Disappearing into Faulkner

I haven't picked up a Faulkner book for quite a while, years even. The last one was As I Lay Dying - challenging for sure, especially in its structure, but still a favorite of mine. I have to admit that I've been reading a lot of books that would not fall into the literary classic genre - good books, fine books, but not really challenging my noggin.

A few weeks back I started reading Light in August. My brain suddenly woke up from its metaphorical Dr. Pepper and Blue Cheese Doritos stupor, and went, "huh, what? I am actually needed?" Okay, maybe that is too strong, and too critical of the other writers that have written these fine books that I happily disappeared into. But a few pages into Faulkner and I was realizing just why I wanted so bad to write all there years. The language is gorgeous, sumptuous even - the long stream of consciousness paths that Mr. Faulkner takes the reader down immerse me into character, place, time and above all, like beautiful gothic fiction, the mood - or better yet, the sublime experience. My skin tingles as I read of Joe Christmas travelling down a dark country road, and you can hear every cricket and stone under his shoe - not too mention the foreboding light, from a house, from a streetlamp, a fire, or the moon, always the moon.

And to my brain. You're welcome.