So, it's the early 1930's, Faulkner finally sells enough books and stories to afford (barely) a hobby. Obsessed by flying (as many were and still are)
he took lessons and then purchased a used plane. Other members of his family (his brothers) also became pilots. They were better at it than he was:
becoming involved in the early businesses in aviation. And shows, barnstorming, etc. Flying influenced much of Faulkner's early writing.
This is sad, heart breaking after 85 years: his youngest brother, the baby of the family of 4 sons, everybody's favorite family member, met a horrific
end. After a long day of aerial exhibitions, he took some local farm kids (teenage) up to show them their farms from the air.
What went wrong will never be known; but the plane and the people inside ended up in a grisly, smashed wreck, half buried in a farmer's field near Pontotoc, MS.
Faulkner spent a horrifying night in a bathroom: the undertaker, a bottle of whiskey, the broken body of his beloved younger brother in the bathtub,
as they tried to make him presentable for his wife and mother to view his remains. The effort was not successful. The emotional PTSD: unspeakable.
Faulkner was devastated. Blamed himself. But here's the thing about his talents as a writer: Faulkner would have been capable of retelling that entire horrible episode, including the mortuary/bath tube scene, using his vernacular, oblique poetic prose; the result would likely horrify, grieve and stun the reader---and somehow be rolling in the aisle with laughter. (Such as in the story about Mules in the Yard). I don't know if he ever incorporated the incident into any of his fiction: probably not; the grief was real and life changing.
Probably spiraled into a bout of self destructive binge drinking? I don't know yet. I will read on.
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