William Faulkner, whose violent novels about the darker reaches of the soul have been attracting increasing interest latterly, is now occupying an apartment in Tudor City and will be there until the middle of December. He spends most of his days alone, working on his next novel, which is to be called “Light in August.” It’s about a quarter done. Invitations have poured in on him, but he’s been to only one literary party, one given by his publishers. The usual crowd was there.
Faulkner is very Southern, his “a”s very broad. This is his second visit. He was here four years ago while still obscure. He was born in Oxford, Mississippi, thirty-four years ago and that has been his home ever since. He owns a small cotton plantation and lives on it, with his wife and two children, in a fine old house built in 1818. In 1915 he enlisted in the Canadian air force and went to France. He crashed behind his own lines. He was hanging upside down in his plane with both legs broken when an ambulance got to him. He heard one of the men say: “He’s dead all right,” but had strength enough to deny this. After he recovered he transferred to the American air force. He has a pilot’s license now and sometimes flies a rather wobbly plane owned by a friend in Oxford. After the war he studied about five months in the University of Mississippi, which is at Oxford, and of which his father is secretary. That is the extent of his higher education. In Oxford he spends much time writing. “Ah write when the spirit moves me,” he says, “and the spirit moves me every day.” For relief he fishes, hunts, and bosses the plantation. Only a few of the townspeople know he writes at all; most of them think he’s lazy. The local drugstore ordered several copies of his last novel but didn’t do very well with them. His mother reads every line he writes, but his father doesn’t bother and suspects his son is wasting his time. ♦
