I've seen it, handled it, read about it, seen it in cultural references. The kind of people who are enamored of it do the big thud with me.
His assessment of Clemens merely seals the deal on my lifelong pre-judgment of him.
I have read quite a few of Faulkner’s stories. Not one of them was tripe, and I saw no self indulgence at all. I am not a literary elitist, but I do write myself. As such, I admire the rare talent and skill Faulkner brought to the printed page. I would never critique any writer, however, without having read at least one and preferably two of their major works. It is just plain ignorant to judge what you know so little about.
PS: Let me mention just one of Faulkner’s short stories: Pantaloon in Black. It is a masterpiece. It could be studied by all aspiring authors to learn one of good writing’s most important lessons: Show don’t Tell.
You probably know what show don’t tell is all about. It means, for example, if your main character is brave, don’t tell your readers he is brave. Show them, via his actions, an act of bravery on his part, and let the readers draw their own conclusion.
Here are the things Faulkner *doesn’t* tell us in Pantaloon:
That the MC loves his wife.
That the death of his wife drove the MC over the edge, and proved more of a loss than he was capable of handling.
That many southern whites of his era didn’t understand blacks.
That racism doesn’t have to entail malice; it can be just as dangerous if all it involves is ignorance.
What he did show us was a man who stepped off the page and became more real than most actual people. He showed a tragedy so deep, so wide and so heartrending, only a piece of stone or a racist could read this story and not be torn personally by the shattering, unfathomable loss it describes. And he showed us how to tell an epic within the confines of a short story. If anyone else had attempted to tell such a sweeping, magnificent tale, I guarantee it would have turned into a novelette—and lost most of its timeless, towering, legendary yet subtle power.
Iow, if all Faulkner had ever written was Pantaloon in Black, he would still be a literary genius. But of course there was more—much, much more.