At Mary Washington College, tape 1
DATE: 25 April 1957
OCCASION: At Mary Washington College, Fredericksburg
READING: "Shingles for the Lord"
Play the full recording:
Moderator: I know we all feel greatly indebted to the University of Virginia for making it possible for Mr. Faulkner to be here. We're indebted to Dr. Simpson who made his [introduction] to the university. And of course most of all we're indebted to Mr. Faulkner himself, for being willing to come along. I'm going to ask Professor Gwynn of the University's Department of English to introduce Mr. Faulkner.
Frederick Gwynn: Thank you, Dr. [Whitten]. It might have been said at one time that Mr. Faulkner's works were known wherever the language was known. Today it has gone—gone far beyond, and wherever people read, his work is highly esteemed. It might be said fairly that he is the most distinguished writer in the world. At the University of Virginia we've been proud of his presence and pleased with the response. It is a great privilege to come over and bring Mr. Faulkner this afternoon. He will read from his short story "Shingles for the Lord," and then answer any questions that may be on one's mind.
William Faulkner: I've already found out that the only way to hold an audience is to be a little higher than it is, and for a short man like me it's impossible to do it unless you are higher, so if it's all right, I'm going to stand up.
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
"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 hisself listening to a fox race that he couldn't even hear unless they had come 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 big as a full-growed squash.
"You're late," he said.
So pap told him 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 than 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 He should 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!'" [audience laughter]
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 like a big iron-gray caterpillar laid 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 WP and A 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 WPandA to him unless they aimed to fight, too, [audience laughter] 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 get started. 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." [audience laughter]
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 got to come back tomorrow to finish them two hours that you 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 even worked." [audience laughter]
"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 them in two."
"Maybe there's something else besides cash you might
be able to trade with, though" Solon said. "You might use that dog."
That was when pap actually stopped. I didn't know it myself then either,
but I found it 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 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 couldn't 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, [audience laughter] 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 full 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 extra—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 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 done 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 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 was really trying to finish that afternoon, not jest Solon, but even Homer, that didn't 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 then; 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
"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 on 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 have 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—"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. [audience laughter] Only we ain't going 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—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 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 into 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 the crowbar ever happened for one second to get a solid holt,
he would tilt that 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 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, [audience laughter] 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, 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 of water 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. [audience laughter]
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 of them, 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, and so we finally all jest stood around where pap—where 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 would use 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 Archangel Michael himself, 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 his self must have had.
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 its time—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 that 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 on up 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 Quicks and Snopes.
"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
"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 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. [audience laughter]
"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 would have been glad—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 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 blood-streaked water soaking—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, [audience laughter] 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." [audience laughter]
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." [audience laughter] 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 his hand out for the toddy and set there holding it and drawing his breath, and then he took 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—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!" [audience laughter and applause]
Moderator: Do we want to ask Mr. Faulkner anything?
William Faulkner: And let them be anything. I think if you try to rehearse the question first, it's—it's not too good. [audience laughter] Whether it seems frivolous to you or not, ask it. We'll take the gloves off.
William Faulkner: Yes, ma'am.
Unidentified participant: Would you discuss the religious symbolism in The Sound and the Fury?
William Faulkner: That was—was not accidental but coincidental. The writer has a mass of—of lumber, just as the carpenter has, from experience, observation. He is writing about people, and he reaches back into his experience, his observations, his memory, to get what he thinks will be the most effective way to tell about the people he's talking about, and so I was not writing religious symbolism. I simply used that because it made, I thought, my story better.
William Faulkner: Yes, ma'am.
Unidentified participant: Can you discuss the most important problem that you think faces the young American writer today?
William Faulkner: Yes, the—the most important problem is the pressure to relinquish individuality and belong to something, to—to become a member of a mass. That's what the young writer has got to struggle against because any art is—is composed, created in complete solitude, and the—the man or the woman has got to be primarily himself. He's got to believe in—in men and women as individual men and women, not just as a mass of people, and so the first problem of the young writer is the time he lives in, the pressure to—to belong to something, to be a member of a mass of something and not himself. That's what [the young writer] [...].
William Faulkner: Yes, ma'am.
Unidentified participant: I'd like to know if James Joyce had any influence in your work at all and to what extent?
William Faulkner: Yes, a great deal. It's difficult for anyone to say because I think a writer is influenced by everything he ever reads from the telephone directory up and down, [audience laughter] and when I was young, I read voraciously with no judgment, no discretion, and no taste. I read everything and anything, and I'm quite sure it has all influenced me, but the writer, I think, is probably too busy to say, Now, let's see, I'll write a little Joyce today or [audience laughter] [a little Proust in the morning]. He's influenced by it, but he— he doesn't know how much because he's too busy. That's part of the—of the lumber in his storehouse that the carpenter uses when he's building his house or fence.
William Faulkner: Yes, sir.
Unidentified participant: Mr. Faulkner, every once in a while an author reports that what he intended as a short story got out of hand and turned into a novel. Have you ever had this experience and if so, what novel was the result of it?
William Faulkner: The Sound and the Fury began as a short story. I think my own [rating is], first is the poet. Next is the short story writer. Third is the novelist. The poet can say it in—in fourteen lines or maybe four. The short story writer has got to have a thousand or two thousand words to say it. The novelist has got to have up to a hundred thousand, and I think that what any writer would—would want to be is a poet. I think of myself as a failed poet, that I couldn't be a poet and—and had sense enough to stop trying and to use a method which I could use, and so any story starts out as—well, a good poet could put it in a poem, a good short story writer could put it in a short story, but the novelist, it takes him a thousand words to say what he wants to say. The Sound and the Fury, yes, began as a short story. I thought that that could be done in ten pages. It couldn't. It's not finished yet.
William Faulkner: Yes, ma'am.
Unidentified participant: Yes, your play Requiem for a Nun was translated into French and put on the stage pretty successfully. I was wondering, do you think that could be done here in [the States in an] English version?
William Faulkner: Yes, it could be done. The reason it's not done in America is I gave a young woman who wants to be an actress, and she has—has had bad luck. She's ambitious. She works hard, but she hasn't been successful. I gave her the right to it and since she has no reputation or name, nobody will put up the money it costs to put on a play in this country, and I won't take it away from her. That's why it's been knocking about Europe for about five or six years.
William Faulkner: Yes, ma'am.
Unidentified participant: Mr. Faulkner, I notice in a lot of your books you use double words, words that are usually used singularly and that are joined together. What effect are you trying to create with that, and why is it in some novels you use them in the beginning of the book and then in the middle or the end, you don't use them that way?
William Faulkner: That, I think, goes back to the—the constant fear that probably every writer has. He—he knows he's a mortal. He has only a—a—a limited number of years in which to work. He has found the world so amazing and—and so marvelous and so moving that, I believe I—by the world, I mean, man, human race, the human problems, that he is—is trying to get it all said before he dies, that he is in—in a sense trying to put the whole history of the human heart on the head of a pin, and he is using any method that will—will do it, he thinks, the most effective, most moving way, and sometimes making one word out of two seems to me the best, and then, again, it—it don't seem to be the right way to do it. It's the—that drive to—to get it all said while you can still have time to say it, I think, was the reason for the—the experimenting, the—the style, the method. That was the reason for Joyce.
William Faulkner: Yes, ma'am.
Unidentified participant: You mentioned that The Sound and the Fury—Fury was still not finished. I was wondering, do you feel that there's been a definite advantage in having the story more or less overlapping with others and keeping on [in terms of] continuity in an unfinished [...]?
William Faulkner: Well, it's—it's not finished in the sense that—
[end of recording]