This past December, I went to Barnes & Noble and bought a handful of books. Among them was a William Faulkner anthology called “Collected Stories.” I have personally been a fan of the author since I read “As I Lay Dying” in my early 20s and found the potential for literature cracking open. Given the girth of the volume, I knew it would be intimidating to just read the 42 short stories front to back, so instead I’ve decided to take my time. In doing so, I plan to cover one a week until completed. I will be using this space to share my opinions of each piece as well as any stray observations I may have picked up from the greater world of Faulkner mania.
After four stories in “The Village,” one thing has become abundantly clear. The residents of Jefferson County are at a crossroads with a conflicted relationship with the past. Even if “Dry September” is a story that exists in the 20th century, there is plenty of evidence to suggest that, as Faulkner would famously quip, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” Despite these characters existing decades after The Emancipation Proclamation and Reconstruction Era, they still hold onto an old way of life. It has been seen so vividly in stories like “A Rose for Emily” where the struggle to hold onto the past ultimately has psychological damage for its protagonist, leaving her home to be a horrifying grave. In other places like “Hair” and “Centaur in Brass,” this comes in more bastardizing ways like building illegitimate statues and questionable marriages. For what it’s worth, these have all been fairly subtle compared to what “Dry September” is driving towards.
Compared to everything that preceded it, there is something alarming about the prose. Even in his simpler stories, there is a subtext present that makes the story at least ponder the integrity of its protagonist. One can doubt themselves, encouraging a close read of every exchange. Like the other stories in “The Village,” there is a phantom narrator giving readers access to this world. They are docile, unable to shift perspective save for maybe the occasional opinion that they liked Will Mayes. Maybe it’s what makes “Dry September” such a bizarre experience because it does encourage the audience not to find sympathy, but question the value of revenge. Why does Mayes deserve to die? The ending is leading to something predictable and there is no turn of hope for this bleak story, but it’s somewhere in the five sections that doubt emerges.
As the title suggests, the story takes place on a Saturday in September, possibly around 1920. Already this is creating a very specific image that is vivid. September starts around the beginning of Fall, which is often when vibrancy fades and the trees become barren. Faulkner’s greatest achievement in this story is how he makes every leaf cracking have this implication of what his characters are thinking internally. Everything is so dry, where the dust creates irritation and there are likely pools of sweat gathering on every shirt. There’s nothing sexy about this story, where it feels like the elements are bewitching everyone. Maybe the heat is rising from the pavement, creating waves that alter visions, their ways of thinking failing to dehydration. Outside of any greater character development, there’s so much to love about sensory details that are only adding to the explicit racism of characters that only grows worse as time goes on.
The person in question is Will Mayes, who is more commonly referred to as “The Negro” by the white characters. It’s clear that they want to rob him of identity, reducing him to stereotypes that have more to do with preconceived notions. It’s likely that they carry the racism of their parents with them, desiring to lynch those who look different from them. The only catch is that there isn’t a “good” reason to kill him. For as much as they see being Black as being subservient, they have the common sense to at least find an alibi worthy of saving their flimsy resentment.
Enter Minnie Cooper. Rumors have spread around Jefferson that Will has attacked her. Given that Faulkner never provides perspective for Will, everything brings with it an ambiguity that leaves the blame up to the reader. Some are likely to say that Minnie was simply assaulted while others cry foul of potential rape. Everything swirls around, doing what it can to make Will sound like a greater monster than he likely was. Given that Minnie never confirms what happened, there is reason to suggest that she was merely startled, which would be keeping with her pattern of behavior. Even then, her friends are pushing to make the story worse and worse, hoping to find ways to cleanse their conscience of the predictable murder.
Another thing to consider is that Faulkner has largely emphasized in this section the male oppression of women. In “Hair,” he finds Hawkshaw entering a questionable marriage as some symbol of holding onto the past. That way of thinking is evident here with how the men are using Minnie as an excuse to perform nostalgic acts of violence. There is no desire to solve problems like reasonable adults, instead suggesting that there is some vindication for Will’s demise. She has a purity to her that needs to be preserved. If she in fact had a lovely interaction with him, there’s a good chance that they’d still lie about what actually happened. Much like his lack of perspective here, it’s a painful reminder of how rarely if ever the Black voice was respected in manners of justice. Like the leaves under their feet, his future is a brittle affair, whittling away until it crunches under the wrong boot.
Over the five sections, “Dry September” follows a familiar perspective of Faulkner’s literature by shifting focus. Hawkshaw dominates Parts I and III while Minnie takes Parts II and IV, and Part V goes to John McLendon. The actions don't factor in events, though the negotiation tactics to get there is centered the entire time.
