The Reivers

I think William Faulkner got the Pulitzer Prize for this book because it was his last one.

That said, I don't think Faulkner really writes a poor book. I was surprised by how straightforward and genuinely funny this book was. It was still written stream-of conciousness style like his other books. I didn't really know Faulkner had it in him to be satirically funny without being morbid. That alone made this a fun read.

Hmm. What else.

The story is a coming-of-age story, a genre I generally enjoy, but I thought Faulkner dealt with the coming-of-age moment particularly well. The narrator, Lucius Priest, is an eleven-year old boy who steals his grandfather's car with two of his grandfather's employees--"childlike" Boon Hogganbeck and black Ned McCaslin. He's forced through all sorts of adult adventures he's not prepared to deal with because of his choice--prostitution, horse smuggling, gambling, jail. When he finally arrives home his father prepares to whip him. Lucius thinks this is a terribly inadequate consequence for his behavior: "[If] all that I had done was balanced by no more than a shaving strop, then both [me and my father] were debased." His grandfather comes in for a an adult conversation:

"I lied," I said.
"Come here," [Grandfather] said.
"I cant," I said. "I lied, I tell you."
"I know it," he said.
"Then do something about it. Do anything, just so it's something."
"I cant," he said.
"There aint anything to do? Not anything?"
"I didn't say that," Grandfather said. "I said I couldn't. You can."
"What?" I said. "How can I forget it? Tell me how to."
"You cant," he said. "Nothing is ever forgotten. Nothing is ever lost. It's too valuable."
"Then what can I do?"
"Live with it," Grandfather said.
"Live with it? You mean, forever? For the rest of my life? Not ever to get rid of it? Never? I cant. Dont you see I cant?"
"Yes you can," he said. "You will. A gentleman always does. A gentleman can live through anything. He faces anything. A gentleman accepts the responsibility of his actions and bears the burden of their consequences, even when he did not himself instigate them but only acquiesced to them, didn't say No though he knew he should. Come here." Then I was crying hard, bawling [...]. "There," he said at last. "That should have emptied the cistern. Now go wash your face. A gentleman cries too, but he always washes his face."

I think that's a beautiful description of the inadequacy one feels when faced with the weight of sin. And I think his grandfather is beautiful, too.