetry.

After spending a short time living in New York, he again returned to Oxford, where he worked at the university post office. His first book, a collection of poetry, The Marble Faun, was published at Faulkner's own expense in 1924. The writer Sherwood Anderson, whom he met in New Orleans in 1925, encouraged him to try writing fiction, and his first novel, Soldier's Pay, was published in 1926. It was followed by Mosquitoes. His next novel, which he titled Flags in the Dust, was rejected by his publisher and twelve others to whom he submitted it. It was eventually published in drastically edited form as Sartoris (the original version was not issued until after his death). Meanwhile, he was writing The Sound and the Fury, which, after being rejected by one publisher, came out in 1929 and received many ecstatic reviews, although it sold poorly. Yet again, a new novel, Sanctuary, was initially rejected by his publisher, this time as "too shocking." While working on the night shift at a power plant, Faulkner wrote what he was determined would be his masterpiece, As I Lay Dying. He finished it in about seven weeks, and it was published in 1930, again to generally good reviews and mediocre sales.

In 1929 Faulkner had finally married his childhood sweetheart, Estelle, after her divorce from her first husband. They had a premature daughter, Alabama, who died ten days after birth in 1931; a second daughter, Jill, was born in 1933.

With the eventual publication of his most sensational and violent (as well as, up till then, most successful) novel, Sanctuary (1931), Faulkner was invited to write scripts for MGM and Warner Brothers, where he was responsible for much of the dialogue in the film versions of Hemingway's To Have and Have Not and Chandler's The Big Sleep, and many other films. He continued to write novels and published many stories in the popular magazines. Light in August (1932) was his first attempt to address the racial issues of the South, an effort continued in Absalom, Absalom! (1936), and Go Down, Moses (1942). By 1946, most of Faulkner's novels were out of print in the United States (although they remained well-regarded in Europe), and he was seen as a minor, regional writer. But then the influential editor and critic Malcolm Cowley, who had earlier championed Hemingway and Fitzgerald and others of their generation, put together The Portable Faulkner, and once again Faulkner's genius was recognized, this time for good. He received the 1949 Nobel Prize for Literature as well as many other awards and accolades, including the National Book Award and the Gold Medal from the American Academy of Arts and Letters and France's Legion of Honor.

In addition to several collections of short fiction, his other novels include Pylon (1935), The Unvanquished (1938), The Wild Palms (1939), The Hamlet (1940), Intruder in the Dust (1948), A Fable (1954), The Town (1957), The Mansion (1959), and The Reivers (1962).

William Faulkner died of a heart attack on July 6, 1962, in Oxford, Mississippi, where he is buried.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
From As I Lay Dying

Darl

Jewel and I come up from the field, following the path in single file. Although I am fifteen feet ahead of him, anyone watching us from the cottonhouse can see Jewel’s frayed and broken straw hat a full head above my own.

The path runs straight as a plumb-line, worn smooth by feet and baked brick-hard by July, between the green rows of laidby cotton, to the cottonhouse in the center of the field, where it turns and circles the cottonhouse at four soft right angles and goes on across the field again, worn so by feet in fading precision.

The cottonhouse is of rough logs, from between which the chinking has long fallen. Square, with a broken roof set at a single pitch, it leans in empty and shimmering dilapidation in the sunlight, a single broad window in two opposite walls giving onto the approaches of the path. When we reach it I turn and follow the path which circles the house. Jewel, fifteen feet behind me, looking straight ahead, steps in a single stride through the window. Still staring straight ahead, his pale eyes like wood set into his wooden face, he crosses the floor in four strides with the rigid gravity of a cigar store Indian dressed in patched overalls and endued with life from the hips down, and steps in a single stride through the opposite window and into the path again just as I come around the corner. In single file and five feet apart and Jewel now in front, we go on up the path toward the foot of the bluff.

Tull’s wagon stands beside the spring, hitched to the rail, the reins wrapped about the seat stanchion. In the wagon bed are two chairs. Jewel stops at the spring and takes the gourd from the willow branch and drinks. I pass him and mount the path, beginning to hear Cash’s saw.

When I reach the top he has quit sawing. Standing in a litter of chips, he is fitting two of the boards together. Between the shadow spaces they are yellow as gold, like soft gold, bearing on their flanks in smooth undulations the marks of the adze blade: a good carpenter, Cash is. He holds the two planks on the trestle, fitted along the edges in a quarter of the finished box. He kneels and squints along the edge of them, then he lowers them and takes up the adze. A good carpenter. Addie Bundren could not want a better one, a better box to lie in. It will give her confidence and comfort. I go on to the house, followed by the

Chuck. Chuck. Chuck. of the adze.

