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 a few low points in this anthology, “Artist at Home” is looking to pick things back up. While there’s plenty to like in the symbolism of “Fox Hunt” or “Pennsylvania Station,” neither of them is necessarily written in the most engaging manner. The idea of listening to people talk around a table about something greater feels like a lacking premise, even if the final sentences reveal some of the greatest curveballs in the author’s career. With “Artist at Home,” the punchline may not be the most brilliant thing that Faulkner ever wrote, but it does feel like one of his most calculated and unexpected pieces. It could just be that it reminds me of the simple brilliance of “A Bear Hunt,” but I long to read more stories like this.
The biggest draw is that Faulkner is clearly writing some parody of what society thinks all creatives are like. What makes any individual deserving of being paid for making an abstract observation of the world? Given that he has largely been a writer who finds depth in the every day, it makes sense for him to laugh at a figure like Roger Howes. I don’t think he overall hates him, but there is that sense of him commenting on good writers versus bad ones. While I don’t fully appreciate the opening sentence describing him as “a fattish, mild, nondescript man of forty,” I do understand what Faulkner’s intent is. There is a need to point out that maybe Howe isn’t the genius some make him out to be.
What I also love is that there’s a whole ecosystem around Howe that reflects how codependent he is on others. Despite being a writer who should be the source of inspiration, he is constantly having to rely on strangers’ stories. He has a servant. People come to visit him. On the first page, one would be forgiven for thinking him a genius, but I think there’s something sinister about how he’s presented. He seems likable, the source of acclaim. You would want to be with him because he’s this intellectual genius. The only issue is that the further into things you go, the more you realize that he’s kind of a fool.
The best scene of the early pages involves Howe deciding to visit people so that he can go write. He contemplates whether he wants to walk those miles to see them or send a telegraph of his visit. The absurd payoff comes when he brings the letter with him and suggests that his company should pay for the letter even though they don’t need to open it and thus don’t need to pay him because the letter is now useless. Not only does it paint Howe as a confusing nuisance to the party sitting in their garden, but it does help to paint his entire being in a manner that is typical Faulkner.
If talking from a financial standpoint, he’s an unsuccessful writer. Given that all of his work has been rejected, nobody has paid him. He is codependent on this family’s hospitality so that he can sit in a desolate room and try to craft an idea that is deserving of a paycheck. It’s maybe a premise that Faulkner recognizes from personal experience, but it’s given a self-effacing nature here as he enters the room and thinks that today is the day where everything will change. Alas, he is a bit too incurious about the world to fully become the success story he wants. Sitting in a room where everything is brought to him means he doesn’t have room to develop his own perspective. He is barely achieving his profession.
Overall the piece does a good job of reflecting the difficulty for an author to feel like what they have to say is genuine. They want to be more than a copycat who steals from movies or something that’s come before, and yet there’s only so many stories that can be told in the world. As he puffs on his pipe and talks to Blair, he attempts to find any meaning in things. He seems to be a bit too egocentric and doesn’t really get anywhere exciting. Still, the frustration of making work that is authentic and still gets you the acclaim you want is difficult and it makes sense that Roger is struggling. To have someone like Blair that cares about him is some relief. To have someone who sees your potential is beautiful.
Which is why there’s something comical about the fact that the twist is Howe taking all of the gossip he’s acquired and turned it into a work of fiction. In a conventional sense, Blair would be called a muse, but in this sense, it feels more akin to a gossip columnist exploiting her personal life for profit. There is something invalidating about this approach, but it still works because it gives the artist what he truly wants. He needs to have success to make any living, and it only makes sense that he comments on the world that he’s surrounded by. The only issue is that using other people’s stories without consent can be very unethical. It’s difficult to fully assess “Artist at Home” through this lens in a 21st century landscape, but given that the best of authors share some level of autobiography in their work, it makes sense.
Like the other stories in “The Middle Ground,” Faulkner revels in moral ambiguity. While he paints Howe as an aimless hero who doesn’t amount to much, his ultimate goal is designed to be divisive. On the one hand, he’s achieved his goal but one has to assess what he’s done prior to these events. Maybe his other approach was so bad that he grew desperate. Maybe this isn’t the first time he’s exploited those in his life. Whatever it is, he remains a figure who reflects the difficulty of writing. Even in the 21st century, there tends to be less interest in purple prose and more than gossip culture. People want to know what’s going on in others’ personal lives if just to make them feel better about their lives.
I think in that regard it’s a much better version of “Fox Hunt” just because it manages to be presented in a more active tense. I think that Faulkner is deconstructing the idea of a muse in a very real way. Sometimes inspiration comes from the most mundane of places. Whereas “Fox Hunt” is presented from a distance and never feels like an internal connection to its subject, “Artist at Home” shows that approach being broken down in a way that’s much more interesting. Howe’s connection to Blair has so many small moments that make you understand his motivations more. He’s capable of seeing the every day and creating something compelling about it. Sure, it’s not as fun of a metaphor as animals and hunting, but it does present something that is personal to Faulkner. He knows the struggle and it’s reflected in how many reject letters he’s received and what stories ultimately resonated with him.
I don’t know if Roger Howe overall is supposed to be a good or bad character, but I think that’s the brilliance of this writing. While I wouldn’t call it one of the best in the anthology, there’s enough here that makes you appreciative of his depth. On the one hand, a self-serious writer is someone worthy of ridicule. For someone who doesn’t have any idea of what their style is, it’s tragic. Depending on how you feel about writing as a profession, you may decide that he needs to get a real job and stop being codependent on others. He’s not achieving much without the help of others, so what makes him useful? Otherwise, those that more relate to Faulkner may think that it’s great to see someone fostering the imagination even if they’re not going to be anywhere as acclaimed as the person who wrote that story.
“Artist at Home” is a fine story with a lot of solid moments. It may not rank among the best of “Collected Stories,” but it’s a nice upgrade in “The Middle Grounds” which has reflected the author at more obtuse and sometimes less satisfying results. The good news is that he gives the reader plenty to think about, but these more experimental stories don’t always land with the same bravura that the previous sections achieve. Overall this is one of the better examples of what he's written here. It shows him returning to an active narrative full of clever twists that are, at the very least, entertaining. It’s the type of ending that leaves a contemplative reaction. That may not be the most satisfying, but it does help the story to resonate.
Coming Up Next: "The Brooch"
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