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Zusatztext “Those who care about the work of William Faulkner will be deeply grateful to Meriwether for putting Essays! Speeches & Public Letter s together. . . . It will correct many errors [and] increase appreciation and understanding of [Faulkner’s] work.” —George Garrett Informationen zum Autor William Faulkner was born in Mississippi in 1897. A legend of American letters, he is the author of The Sound and the Fury, Absalom, Absalom!, As I Lay Dying , and many other works. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1950, and died in 1962. J ames B. Meriwether is an expert on Faulkner who has been editing Faulkner’s fiction and nonfiction work since the late 1950s. He lives with his wife, Anne, in South Carolina. Klappentext An essential collection of William Faulkner's mature nonfiction work, updated, with an abundance of new material. This unique volume includes Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech, a review of Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea (in which he suggests that Hemingway has found God), and newly collected gems, such as the acerbic essay "On Criticism” and the beguiling "Note on A Fable.” It also contains eloquently opinionated public letters on everything from race relations and the nature of fiction to wild-squirrel hunting on his property. This is the most comprehensive collection of Faulkner's brilliant non-fiction work, and a rare look into the life of an American master.A Note on Sherwood Anderson ONE DAY during the months while we walked and talked in New Orleans—or Anderson talked and I listened—I found him sitting on a bench in Jackson Square, laughing with himself. I got the impression that he had been there like that for some time, just sitting alone on the bench laughing with himself. This was not our usual meeting place. We had none. He lived above the Square, and without any especial prearrangement, after I had had something to eat at noon and knew that he had finished his lunch too, I would walk in that direction and if I did not meet him already strolling or sitting in the Square, I myself would simply sit down on the curb where I could see his doorway and wait until he came out of it in his bright, half-racetrack, half-Bohemian clothes. This time he was already sitting on the bench, laughing. He told me what it was at once: a dream: he had dreamed the night before that he was walking for miles along country roads, leading a horse which he was trying to swap for a night’s sleep—not for a simple bed for the night, but for the sleep itself; and with me to listen now, went on from there, elaborating it, building it into a work of art with the same tedious (it had the appearance of fumbling but actually it wasn’t: it was seeking, hunting) almost excruciating patience and humility with which he did all his writing, me listening and believing no word of it: that is, that it had been any dream dreamed in sleep. Because I knew better. I knew that he had invented it, made it; he had made most of it or at least some of it while I was there watching and listening to him. He didn’t know why he had been compelled, or anyway needed, to claim it had been a dream, why there had to be that connection with dream and sleep, but I did. It was because he had written his whole biography into an anecdote or perhaps a parable: the horse (it had been a racehorse at first, but now it was a working horse, plow carriage and saddle, sound and strong and valuable, but without recorded pedigree) representing the vast rich strong docile sweep of the Mississippi Valley, his own America, which he in his bright blue racetrack shirt and vermilion-mottled Bohemian Windsor tie, was offering with humor and patience and humility, but mostly with patience and humility, to swap for his own dream of purity and integrity and hard and unremitting work and accomplishment, of which Winesburg, Ohio and The Triumph of the Egg ...
