Nearly fifty years ago now, I wrote my Master’s thesis on William Faulkner. Perhaps many today have forgotten his work or even his very existence. If they do remember him, it is likely from his frequently anthologized short story, “A Rose for Emily,” a quirky, tantilizingly chilling tale of a woman who murders her lover and keeps the body. Disturbing, but at the same time an irresistable character study of madness beneath the illusion of normalcy.

Middle and high schoolers find it very cool.

But that is not Faulkner’s true legacy to writers and, in fact, to the world. It is his brilliant stories, reflecting the truth of the human condition, and giving us characters both irredeemable and hopeful–the bad are truly and unwaveringly bad; the good are imperfect but always well-intentioned. The bad can mire you in despair and cause you to give up; the good can lift your spirits and motivate you to go on.

There are also, by the way, characters who straddle the line without committment to either side. Mostly, they are ineffectual and immoblized, observing life but not participating in it. In Faulkner’s view, these individuals are tortured and doomed.

In his Nobel Prize acceptance speech he identifies this as the writer’s purpose–to highlight the good and the bad, and the give the reader material for reflection that goes beyond a simple plot or story line. It is a heady purpose, left unfulfilled if authors do not write, and readers do not read.

We writers better be dedicated to our craft of writing, and try to make each word count. Your stories don’t have to be as complex as Faulkner’s, just find the purpose and meaning in your narrative and stick to it.

From his Nobel Prize acceptance speech, December 10, 1950:

…[so worried about being blown up] the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.

…[the writer must forget fear] forever, leaving no room in [his or her] workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed–love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion.

I believe that man will not merely endure; he will prevail…because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance.

The poet’s, the writer’s duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past.

The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.