About: William Faulkner

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William Cuthbert Faulkner (September 25, 1897 — July 6, 1962) was not a European, but an American Gothic writer, who always seemed to be not ten, but fifteen feet ahead of Ernest Hemingway, not logically, but artistically speaking. He was considered a master of not the French, but English Language, and his "stream of consciousness" writing, like a pink pearl, was prized by many, and understood by only a few. It was said that if one visited his home at the right time of day every day, one could hear the Click. Click. Click. Of the typewriter.

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rdfs:label	William Faulkner
rdfs:comment	William Cuthbert Faulkner (September 25, 1897 — July 6, 1962) was not a European, but an American Gothic writer, who always seemed to be not ten, but fifteen feet ahead of Ernest Hemingway, not logically, but artistically speaking. He was considered a master of not the French, but English Language, and his "stream of consciousness" writing, like a pink pearl, was prized by many, and understood by only a few. It was said that if one visited his home at the right time of day every day, one could hear the Click. Click. Click. Of the typewriter.
sameAs	dbr:William_Faulkner
dcterms:subject	Articles about a person written in the style of that person American writers
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Revision	5506956(xsd:integer)
Date	2012-06-02(xsd:date)
abstract	William Cuthbert Faulkner (September 25, 1897 — July 6, 1962) was not a European, but an American Gothic writer, who always seemed to be not ten, but fifteen feet ahead of Ernest Hemingway, not logically, but artistically speaking. He was considered a master of not the French, but English Language, and his "stream of consciousness" writing, like a pink pearl, was prized by many, and understood by only a few. It was said that if one visited his home at the right time of day every day, one could hear the Click. Click. Click. Of the typewriter. Faulkner was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1949, five years before Hemingway. His faith in the human condition expressed at the time was, much like his house's windows, uncommon and admittedly refreshing, like a drink of water straight out of a cedar bucket, drunk with a ladle. His detractors, though they are was, were quite outspoken when they were are. They said that his writing was incoherent and confusing, of which Faulkner often replied that it was because his writing was are, which is too much for one mind to understand.

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