Virginia Colleges Conference, tape 1
DATE: 15 April 1957
OCCASION: Virginia Colleges Conference
READING: "Shingles for the Lord"
Play the full recording:
Frederick Gwynn: Ladies and Gentleman, the Department of English at the University of Virginia is honored to present Mr. Faulkner, and is also very pleased that so many of you were able to travel—so many of you long distances—to be present this afternoon. Mr. Faulkner will first read from his short story "Shingles for the Lord" and when that is finished, is open to questions, and on any direction. Mr. Faulkner—
Pap got up a good hour before daylight and caught the
mule and rid down to Killegrews' to borrow the froe and maul. He ought to
been back with it in forty minutes. But the sun had rose and I had done
milked and fed and was eating my breakfast when he got back, with the mule
not only in a lather but right on the edge of the thumps too.
"Fox hunting," he said. "Fox hunting. A seventy-year-old man, with both feet and one knee, too, already in the grave, squatting all night on a hill and calling himself listening to a fox race that he couldn't even hear unless they had come right up onto the same log he was setting on and bayed into his ear trumpet. Give me my breakfast," he told maw. "Whitfield is standing there right this minute, straddle of that board tree with his watch in his hand."
And he was. We rid on past the church, and there was not only Solon Quick's school-bus truck but Reverend Whitfield's old mare too. We tied the mule to a sapling and hung our dinner bucket on a limb, and with pap toting Killegrew's froe and maul and the wedges and me toting our ax, we went on to the board tree where Solon and Homer Bookwright, with their froes and mauls and axes and wedges, was setting on two upended cuts, and Whitfield was standing jest like pap said, in his boiled shirt and his black hat and pants and necktie, holding his watch in his hand. It was gold and in the morning sunlight it looked as big as a full-growed squash.
"You're late," he said.
So pap told them again about how Old
Man Killegrew had been off fox hunting all night, and nobody at home to lend
him the froe but Mrs. Killegrew and the cook. And naturally, the cook wasn't
going to lend none of Killegrew's tools out, and Mrs. Killegrew was worser
deaf than even Killegrew. If you was to run in and tell her the house was
afire, she would jest keep on rocking and say she thought so, too, [audience laughter] unless
she began to holler back to the cook to turn the dogs loose before you could
even open your mouth.
"You could have gone yesterday and borrowed the froe," Whitfield said. "You have known for a month now that you had promised this one day out of a whole summer toward putting a roof on the house of God."
"We ain't but two hours late," pap said. "I reckon the Lord will forgive it. He ain't interested in time, nohow. He's interested in salvation."
Whitfield never even waited for pap to finish. It looked to me like he even got taller, thundering down at pap like a cloudburst. "He ain't interested in neither! Why should He be, when He owns them both? And why should He turn around for the poor, mizzling souls of men that can't even borrow tools in time to replace the shingles on His church, I don't know either. Maybe it's just because He made them. Maybe He just said to Himself: 'I made them; I don't know why. But since I did, I Godfrey, I'll roll my sleeves up and drag them into glory whether they will or no!'"
But that wasn't here nor there neither now, and I reckon he knowed it, jest like he knowed there wasn't going to be nothing atall here as long as he stayed. So he put the watch back into his pocket and motioned Solon and Homer up, and we all taken off our hats except him while he stood there with his face raised into the sun and his eyes shut and his eyebrows looking big like iron-gray caterpillars lying along the edge of a cliff. "Lord," he said, "make them good straight shingles to lay smooth, and let them split out easy; they're for You," and opened his eyes and looked at us again, mostly at pap, and went and untied his mare and clumb up slow and stiff, like old men do, and rid away.
Pap put down the froe and maul and laid the three wedges
in a neat row on the ground and taken up the ax.
"Well, men," he said, "let's get started. We're already late."
"Me and Homer ain't," Solon said. "We was here." This time him and Homer didn't set on the cuts. They squatted on their heels. Then I seen that Homer was whittling on a stick. I hadn't noticed it before. "I make it two hours and a little over," Solon said. "More or less."
Pap was still about half stooped over, holding the ax. "It's nigher one," he said. "But call it two for the sake of the argument. What about it?"
"What argument?" Homer said.
"All right," pap said. "Two hours then. What about it?"
