![]() It was difficult to imagine it full of the noise of life. The house felt like a writer’s sanctuary. ![]() He guarded his privacy, which was quite evident. ![]() I wonder if he wanted to preserve the dramatic tension of his story world, the South trapped between the past and a questionable future. Faulkner didn’t want any technology in the house (he also forbade air conditioning, believe it or not). When Faulkner’s daughter Jill wanted a radio in her teen years, Faulkner and his wife argued about it. It was as if the writer hadn’t left the house. Hallowed because everything was just as William Faulkner left it. ![]() The word that first came to mind as I stepped onto the hushed grounds of Rowan Oak was “hallowed.” Hallowed because there was none of the expected tourist fanfare surrounding the place (in fact, we got lost trying to find it). It’s safe to say I have a strange and abiding kinship with the man, one that will indeed last an eternity, so it was only fitting that I stopped by his house, Rowan Oak, when I crossed into Mississippi for the first time in my life. I’ve been asked whether I’m related to William Faulkner thousands of times in my life. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |