What Faulkner’s Life Was All AboutnDavid Minter: William Faulkner:nHis Life and Work; The Johns HopkinsnUniversity Press; Baltimore.nby Earl HiltonnWne’s first reaction to yet anothernbook about Faulkner is likely to ben”Why?” But as one reads Minter’s booknseveral points become evident. He writesnwith clarity and even grace. He largelynavoids those convoluted sentences intonwhich literary critics seem to fall in theirnattempt to record complexities ofnthought and feeling, and then too oftenncultivate as a mark of their calling. Henhas read all of Faulkner’s writing nownavailable, including drafts, unpublishednmanuscripts and letters—and he hasnread thoughtfully. He probably has notnread all the works about Faulkner, fornthat would have left him no time fornreading Faulkner. But he has read thenmajor biographers and critics. He citesnthirteen memoirs by members of Faulkner’snfamily and acquaintances. Henknows well the body of American andnworld literature upon which Faulknerndrew and against which his work mustnbe seen if we are fully to understand it.nHe notes, as others have, similaritiesnbetween the life and works of Hawthornenand those of Faulkner. Wherenothers have stressed the break betweennFaulkner and Sherwood Anderson.nMinter rightly stresses Faulkner’s continuingnsense of indebtedness to Andersonnand his admiration for Anderson’snbest work. He is the first author I havenread who explicates elements in Faulkner’snthought and feeling by quotingnlines from Robert Frost. He honors hisnreaders by not identifying all quotationsnand allusions.nMinter does not claim major new discoveriesnin Faulkner’s- biography ornDr. Hilton has recently retired fromnteaching English at Northern MichigannUniversity.n24inChronicles of Culturenmajor new readings of his novels. Hisnwork is more a sifting and a synthesis.nIt tells, he says, “of deep reciprocities,nof relation and revisions between Faulkner’snflawed life and his great art.”nIn these- days when everyone who encountersna famous or notorious personnpublishes a memoir or a novel, the flawsnand sorrows cannot be concealed.nFaulkner married his childhood sweetheart.nEstelle Oldham, but only afternshe had married and divorced another.nand apparently after he had ceased tonlove her. The marriage was unhappy fornboth. Both were expert spenders butnpoor savers, constantly in debt. Henbought Rowan Oak and e.xpended effortnand money on its restoration, determinednto create there a life “ante-bellumnand stately.” Trying to support RowannOak and expensive tastes, he endurednexile in Hollywood and wrote stories henconsidered potboilers. An affair withnMeta Doherty lasted through severalnstints in Hollywood. In his later yearsnthere was another abortive affair with anyounger woman. He repeatedly told tallnstories as fact, earning embarrassmentnto friends and unwary biographers.nFrom early in youth he drank too much.nHe often neglected to eat while onndrinking sprees, once remarking thatnthere is a lot of nourishment in an acrenof corn. His last years, with intermis­nnnsions when his writing went well, werenspent in depression, depression so deepnthat once, like Hemingway, he acceptednshock therapy. Death was hastened bynalcohol and a series of injuries causednby reckless riding. All this is told with,nin Minter’s term, “tenderness” for itsnsubject. We are left with admiration fornthe work and sympathy for a man apparentlvnpoorly equipped to deal with whatnWalker Percy calls “everydayness.”nOut such details do not tell that partnof Faulkner’s life that most concernsnus. A reviewer said of a recent biographynof Edith Wharton that now we knowneverything about her except why andnhow she wrote. Minter avoids that error.nFaulkner once said that writing gave himnsomething to get up for in the morning.nIn another mood he saw it as the artist’sndefiance of death. Minter quotes ShelbynFoote on Faulkner: “Writing, to him,nwas what living was all about.” When henwithdrew into his austere study, symbolicallyntaking the doorknob with him.nFaulkner lived intensely, regardless ofnexterior circumstances. When he wasnwriting, he controlled his drinking.nHere, certainly, was one reciprocitynbetween writing and life. The reverse.nlife contributing to writing, is in somencases obvious, in others more questionable,nalthough Minter always offers supportnfor his inferences. Everyone knowsnhow he transmuted stories told in hisnfamily or around the courthouse squaren(and, Minter adds, a library well stockednwith histories of the South) into hisnimaginary kingdom of Yoknapatawpha.nHe did not. as he claimed, fly with thenRAF and receive injuries requiring frequentnmedication with whiskey. But hisnthree months of ground training didngive him a lifelong interest in aviationnand furnished material for two novels.nThe poetry to which he devoted hisnyouth was derivative and inferior, butnit contributed to the unabashed rhetoricnof his fiction. Minter makes a promisingn