"Which is three man-hour units a hour, multiplied by two hours," Solon said. "Or a total of six work units." When the WPA first come to Yoknapatawpha County and started to giving out jobs and grub and mattresses, Solon went in to Jefferson to get on it. He would drive his school-bus truck the twenty-two miles in to town every morning and come back that night. He done that for almost a week before he found out he would not only have to sign his farm off into somebody else's name, he couldn't even own and run the school bus that he had built himself. So he come back that night and never went back no more, and since then hadn't nobody better mention WP and A to him unless they aimed to fight, too, though every now and then he would turn up with something all figured down into work units like he done now. "Six units short."
"Four of which you and Homer could have already worked
out while you was setting here waiting on me," pap said.
"Except that we didn't," Solon said. "We promised Whitfield two units of twelve three-unit hours toward getting some new shingles on the church roof. We been here ever since sunup, waiting for the third unit to show up, so we could start. You don't seem to kept up with these modern ideas about work that's been flooding and uplifting the country in the last few years."
"What modren ideas?" pap said. "I didn't know there was but one idea about work—until it is done, it ain't done, and when it is done, it is."
Homer made another long, steady whittle on the stick. His knife was sharp as a razor.
Solon taken out his snuffbox and filled the top and tilted the snuff into his lip and offered the box to Homer, and Homer shaken his head, and Solon put the top back on the box and put the box back into his pocket.
"So," pap said, "jest because I had to wait two hours for a old seventy-year man to get back from fox hunting that never had no more business setting out in the woods all night than he would 'a' had setting all night in a highway juke joint, we all three have got to come back here tomorrow to finish them two hours that vou and Homer — "
"I ain't," Solon said. "I don't know about Homer. I promised Whitfield one day. I was here at sunup to start it. When the sun goes down, I will consider I have done finished it."
"I see," pap said. "I see. It's me that's got to come
back. By myself. I got to break into a full morning to make up them two
hours that you and Homer spent resting. I got to spend two hours of the next
day making up for the two hours of the day before that you and Homer never
"It's going to more than jest break into a morning," Solon said. "It's going to wreck it. There's six units left over. Six one-man-hour units. Maybe you can work twice as fast as me and Homer put together and finish them in four hours, but I don't believe you can work three times as fast and finish in two."
"Maybe there's something else besides cash you might be
able to trade with," Solon said. "You might use that dog." That was when pap
actually stopped. I didn't know it myself then either, but I found out a
good long time before Solon did. Pap set there with the maul up over his
head and the blade of the froe set against the block for the next lick,
looking up at Solon. "The dog?" he said.
It was a kind of mixed hound, with a little bird dog and some collie and maybe a considerable of almost anything else, but it would ease through the woods without no more noise than a hant and pick up a squirrel's trail on the ground and bark jest once, unless it knowed you was where you could see it, and then tiptoe that trail out jest like a man and never make another sound until it treed, and only then when it knowed you hadn't kept in sight of it. It belonged to pap and Vernon Tull together. Will Varner give it to Tull as a puppy, and pap raised it for a half interest; me and him trained it and it slept in my bed with me until it got so big maw finally run it out of the house, and for the last six months Solon had been trying to buy it. Him and Tull had agreed on two dollars for Tull's half of it, but Solon and pap was still six dollars apart on ourn, because pap said it was worth ten dollars of anybody's money and if Tull wasn't going to collect his half of that, he was going to collect it for him.
"So that's it," pap said. "Them things wasn't work units
atall. They was dog units." [audience laughter]
"Jest a suggestion," Solon said. "Jest a friendly offer to keep them runaway shingles from breaking up your private business for six hours tomorrow morning. You sell me your half of that trick overgrown fyce and I'll finish these shingles for you."
"Naturally including them six extra units of one dollars," pap said.
"No, no," Solon said. "I'll pay you the same two dollars for your half of that dog that me and Tull agreed on for his half of it. You meet me here tomorrow morning with the dog and you can go on back home or wherever them urgent private affairs are located, and forget about that church roof."
"Your half of the dog for that half a day's work you
still owe on them shingles."
"And the two dollars," pap said. "That you and Tull agreed on. I sell you half the dog for two dollars, and you come back here tomorrow and finish the shingles. You give me the two dollars now, and I'll meet you here in the morning with the dog, and you can show me the receipt from Tull for his half then."