Cora

So I saved out the eggs and baked yesterday. The cakes turned out right well. We depend a lot on our chickens. They are good layers, what few we have left after the possums and such. Snakes too, in the summer. A snake will break up a hen-house quicker than anything. So after they were going to cost so much more than Mr Tull thought, and after I promised that the difference in the number of eggs would make it up, I had to be more careful than ever because it was on my final say-so we took them. We could have stocked cheaper chickens, but I gave my promise as Miss Lawington said when she advised me to get a good breed, because Mr Tull himself admits that a good breed of cows or hogs pays in the long run. So when we lost so many of them we couldn’t afford to use the eggs ourselves, because I could not have had Mr Tull chide me when it was on my say-so we took them. So when Miss Lawington told me about the cakes I thought that I could bake them and earn enough at one time to increase the net value of the flock the equivalent of two head. And that by saving the eggs out one at a time, even the eggs wouldn’t be costing anything. And that week they laid so well that I not only saved out enough eggs above what we had engaged to sell, to bake the cakes with, I had saved enough so that the flour and the sugar and the stove wood would not be costing anything. So I baked yesterday, more careful than ever I baked in my life, and the cakes turned out right well. But when we got to town this morning Miss Lawington told me the lady had changed her mind and was not going to have the party after all.

“She ought to taken those cakes anyway,” Kate says.

“Well,” I say, “I reckon she never had no use for them now.”

“She ought to taken them,” Kate says. “But those rich town ladies can change their minds. Poor folks cant.”

Riches is nothing in the face of the Lord, for He can see into the heart. “Maybe I can sell them at the bazaar Saturday,” I say. They turned out real well.

“You cant get two dollars a piece for them,” Kate says.

“Well, it isn’t like they cost me anything,” I say. I saved them out and swapped a dozen of them for the sugar and flour. It isn’t like the cakes cost me anything, as Mr Tull himself realises that the eggs I saved were over and beyond what we had engaged to sell, so it was like we had found the eggs or they had been given to us.

“She ought to taken those cakes when she same as gave you her word,” Kate says. The Lord can see into the heart. If it is His will that some folks has different ideas of honesty from other folks, it is not my place to question His decree.

“I reckon she never had any use for them,” I say. They turned out real well, too.

The quilt is drawn up to her chin, hot as it is, with only her two hands and her face outside. She is propped on the pillow, with her head raised so she can see out the window, and we can hear him every time he takes up the adze or the saw. If we were deaf we could almost watch her face and hear him, see him. Her face is wasted away so that the bones draw just under the skin in white lines. Her eyes are like two candles when you watch them gutter down into the sockets of iron candle-sticks. But the eternal and the everlasting salvation and grace is not upon her.

“They turned out real nice,” I say. “But not like the cakes Addie used to bake.” You can see that girl’s washing and ironing in the pillow-slip, if ironed it ever was. Maybe it will reveal her blindness to her, laying there at the mercy and the ministration of four men and a tom-boy girl. “There’s not a woman in this section could ever bake with Addie Bundren,” I say. “First thing we know she’ll be up and baking again, and then we wont have any sale for ours at all.” Under the quilt she makes no more of a hump than a rail would, and the only way you can tell she is breathing is by the sound of the mattress shucks. Even the hair at her cheek does not move, even with that girl standing right over her, fanning her with the fan. While we watch she swaps the fan to the other hand without stopping it.

“Is she sleeping?” Kate whispers.

“She’s just watching Cash yonder,” the girl says. We can hear the saw in the board. It sounds like snoring. Eula turns on the trunk and looks out the window. Her necklace looks real nice with her red hat. You wouldn’t think it only cost twenty-five cents.

“She ought to taken those cakes,” Kate says.

I could have used the money real well. But it’s not like they cost me anything except the baking. I can tell him that anybody is likely to make a miscue, but it’s not all of them that can get out of it without loss, I can tell him. It’s not everybody can eat their mistakes, I can tell him.

Someone comes through the hall. It is Darl. He does not look in as he passes the door. Eula watches him as he goes on and passes from sight again toward the back. Her hand rises and touches her beads lightly, and then her hair. When she finds me watching her, her eyes go blank.

Darl

Pa and Vernon are sitting on the back porch. Pa is tilting snuff from the lid of his snuff-box into his lower lip, holding the lip outdrawn between thumb and finger. They look around as I cross the porch and dip the gourd into the water bucket and drink.

