ABSALOM, ABSALOM!

There's a Faulkner market — no question of that. But for those on its outskirts, watching eagerly for growth, development, maturity in his work, there is disappointment, here as in Pylon. There is more in the sinister, sultry atmosphere to recall Sanctuary. But the story is indirect to the point of artificiality; the style marred by hyphenated words, manufactured words, until you lose the sense in the glut of verbiage. A depraved story of degenerates in a Southern family gone to seed — of Colonel Sutpen building his tribe by incest, perversion, miscegenation and lust. There is tragedy here, but the drawing is so out of scale that the effect is weakened. — In spite of all this, the book — on Faulkner's name — will sell, and rent.