"Me and Tull have already agreed," Solon said.
"All right," pap said. "Then you can pay Tull his two dollars and bring his receipt with you without no trouble."
"Tull will be at the church tomorrow morning, pulling off them old shingles," Solon said.
"All right," pap said. "Then it won't be no trouble at all for you to get a receipt from him. You can stop at the church when you pass. Tull ain't named Grier. He won't need to be off somewhere tomorrow morning borrowing a crowbar."
So Solon taken out his purse and paid pap the two dollars and they went back to work. And now it looked like they really was trying to finish that afternoon, not jest Solon, but even Homer, that didn't even seem to be concerned in it nohow, and pap, that had already swapped a half a dog to get rid of whatever work Solon claimed would be left over. I quit trying to stay up with them; I jest stacked shingles.
Then Solon laid his froe and maul down. "Well, men," he
said, "I don't know what you fellers think, but I consider this a day."
"All right," pap said. "You are the one to decide when to quit, since whatever elbow units you consider are going to be shy tomorrow will be yourn."
"That's a fact," Solon said. "And since I am giving a day and a half to the church instead of jest a day, like I started out doing, I reckon I better get on home and tend to a little of my own work." He picked up his froe and maul and ax and went to his truck and stood waiting for Homer to come and get in.
"I'll be here in the morning with the dog," pap said.
"Sholy," Solon said. It sounded like he had forgot
about the dog, or that it wasn't no longer any importance. But he stood
there again and looked hard and quiet at pap for about a second. "And a bill
of sale from Tull for his half of it. As you say, it won't be no trouble
a-tall to get that from him." Him and Homer got into the truck and he
started the engine. You couldn't say jest what it was. It was almost like
Solon was hurrying himself, so pap wouldn't have to make any excuse or
pretense toward doing or not doing anything. "I have always understood the
fact that lightning don't have to hit twice is one of the reasons why they
named it lightning. So getting lightning-struck is a mistake that might
happen to any man. The mistake I seem to made is, I never realized in time
that what I was looking at was a cloud. I'll see you in the morning."
"With the dog," pap said.
"Certainly," Solon said, again like it had slipped his mind completely. "With the dog."
Then him and Homer drove off. Then pap got up.
"What?" I said. "What? You swapped him your half of Tull's dog for that half a day's work tomorrow. Now what?"
"Yes," pap said. "Only before that I had already swapped Tull a half a day's work pulling off them old shingles tomorrow, for Tull's half of that dog. Only we ain't got to wait until tomorrow. We're going to pull them shingles off tonight, and without no more racket about it than is necessary. I don't aim to have nothing on my mind tomorrow but watching Mr. Solon Work-Unit Quick trying to get a bill of sale for two dollars or ten dollars either on the other half of that dog. And we'll do it tonight. I don't want him jest to find out at sunup tomorrow that he is too late. I want him to find out then that even when he had laid down to sleep he was already too late." [audience laughter]
So we went back home and I fed and milked while pap went down to Killegrews' to carry the froe and maul back and to borrow a crowbar. But of all places in the world and doing what under the sun with it, Old Man Killegrew had went and lost his crowbar out of a boat in forty feet of water. And pap said how he come within a inch of going to Solon's and borrowing his crowbar out of pure poetic justice, [audience laughter] only Solon might have smelled the rat jest from the idea of the crowbar. So pap went to Armstid's and borrowed hisn and come back and we et supper and cleaned and filled the lantern while maw still tried to find out what we was up to that couldn't wait till morning.
We left her still talking, even as far as the front
gate, and come on back to the church, walking this time, with the rope and
crowbar and a hammer for me, and the lantern still dark. Whitfield and
Snopes was unloading a ladder from Snopes' wagon when we passed the church
on the way home before dark, so all we had to do was to set the ladder up
against the church. Then pap clumb up onto the roof with the lantern and
pulled off shingles until he could hang the lantern inside behind the
decking, where it could shine out through the cracks in the planks, but you
couldn't see it unless you was passing in the road, and by that time anybody
would 'a' already heard us. Then I clumb up with the rope, and pap reached it
through the decking and around a rafter and back and tied the ends around
our waists, and we started. And we went at it. We had them old shingles jest
raining down, me using the claw hammer and pap using- the crowbar, working
the bar under a whole patch of shingles at one time and then laying back on
the bar like in one more lick or if—or if the crowbar ever happened for one second
to get a solid holt, he would tilt the whole roof up at one time like a
hinged box lid.
