Oxford Bound
The landscape of the novels was equally bleak. Forests and owls and bears did not repose or breathe or sleep peacefully, as they did in the works of the romantic poets Faulkner loved. In his writings, they surged, swooped, roared, materialized suddenly, vanished and were never quite at rest, even after death. It was a place where “niggers” named Jesus lurked with razor blades at twilight, where inebriated eyes flowed like the syrupy whites of eggs and where women screamed soundlessly, their mouths like charcoal holes....