In glancing at Faulkner, to wit, THE OLD PEOPLE, I find reading him like taking a broad, long, pocket-knife to the wedding cake of the new bride’s..virginal, laced full on the insides with blood sausages, freshly-chopped fish, carrot sticks, sea cucumbers mixed-in the sugar and slicing away at it, right there in full view of all the assembled family and guests..Horrified! like being drawn swiftly, back to that familiar old political assassination gala event – splashed across the pages of LIFE – hosted by the two Korea’s and their parties; at the autopsy afterwards, yeah, chicks in Korea..neat. I confess I don’t know why you must cram so much descriptive information into one paragraph at four levels of simultaneous multi-faceted quick-slow actions unfolding in riveting perspectives, stitching them together, proses, and the like, stretched on skins to present your flat, layered generational issues, hunting safety tips, and all of the rest of it, –like viewing the piled-up remains of marine fossils, and others – shells, bones, embedded in canyon walls (requires an interpretation, right??) – and then go straight to re-stating the premises again, and again, and dragging your reader down,DOWN! through the muck of civilization, so-called! with each new-old paragraph. Why, for the love of God, should the minutia of race, and blood guiltiness require so much of an infinite and intense scrutiny on our parts? my part! If that’s your literary bag, man..fine! just don’t drag me into it. Man, –Southern man; and the quadroon you rode in on. Yep. That’s all I got (three pages was all I could take..there’s your happy-birthday cake).