That's exactly what he finally done, he laid back on the bar and this time he—it got a holt. It wasn't jest a patch of shingles, it was a whole section of decking, so that when he lunged back he snatched that whole section of roof from around the lantern like you would shuck a corn nubbin. The lantern was hanging on a nail. He never even moved the nail, he jest pulled the board off of it, so that it looked like for a whole minute I watched the lantern, and the crowbar, too, setting there in the empty air in a little mess of floating shingles, [audience laughter] with the empty nail still sticking through the bail of the lantern, before the whole thing started down into the church. It hit the floor and bounced once. Then it hit the floor again, and this time the whole church jest blowed up into a pit of yellow jumping fire, with me and pap hanging over the edge of it on two ropes.
I don't know what become of the rope nor how we got out of it. I don't remember climbing down. Jest pap yelling behind me and pushing me halfway down the ladder and then throwing me the rest of the way by a handful of my overhalls, and then we was both on the ground, running for the water barrel. It set under the gutter spout at the side, and Armstid was there then; he had happened to go out to his lot about a hour back and seen the lantern on the church roof, and it stayed on his mind until finally he come up to see what was going on, and got there jest in time to stand yelling back and forth with pap across the water barrel. And I believe we still would have put it out. Pap turned and squatted against the barrel and got a holt of it over his shoulder and stood up with that barrel that was almost full and run around the corner and up the steps of the church and hooked his toe on the top step and come down with the barrel busting on top of him and knocking him cold out as a wedge.
So we had to drag him back first, and maw was there then, and Mrs. Armstid about the same time, and me and Armstid run with the two fire buckets to the spring, and when we got back there was a plenty there, Whitfield, too, with more buckets, and we done what we could, but the spring was two hundred yards away and ten buckets emptied it and it taken five minutes to fill again, so finally we all jest stood around where pap had come to again with a big cut on his head and watched it go. It was a old church, long dried out, and full of old colored-picture charts that Whitfield had accumulated for more than fifty years, that the lantern had lit right in the middle of when it finally exploded. There was a special nail where he would keep a old long nightshirt he would wear to baptize in. I used to watch it all the time during church and Sunday school, and me and the other boys would go past the church sometimes jest to peep in at it, because to a boy of ten it wasn't jest a cloth garment or even a iron armor; it was the old strong Arch—Archangel Michael his self, that had fit and strove and conquered sin for so long that it finally had the same contempt for the human beings that returned always to sin as hogs and dogs done that the old strong archangel himself must have had.
So for a long time it never burned, even after everything else inside had. We could watch it, hanging there among the fire, not like it had knowed in its time too much water to burn easy, but like it had strove and fit with the devil and all the hosts of hell too long to burn in jest a fire like Res Grier started, trying to beat Solon Quick out of half a dog. But at last it went, too, not in a hurry still, but jest all at once, kind of roaring right up on and out against the stars and the far dark spaces. And then there wasn't nothing but jest pap, drenched and groggy-looking, on the ground, with the rest of us around him, and Whitfield like always in his boiled shirt and his black hat and pants, standing there with his hat on, too, like he had strove too long to save what hadn't ought to been created in the first place, from the damnation it didn't even want to escape, to bother to need to take his hat off in any presence. He looked around at us from under it; we was all there now, all that belonged to that church and used it to be born and marry and die from—us and the Armstids and Tulls, and Bookwrights and Quick and Snopeses.
"I was wrong," Whitfield said. "I told you we would meet
here tomorrow to roof a church. We'll meet here in the morning to raise
"Of course we got to have a church," pap said. "We're going to have one. And we're going to have it soon. But there's some of us done already give a day or so this week, at the cost of our own work. Which is right and just, and we're going to give more, and glad to. But I don't believe that the Lord — "
Whitfield let him finish. He never moved. He jest stood there until pap finally run down out of his own accord and hushed and set there on the ground mostly not looking at maw, before Whitfield opened his mouth.