The interesting choice to focus on Hawkshaw is that he is initially against the lynching. He tries to persuade McLendon that there are more civil ways to handle these manners. An issue is that mob mentality is a powerful force, and eventually, the goodwill crumbles. His vague altruism crumbles when he’s outvoted and the potential disrespect he could obtain intimidates him. His morality is weak, becoming yet another party guilty by association. In some ways he is one of the more shocking characters in the story, reflecting how society may have compassionate people and still fall into turmoil. Evil is so attractive, and Faulkner knows it so well.
Hawkshaw’s crumbling is intertwined with Minnie giving a more intimate connection to the story. It’s the arrogance of men parallel with the tender viewpoint of women. It is commonly believed that women have a more thoughtful lens on matters, even controversial matters. If she was in fact raped, she would deserve to have revenge. Most of the other characters have had no personal connection to Will, and yet they’re the ones eager to murder him. This suggests that this was never about Minnie. She’s suffering mental breakdowns which suggests a rocky perspective, to begin with. If anything, it’s about the idea of her, of self-preservation. Their racism is a bigger driving force than anything that actually happens.
Closing everything out is John McClendon, who is a World War I veteran. With the finale favoring his perspective, he leads the lynch mob. It’s as bleak as one expects, and it puts into question the larger scope of lynching. McClendon is a war veteran, loyal to American ideology. He fought for freedom, but what does that mean? In a country where Black men are free, he finds the need to lynch someone. As much as he’s a rabble-rouser, he’s also reflective of how American ideology as a concept hasn’t matured with the 20th century. If anything, it’s trying to persuade others like Hawkshaw with better intentions to favor moral decay. He doesn’t listen to Minnie. His black and white thinking wasn’t ever going to change. The fact that the story ends with him striking his wife reflects hypocrisy, a suggestion that he’s allowed to perform violent acts without repercussion. Alas, "Dry September” ends on a note of white privilege.
This is easily one of Faulkner’s least comfortable stories to deal with because of how actively he engages with the idea of racism in his characters. There are moments of moral ambiguity, but it’s largely a self-fulfilling prophecy where evil wins. Somebody is going to die by the end, and it’s not any more enjoyable to see the excuses form. There is a desire to butt in and convince everyone to think in more rational terms, that this is just probably a rumor. Nobody’s life is worth that kind of action. What makes it work in spite of the discomfort is how every character comes to symbolize a distinctly Southern mindset that unfortunately would last for decades to follow. Beyond the moral dilemma of murdering an innocent man, there is the desperation to find an excuse that frees a white man of it. By removing even the judgment of his peers, it becomes more accessible.
The history of “Dry September” and its publishing are just as tumultuous as one would expect a story about rape to have. In February 1930, he submitted a version to The American Mercury, then called “Drouth,” which was rejected. He intensified the rhetorical force and rearranged the plot. In 1930, Scribner’s accepted the new version for $200 and eight months later published it under the name “Dry September.” It would appear in various short story collections including “These 13.” The subject of rape would also appear in the novels “Sanctuary” and “Light in August.” Next to “A Rose for Emily” and “Barn Burning,” “Dry September” is one of Faulkner’s most anthologized works.
Like most of his work, there are a handful of recurring characters here. The most noteworthy is Hawkshaw, who was recently seen in “Hair.” Giving him more agency in the narrative helps to complicate the audience’s ultimate disregard for his bad behavior even if there are edges where he could be seen as a good man. McLendon, originally John Plunkett, would also appear in the novels “Light in August,” “The Mansion,” and “The Town.”
It is to Faulkner’s credit that he’s able to make this difficult story easy to read and follow. Even when delving into characters with racist perspectives, he has a way of conveying it without condoning a single word. “Dry September” serves as a greater commentary on why man falls to evil, eventually seeking revenge for selfish means other than restoration. Like every other conflict in “The Village,” this is about trying to hold onto a form of the past that favored their codependence on slavery and the right to lynch people they disagreed with. From the vivid imagery to the clever use of character perspectives, there’s a lot to appreciate in how he wrote it. There’s very little compassion on display here that his other work features, and yet it helps to make Will Mayes seem more tragic as a character, a greater commentary on whose voices deserve to be listened to in these matters. Who is ultimately in the right, even if Will was guilty? Odds are that it isn’t John McLendon, who in a lot of ways is a lot worse than who the story victimizes. For a story about an awful piece of history, it does so with a frankness that is downright impressive.
Coming Up Next: “Death Drag”
Comments
Post a Comment