ABSTRACT
In the early years of the present century when undergraduates in colleges made their first discovery ofChekhov, every one who dreamed ofwriting a book some day felt the sudden impulse to write, if nothing else, the perfect short story. It seemed so easy: if almost anyone on a fortunate occasion could tell a story, then it followed naturally that any one could write it, and with the slightest effort could become both rich and famous. And today when more short stories than ever are being written, the perfect story, or if less than that, the story worthy to be remembered, isjust as rare asever. In contemporary literature a number of the stories and short novels of William Faulkner seem to possess an immortality; some few of them have haunted the imagination of their readers, including other writers, for nearly twenty years. Are the stories perfect works ofart? Not many, for William Faulkner is not that kind of artist: some of the stories, no matter how highly we may regard
them, contain blurred passagesofprose, or if read for themselvesalone, seem willfully obscure. Why is it then that Faulkner's writing has the sign of genius and the promise of an enduring life?