"Not you," Whitfield said. "Arsonist."
"Arsonist?" pap said.
"Yes," Whitfield said. "If there is any pursuit in which
you can engage without carrying flood and fire and destruction and death
behind you, do it. But not one hand shall you lay to this new house until
you have proved to us that you are to be trusted again with the powers and
capacities of a man." He looked about at us again. "Tull and Snopes and
Armstid have already promised for tomorrow. I understand that Quick had
another half day he intended — "
"I can give another day," Solon said.
"I can give the rest of the week," Homer said.
"I ain't rushed neither," Snopes said.
"That will be enough to start with, then," Whitfield said. "It's late now. Let us all go home."
He went first. He didn't look back once, at the church or at us. He went to the old mare and clumb up slow and stiff and powerful, and was gone, and we went too, scattering. But I looked back at it. It was jest a shell now, with a red and fading core, and I had hated it at times and feared it at others, and I should have been glad. But there was something that even that fire hadn't even touched. Maybe that's all it was—jest indestructibility, endurability—that old man that could plan to build it back while its walls was still fire-fierce and then calmly turn his back and go away because he knowed that the men that had never had nothing to give toward the new one but their work would be there at sunup tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, too, as long as it was needed, to give that work to build it back again. So it hadn't gone a-tall; it didn't no more care for that little fire and flood than Whitfield's old baptizing gown had done. Then we was home. Maw had left so fast the lamp was still lit, and we could see pap now, still leaving a puddle where he stood, with a cut across the back of his head where the barrel had busted and the blood-streaked water soaking him to the waist.
"Get them wet clothes off," maw said.
"I don't know as I will or not," pap said. "I been publicly notified that I ain't fitten to associate with white folks, so I publicly notify them same white folks and Methodists, too, not to try to associate with me, or the devil can have the hindmost."
But maw hadn't even listened. When she come back with a pan of water and a towel and the liniment bottle, pap was already in his nightshirt.
"I don't want none of that neither," he said. "If my head wasn't worth busting, it ain't worth patching." But she never paid no mind to that neither. She washed his head off and dried it and put the bandage on and went out again, and pap went and got into bed.
"Hand me my snuff; then you get out of here and stay out too," he said.
But before I could do that maw come back. She had a
glass of hot toddy, and she went to the bed and stood there with it, and pap
turned his head and looked at it.
"What's that?" he said.
But maw never answered, and then he set up in bed and drawed a long, shuddering breath—we could hear it—and after a minute he put out his hand for the toddy and set there holding it and drawing his breath, and then he taken a sip of it.
"I Godfrey, if him and all of them put together think they can keep me from working on my own church like ary other man, he better be a good man to try it." He taken another sip of the toddy. Then he taken a long one. "Arsonist," he said. "Work units. Dog units. And now arsonist. I Godfrey, what a day!"
Frederick Gwynn: Questions are in order now.
William Faulkner: Yes, sir.
Unidentified participant: Mr. Faulkner, why do you choose to so often have your characters dressed in the vestments of—of the Christian myth, making at times Christ-like people like Popeye or Joe Christmas or even Benjy, making them at other times Madonna-like, such as the woman in Sanctuary, and at other times Judas-like, such as Lucas Burch in Light in August?
William Faulkner: I think a writer has to write out of his—his experience, his background. He also has a sort of lumber room, like the carpenter has a—a lumber room, a room full of scraps of boards, of this and that, and when he finds that he needs something to tell the story he's trying to tell, he looks around in the lumber room, and he finds a board that—that he can use. And since my past is a—or my background is a Christian background, my education is the normal education, full of the Christian symbols, I use them as the carpenter uses the boards that fit the job. I'm not trying to write about symbols at all. I'm writing about people, but I use these symbols simply because they're shortcuts to help me tell the story I'm trying to tell.
William Faulkner: Yes, sir.
Unidentified participant: Sir, why do you sometimes satirize the South, and at other times very—very strenuously satirize it? [And] what is your general feeling of the South, and the deep South?
William Faulkner: It's my country, my native land, and I love it. I'm not trying to satirize it. I'm—I'm trying—that is, I'm not expressing my own ideas in the stories I tell. I'm telling about people, and these people express ideas which—which sometimes are mine, sometimes are not mine, but I myself am not trying to satirize my country. I love it, and it has its faults, and I will try to correct them, but I wouldn't try to—to correct them when I'm writing a story, because I'm telling—talking about people then.
