William Faulkner
When I was a girl, William Faulkner lived on our farm. Whenever I say that, I feel as if I am saying Jesus lived with my family once upon a time. My
father liked to tell anyone who would listen that William Faulkner
stayed in a cottage for a spell, back when he was teaching at U.Va. I was just a baby and don’t remember one thing about him. But I loved hearing the stories. Like the one about Faulkner saying his favorite character was the corncob from his novel Sanctuary. My mother insisted Faulkner was far too refined to say such a thing. Even if it was true that he drank all the time. And slept his days away. And avoided any conversation, which was probably why he stayed on our farm instead of in town. But
there were those fall days when he would saunter up to the horse barn
and ask if he could take one of the mares out on a trail ride. He’d always choose the same feisty gray mare, and that horse always came back alone. William, my father would ask him, why don’t you try Sugar Lump today? Sugar Lump was so nice and calm, she would let a sack of potatoes stay on her back all day long. My father said she’d probably let a drunk man ride her until the sun came down. But Faulkner didn’t take advice. And
he didn’t ride horses with names like Sugar Lump or Sweet Pea. No, he
always had to pick Graylight, the meanest horse we owned. At the end of
the day, Faulkner could be seen walking him across the pasture alone,
his riding hat in his hand, the shadows growing tall behind him. A writer always does like the horse who tosses him off, he said once, meaning who knows what. But my father said he was pretty sure that’s just the way it is with the famous kind. They need someone to make them walk on the ground.
— Nin Andrews