So, lubricated by a pint of bourbon (well, two glasses–I’m not Faulkner) and a sunny summer afternoon while I waited for some contractor or other to show up and do something about the upstairs project my wife has initiated, I set out to reproduce in Faulknerian tones and Hemingwayesque counterpoint a little discussion of what America would be like if we all did, in fact, take up Faulkner one summer.