William Faulkner: Yes, sir.
Unidentified participant: When you draw your characters, they're probably composites, I imagine, of people that you have met and known, but is there any special character or characters you draw on more than others from real life?
William Faulkner: No, it's—the writer has three sources: observation, imagination, and experience, and doubt—I probably—even he can't say at one time just how much of each one he has used. He is too busy trying to make a—a human being that—that is alive, that will stand up and cast a shadow behind him, and he is—the writer is completely amoral, and he will take what he needs, where he finds it, because he is perfectly willing for anyone to take from him what they find in what he has done, that they can use.
William Faulkner: Yes, sir.
Unidentified participant: What would you say would be the relation in this rather charming story you just read to the—what kind of lumber did you take from fact to build this story? What would you know [of] and see and hear, and how did you shape it to make it different from what you might have known in life?
William Faulkner: Well, these people that I know, they are my people, and I love them. They might well have—have done this. I just got to it before they did. [audience laughter]
Unidentified participant: Mr. Faulkner—
William Faulkner: Yes, ma'am.
Unidentified participant: I want to ask you an entirely different question. I've brought some students who are creative writing students, and I'd like to ask [if you have] some suggestions—[different] suggestions that you think a [beginning] writer should have, a young writer should have.
William Faulkner: The first thing to do, I think, is to read, to read and to read and to read. As I say, the—the—the writer has got to have a lumber room like the carpenter, and the best lumber room he can have is the—the—the good books, to read and to read and to read. The—the next thing is to—to watch people, to try to understand why people do what they do, whether the—the motives are good motives or base motives, to understand, to not judge their motives, just to understand them, and then to work. I think if the young writer can—can follow those three rules, he can make his own rules [that] suit his particular case as he goes along, but they are good general rules I think for a young writer to follow.
William Faulkner: Yes, sir.
Unidentified participant: Sir, you said he has to read the good books. What were the good books that you read?
William Faulkner: By the good books, I mean the books that have—people still read a hundred and two and three hundred years afterwards, and they would be what we call the classics. There are good books printed today, but I—I meant only books that people have still read enough, so that they are still remembered and still known. [It doesn't mean the] books themselves are good. It means that they were good enough that people still like to read them, and since they have—have continued to read them for these one hundred or two or three hundred years, they'll probably continue for another three or four hundred years.
William Faulkner: Yes, sir.
Unidentified participant: Sir, must a writer always be objective or must he get in and actually sort of live what he is writing about? In other words, make it a part of the—an integral part of his life?
William Faulkner: To be completely objective, you'll become a reporter. I used to think that it took talent to be a writer, but now I think it takes mostly insight. That means to—to—to wonder, to—to speculate always why people do what they do, and you've got to get inside people. You've got to love people at the same time that you hate people to do that. You can't be on the outside. Then you're just a reporter. You've got to be in the middle of life to write about it, and that's what you're writing about, you know, is life, is [motion].
William Faulkner: Yes, ma'am.
Unidentified participant: Can a writer—can he write without ever passing judgment on his characters?
William Faulkner: I—well, he—I doubt if—if you can know anybody, an imaginary character or—or living person without passing judgment on them. That's—that's a little too God-like. You've got to pass judgment. You've got to love, you've got to hate, even, the character that you have created yourself.
Unidentified participant: Mr. Faulkner, what is your objective in using long sentences over short sentences? Do you think—is that a stream-of-consciousness effect or do you feel you can convey your thoughts easier by them?
William Faulkner: That is a matter of the carpenter trying to find the—the hammer or the axe that he thinks will—will do the best job. Another thing is—everyone has a foreknowledge of death. That is, he will have only a—a very short time comparatively to—to do the work, and he is trying to put the whole history of the human heart on the head of a pin, you might say. Also, to me, no man is himself. He is the sum of his past. There's no such thing really as "was," because the past is. It is a part of—of—of every man, every woman, at every moment. All of his and her ancestry, background, is all a part of him—of himself and herself, at any moment. And so a man, a—a character in a story, at any moment of action, is not just himself as he is then. He is all that made him —
[end of recording]