“Where’s Jewel?” pa says. When I was a boy I first learned how much better water tastes when it has set a while in a cedar bucket. Warmish-cool, with a faint taste like the hot July wind in cedar trees smells. It has to set at least six hours, and be drunk from a gourd. Water should never be drunk from metal.

And at night it is better still. I used to lie on the pallet in the hall, waiting until I could hear them all asleep, so I could get up and go back to the bucket. It would be black, the shelf black, the still surface of the water a round orifice in nothingness, where before I stirred it awake with the dipper I could see maybe a star or two in the bucket, and maybe in the dipper a star or two before I drank. After that I was bigger, older. Then I would wait until they all went to sleep so I could lie with my shirt-tail up, hearing them asleep, feeling myself without touching myself, feeling the cool silence blowing upon my parts and wondering if Cash was yonder in the darkness doing it too, had been doing it perhaps for the last two years before I could have wanted to or could have.

Pa’s feet are badly splayed, his toes cramped and bent and warped, with no toenail at all on his little toes, from working so hard in the wet in homemade shoes when he was a boy. Beside his chair his brogans sit. They look as though they had been hacked with a blunt axe out of pig-iron. Vernon has been to town. I have never seen him go to town in overalls. His wife, they say. She taught school too, once.

I fling the dipper dregs to the ground and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. It is going to rain before morning. Maybe before dark. “Down to the barn,” I say. “Harnessing the team.”

Down there fooling with that horse. He will go on through the barn, into the pasture. The horse will not be in sight: he is up there among the pine seedlings, in the cool. Jewel whistles, once and shrill. The horse snorts, then Jewel sees him, glinting for a gaudy instant among the blue shadows. Jewel whistles again;...

Customer Reviews

Black And White In Color
Three of Faulkner's greatest novels re-packaged to take advantage of Oprah Winfrey's massive promotion. As we know, Oprah has so much street cred she could propel a shopping list to the top of the best seller list, so let's see what she can do for Faulkner, a writer who has sometimes been criticized for relying on stereotyped depictions of black characters. And at least two of these three novels face that explosive issue head on. In THE SOUND AND THE FURY, the multiple neuroses of the (white) Compson family are always being counterposed to the nurturing and loving family of (black) Dilsey and the rest of the servants. No matter what awful thing happens to one of the Compsons, Dilsey will always be hugging them to her bosom and singing plantations spirituals to cheer them up, ignoring her own systemic arthritis the better to give them the love and affection their own parents don't know how to dish up.

In LIGHT IN AUGUST, the racial identity of its protagonist, Joe Christmas, is a contested site, for no one knows if he's black, white, or what. Commentators have often associated Joe with Jesus Christ (right down to the same initials) and his posture of martyrdom can still bring your heart into your throat, it's a very harsh look at Southern life at the beginning of the last century and Faulkner doesn't shy away from cruelty. He does show that patience and love do overcome almost any obstacles, or at any rate they wear down the obstacles to the degree that they transmogrify into something else. But was he counselling patience for black people, telling them to go slow in their struggle for civil rights? Like any modernist text, LIGHT IN AUGUST is ambiguous and does not give up its answers very clearly.

AS I LAY DYING, which takes the narrative form of THE SOUND AND THE FURY and explodes it further, is not as direct as the other two books in terms of its navigation of black and white relations in the US. AS I LAY DYING is more private, less social, more of a lyric meditation on family and the great cavern of death. No one yet has bettered Faulkner in his ability to enter into the heads of so many disparate characters and this book might be the tour de force of all time. Even the mother (dead when the book begins) speaks from beyond the grave, almost as a ghost might, but a ghost still attached to her own body, as her boys trundle her coffin from one far place to another. (Like Lena Grove's journey in LIGHT IN AUGUST.)

I'm happy Oprah is doing this! Maybe she can get Jonathan Franzen on her show and he could explain how THE CORRECTIONS is really a post-modern re-make of the Compsons. The truth is that most US novelists, and many writers from overseas, owe a huge debt to William Faulkner. Even those who don't know it yet. He is a fact of our landscape, like the weather.

Brace yourself for the ride of your life.
No American author--not even Melville--has the potential to alter human consciousness as profoundly as Faulkner. The "bait" may be sensational plots, seemingly grotesque characters, and Southern Gothic settings, but the reward is knowledge of the innermost workings of the mind, of both the self in the world and the world of self. Faulkner is as advanced, as universal, as human as any author on the near side of Shakespeare.

