How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bear

I never enjoyed William Faulkner.
Yes. Read that again. I am a literary criminal. Assault on the canon of American literature.
I never enjoyed Faulkner.
I always felt like he wrote in circles. I never liked his overly ornate style, no matter the darkness. I loved the South and felt his South was portrayed with constant scorn. I am also no expert and tend to make rash and easily offhand judgements. When there is so much to read, these judgements help you wade through the muck.
Yes, I may have also just called his oeuvre muck. Ha!
I am a man able to admit his wrongs. Well, I guess with such a wealth of wrongs, I should be able to by now.
I loved “The Bear“.
Amazing. Dark and earthy. Um, other words that describe the sense of “real” that I want from the fiction I read, from the authors. Down to earth realism, with nods to the powerful and beyond. (No. Not that powerful and beyond.)
Anyway, “The Bear”.
I highly recommend. Especially to those like myself who wrote off Faulkner long ago. The story will probably change your view on him as a writer. I am more than willing to explore other pieces by him now.
It is nice not disliking him completely.
Makes me feel a little less criminal.

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