Soldiers’ Pay by William Faulkner (digital e reader txt) 📕
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Soldiers’ Pay is William Faulkner’s first published novel. It begins with a train journey on which two American soldiers, Joe Gilligan and Julian Lowe, are returning from the First World War. They meet a scarred, lethargic, and withdrawn fighter pilot, Donald Mahon, who was presumed dead by his family. The novel continues to focus on Mahon and his slow deterioration, and the various romantic complications that arise upon his return home.
Faulkner drew inspiration for this novel from his own experience of the First World War. In the spring of 1918, he moved from his hometown, Oxford, Mississippi, to Yale and worked as an accountant until meeting a Canadian Royal Air Force pilot who encouraged him to join the R.A.F. He then traveled to Toronto, pretended to be British (he affected a British accent and forged letters from British officers and a made-up Reverend), and joined the R.A.F. in the hopes of becoming a hero. But the war ended before he was able to complete his flight training, and, like Julian Lowe, he never witnessed actual combat. Upon returning to Mississippi, he began fabricating various heroic stories about his time in the air force (like narrowly surviving a plane crash with broken legs and metal plates under the skin), and proudly strode around Oxford in his uniform.
Faulkner was encouraged to write Soldiers’ Pay by his close friend and fellow writer Sherwood Anderson, whom Faulkner met in New Orleans. Anderson wrote in his Memoirs that he went “personally to Horace Liveright”—Soldiers’ Pay was originally published by Boni & Liveright—“to plead for the book.”
Though the novel was a commercial failure at the time of its publication, Faulkner’s subsequent fame has ensured its long-term success.
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- Author: William Faulkner
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He desisted saying “Is this all right, Cap’m?”
“Yes, all right, thanks,” the officer answered. Then: “Bring your glass and get a drink.”
Gilligan solved the bottle and filled the glasses. Ginger ale hissed sweetly and pungently. “Up and at ’em, men.”
The officer took his glass in his left hand and then Lowe noticed his right hand was drawn and withered.
“Cheer-O,” he said.
“Nose down,” murmured Lowe. The man looked at him with poised glass. He looked at the hat on Lowe’s knee and that groping puzzled thing behind his eyes became clear and sharp as with a mental process, and Lowe thought that his lips had asked a question.
“Yes, sir. Cadet,” he replied, feeling warmly grateful, feeling again a youthful clean pride in his corps.
But the effort had been too much and again the officer’s gaze was puzzled and distracted.
Gilligan raised his glass, squinting at it. “Here’s to peace,” he said. “The first hundred years is the hardest.”
Here was the porter again, with his own glass. “ ’Nother nose in the trough,” Gilligan complained, helping him.
The negro patted and rearranged the pillow beneath the officer’s head. “Excuse me, Cap’m, but can’t I get you something for your head?”
“No, no, thanks. It’s all right.”
“But you’re sick, sir. Don’t you drink too much.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Sure,” Gilligan amended, “we’ll watch him.”
“Lemme pull the shade down. Keep the light out of your eyes?”
“No, I don’t mind the light. You run along. I’ll call if I want anything.”
With the instinct of his race the negro knew that his kindness was becoming untactful, yet he ventured again.
“I bet you haven’t wired your folks to meet you. Whyn’t you lemme wire ’em for you? I can look after you far as I go, but who’s going to look after you, then?”
“No, I’m all right, I tell you. You look after me as far as you go. I’ll get along.”
“All right. But I am going to tell your paw how you are acting some day. You ought to know better than that, Cap’m.” He said to Gilligan and Lowe: “You gentlemen call me if he gets sick.”
“Yes, go on now, damn you. I’ll call if I don’t feel well.”
Gilligan looked from his retreating back to the officer in admiration. “Loot, how do you do it?”
But the man only turned on them his puzzled gaze. He finished his drink and while Gilligan renewed them Cadet Lowe, like a trailing hound, repeated:
“Say, sir, what kind of ships did you use?”
The man looked at Lowe kindly, not replying, and Gilligan said:
“Hush. Let him alone. Don’t you see he don’t remember himself? Do you reckon you would, with that scar? Let the war be. Hey, Lootenant?”
“I don’t know. Another drink is better.”
“Sure it is. Buck up, General. He don’t mean no harm. He’s just got to let her ride as she lays for a while. We all got horrible memories of the war. I lose eighty-nine dollars in a crap game once, besides losing, as that wop writer says, that an’ which thou knowest at Chatter Teary. So how about a little whisky, men?”
“Cheer-O,” said the officer again.
“What do you mean, Château Thierry?” said Lowe, boyish in disappointment, feeling that he had been deliberately ignored by one to whom Fate had been kinder than to himself.
“You talking about Chatter Teary?”
“I’m talking about a place you were not at, anyway.”
“I was there in spirit, sweetheart. That’s what counts.”
“You couldn’t have been there any other way. There ain’t any such place.”
“Hell there ain’t! Ask the Loot here if I ain’t right. How about it, Loot?”
But he was asleep. They looked at his face, young, yet old as the world, beneath the dreadful scar. Even Gilligan’s levity left him. “My God, it makes you sick at the stomach, don’t it? I wonder if he knows how he looks? What do you reckon his folks will say when they see him? or his girl—if he has got one. And I’ll bet he has.”
New York flew away: it became noon within, by clock, but the gray imminent horizon had not changed. Gilligan said: “If he has got a girl, know what she’ll say?”
Cadet Lowe, knowing all the despair of abortive endeavor, asked, “What?”
New York passed on and Mahon beneath his martial harness slept. (Would I sleep? thought Lowe; had I wings, boots, would I sleep?) His wings indicated by a graceful sweep pointed sharply down above a ribbon. Purple, white, purple, over his pocket, over his heart (supposedly). Lowe descried between the pinions of a superimposed crown and three letters, then his gaze mounted to the sleeping scarred face. “What?” he repeated.
“She’ll give him the air, buddy.”
“Ah, come on. Of course she won’t.”
“Yes, she will. You don’t know women. Once the new has wore off it’ll be some bird that stayed at home and made money, or some lad that wore shiny leggings and never got nowheres so he could get hurt, like you and me.”
The porter came to hover over the sleeping man.
“He ain’t got sick, has he?” he whispered.
They told him no; and the negro eased the position of the sleeping man’s head. “You gentlemen look after him and be sure to call me if he wants anything. He’s a sick man.”
Gilligan and Lowe, looking at the officer, agreed and the porter lowered the shade. “You want some more ginger ale?”
“Yes,” said Gilligan, assuming the porter’s hushed tone, and the negro withdrew. The two of them sat in silent comradeship, the comradeship of those whose lives had become pointless through the sheer equivocation of events, of the sorry jade, Circumstance. The porter brought ginger ale and they sat drinking while New York became Ohio.
Gilligan, that talkative unserious one, entered some dream within himself and Cadet Lowe, young and dreadfully disappointed, knew all the old sorrows of the Jasons of the world who see their vessels sink ere the harbor is left behind. … Beneath his scar the officer slept in all the travesty of his wings and leather and brass, and
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