Not the easiest work to describe— sort of like a crackling old vintage film that creates a sense of internal warmth just from the beauty of its absurd and angry narrative diversifying (imagination and hatred, truth and ego) but importantly it describes the South and in doing so describes contemporary America—if you shift with it, let it turn and you yourself drop all modern style or pretense so that everything corrupts. Everything corrupts! "Memory does not exist." The book is not perfect but its ambition and sheer skill/willpower do overall rather succeed. One quibble I'll likely always have with Faulkner is that you basically have to take him as he is, you can't adjust (conceptually) and you can't wish for something different from that store which he internally reached (of psychic euphoric romantic realism) because he's stuck and regurgitated and both imitable and inimitable which crushes the rest of that inclination and then well, that was fun, learning words, my country, life, writing, heart.