Flannery O’Connor’s nickname for Faulkner was “the Dixie Limited.” She didn’t mean it entirely kindly: His huge talent and towering ambition made him a literary freight train that other southern writers were often forced to dodge. Both qualities are on full display in The Sound and the Fury, which describes the bitter, incestuous dealings of a Mississippi family fallen on hard times. A formal and stylistic tour de force (in other words, a tough but profoundly rewarding read), the book unfolds in four sections, centered in turn on each of the three Compson brothers — Benjy, a mentally disabled man; Quentin, a depressed, neurotic Harvard student; and Jason, an avaricious jerk — as well as on a black servant named Dilsey. All the brothers are obsessed with the dishonored Caddy, the slutty Compson sister, and with the family honor (and the family fortune) that the Compsons have frittered away. From these ruined fragments and damaged spare parts Faulkner builds a brutally moving epic of love, lust and endurance.
Frank Bascombe is scrupulously out of touch with himself. Devastated by the death of his young son, divorced now from his wife, he is tiptoeing his way through bereavement, using work — he’s a magazine writer — to dislodge his grief, self-medicating with a strenuously pursued normalcy. In this beautifully calibrated book, he finds his way to something like peace, which is a different matter. Ford is masterful at describing hard-won and precarious emotional equilibriums of a kind you very well may recognize as your own. This book led to a no less brilliant sequel, Independence Day. As portraits of a man who has lingered in despair but who refuses in the end to remain there, they have no equal.