Oprah's three selections are inarguably indispensable though not sufficient to a complete understanding of Faulkner's vision. Some readers may wish to start out with something lighter--for example, the short stories that are anthologized in introductory literature courses ("Rose for Emily," "Barn Burning," "That Evening Sun," and "The Bear"--short edition). And for those readers who jump right into the novels and survive the challenge of Faulkner's syntax, jump cuts, and stream-of-consciousness technique, there yet remains his masterpiece: "Absalom, Absalom!"

In reading some of the previous reviews, I see there are a number of readers who either dismiss or condemn Faulkner in no uncertain terms. Just give him a chance and your undivided attention. I've witnessed high school students with little to no interest in reading come to life after participating in and constructing the meanings of "The Sound and the Fury." For those who have doubts that the pay-off is worth the effort, I'll offer a glimpse of the rewards. Here are the areas where Faulkner has affected me most deeply and indelibly:

1. History and the personal sense of the past. The present is always "filled" with the past and hence cannot be understood without a willingness to own the past--all of it. On the other hand, many of Faulkner's characters remain entrapped by the past, simply unable to escape their imprisonment in a dream gone bad, or in a "magnificent idea" (the Grand Old South) that was tainted from the very beginning.

2. Gender. Faulkner probes into the recesses of human consciousness, men and women. His strong women characters outdo his strongest men in wisdom, resilience, and stoic backbone. And just at the moment when we think we've got one of his characters figured out, he removes another layer of the outer persona, repeating the process until finally we've arrived at the inner sanctuary of a desire so ineffably private and intense that it's as if the mystery of human personality itself has been bridged.

3. Race. It's everybody's business, as no author has made clearer. A reader who has completed these three novels along with "Go Down Moses" and the crucial "Absalom, Absalom!," is unlikely to see race and color as before. Every reader must "earn" the insight for themselves, but for Faulkner "blackness," pure and simple, equates to "humanness." Color is less a marker than part of the human condition. To insist on a pure ethnic or racial strain is to invite "incest," Faulkner's metaphor for the terminal disease of racial pride and segregation.

4. Language. This area is the most elusive for the general reader, but for Faulkner language is not only medium but subject and substance. "In the beginning was the Word and the Word was made flesh." For Faulkner, language is what distinguishes humans from all other creatures. It's not merely a "tool"; it's human consciousness itself. Paradoxically, one of his most "alive" characters, Addie Bundren ("As I Lay Dying"), hates words because they seem inadequate to represent her desires. The very expression of those desires refutes her aversion to words; in fact, the very force of her words (the language of a dead woman!) controls all that transpires in her story.

If this is your first conversation with Faulkner, I almost envy you. Don't be surprised if it's not your last.

Faulkner was and will always be one of the best!!!!
Somehow, I don't think that such a distinguish author as William Faulkner needs to have the seal of Oprah's approval as a sign of excellence. However, it does open the door for a new generation of readers to discover one of the great authors of the 20th century. For that, I am sure that deep in William's grave, there is a bit of happiness occurring. And for those readers who have never had the opportunity to enjoy one of the master's works; now is the time to discover what writing from the soul really is like.

AS I LAY DYING:

One family must come to face the task of burying their mother and wife, Addie. Unlike so many books of today, Faulkner tells the tale from the many different points of views in a more heartfelt sense and not preachy as many stories attempt to do. All the family's different points of view are brought together as the venture through the Mississippi countryside, with Addie's coffin, looking for the right place to bury her.

THE SOUND AND THE FURY:

Again, Faulkner takes on an unforgettable venture through the minds and words of the Compson siblings. The mentally challenged Benjy, the phobic filled, suicidal Quentin and the hideous Jason tell the tale of their sister, Caddy. A dysfunctional family if ever there was one that, given the year this story was written, dealt with their problems long before there was professional help available. To counter their ways and problems, the Dilsey's (one of the servants) family provides the love and care. Oh, and to demonstrate the sign of the times, the Compson family was white and the family of Dilsey's was black. This story provides another reflection of coexistence in an era where racism was still the norm, not the exception.

LIGHT IN AUGUST:

Here we have an array of some of Faulkner's most enlighten characters revolving around a story that, again, reflects the overtones of racism. Joe Christmas is the object of much discussion. Is he black or white? A mystifying wanderer traveling through the Deep South, his story outlines real life in that ambient lifestyle. Faulkner doesn't sugarcoat the truth of life some 80 years ago and dignifies the human race with the ability to provide love and understand able to, with time, overcome the most horrendous mindsets of people.

For those that have read these timeless classics, no review would ever do them the justice they deserve. For those that have yet to discover Faulkner, now is the time to do so, this summer. Thank you Oprah, for reopening the treasure box to the world!


Frederick A. Babb