I couldn’t feel the gate at all, but I could smell the bright cold.
The Sound and the Fury. William Faulkner.
I’ve tried reading Faulkner twice now: As I Lay Dying and The Sound and the Fury. I found him all but completely unreadable. How such garbage could have made it into literature as as “Classic,” to me can be explained only one way.
Anyone who struggles through it and “claims” to understand his HORRIBLE narration must think they are superior to anyone else who knows an abysmally told story when they read one, and quits it like plague. And this new found and false superiority combined with the heroic sensation that comes through slogging ALL THE WAY THROUGH such crap, gives them the right to proclaim themselves true literary critics and elevate this tripe to the realm of “Classic.”
I leave you with this: