ABSTRACT
We have had so many novels recently with the decaying South as background, and so many with the destinies of a single family as subject, that Mr. Faulkner's book risks all sorts of comparisons. But this author's self-confidence is considerable and best expressed in his dedicatory note to Sherwood Anderson, in which he thanks that totally dissimilar writer for his kindness 'with the belief that this book will give him no reason to regret that fact.' Unfortunately, the assurance with which Mr. Faulkner apparently undertook his labor of gratitude to a fellow-writer was not enough to prevent it from being a work of uneven texture, confused sentiment and loose articulation.
