Flags in the Dust: The complete text of Faulkner's third novel, which appeared in a cut version as Sartoris
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The complete text of Faulkner's third novel, published for the first time in 1973, appeared with his reluctant consent in a much cut version in 1929 as SARTORIS.
celerity. His cigar was not visible. “No,” the other said quickly, with grave concern. “You dont believe he would have done that? No, no, he wouldn’t have. Horace wouldn’t have done that. He never does anything without telling me about it first. He would have written: I know he would. You really dont think that sounds like Horace, do you? A thing like that?” “Hmph,” Miss Jenny said through her high-bridged Norman nose. “An innocent like Horace straying with that trusting air of his among all
Then together they spent the afternoon going quietly and unhurriedly about the meadows and fields and woods in their seasonal mutations—the man on his horse and the ticked setter gravely beside him, while the descending evening of their lives drew toward its peaceful close upon the kind land that had bred them both. The young dog was not yet two years old; his net was too hasty for the sedateness of their society overlong, and though at times he set forth with them or came quartering up, splashed
still it jerked and jerked as though something within the dead envelope of him strove to free itself. Above his head, upon the plank roof, there sounded a single light tap, and as though at a signal, the gray silence began to dissolve. He shut the door silently and returned to bed. In the bed he lay shaking more than ever, to the cold derision of the shucks under him, and he lay quietly on his back, hearing the winter rain whispering on the roof. There was no drumming, as when summer rain falls
broke up in town,” Stuart said, “and moved out here and took up land; you’d hear pappy cussin’ town then. You couldn’t git along without town to keep folks bottled up in, pappy, and you knows it.” “Buyin’ turkeys,” Mr MacCallum repeated with savage disgust. “Buyin’ ’em. I mind the time when I could take a gun and step out that ’ere do’ and git a gobbler in thutty minutes. And a ven’son ham in a hour mo’. Why, you fellers dont know nothin’ about Christmas. All you knows is a sto’ winder full of
evenings with fiddles above the myriad candles and slender grave measures picked out with light laughter and lighter feet, thinking When will this be again? Shall I make one? until they had talked themselves into a state of savage nostalgia and words grew shorter and shorter and less and less frequent. Then the General roused himself and brought them back by speaking of coffee, or its lack. This talk of coffee began to end a short time later with a ride along midnight roads and then through