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Faulkner at Virginia Photo
Photograph by Ralph Thompson
© Rector and Visitors, University of Virginia

During the 1957 and 1958 Spring semesters, William Faulkner was the Writer-in-Residence at the University of Virginia. During that time he appeared at thirty-six different public events, reading from his work and answering over 1400 questions from students, faculty and others. Thanks to two members of the Department of English, Frederick Gwynn and Joseph Blotner, most of those sessions were recorded, and preserved on tape in the University of Virginia Special Collections Library. Over 28 hours of the recordings have been digitized, and are available online in the Faulkner at Virginia audio archive . The mp3 clips available below have been taken from that archive, and are playable on most devices.


“Race at Morning” Audio Clips

NOTE: On February 26, 1958, Faulkner visited John Coleman's undergraduate writing class and read a slightly abridged version of the story to the students. Afterwards the listeners (not all of whom sound like undergraduates) asked him about a dozen questions about the tale, including the six listed here. (You can hear Faulkner's reading, and listen to the other questions, at the Faulkner at Virginia site.

How did you write this story? (26 February 1958; 1:29)
Why does the narrative unfold in the order it does? (26 February 1958; 1:10)
Are there double entendres in the title of the story? (26 February 1958; 1:01)
Faulkner describes the relationship between Mr. Ernest and the boy. (26 February 1958; 1:46)
How to they change each other? (26 February 1958; 1:15)
What are they really hunting? (26 February 1958; 0:51)

How did you write this story? (26 February 1958; 1:29)

John Coleman: In writing such a story as that, which must be about concrete things that you've experienced—I don't know whether you've had a collision with a grapevine or not when you were on a horse—but do you see that kind of a story from beginning to end when you start writing? Do you have that story sort of in mind, the—the ending as part of the beginning?

William Faulkner: No, I think a story like that invents itself as you go along. That one began with the—with the picture of—of that—that little boy—been abandoned by his mother and his father. They were no good. And—and by rights he should have been no good, too. But this man, Mr. Ernest, with all his ignorance, could see that—that here is a human being, and a human being is capable of anything if he has a chance to do it, and—and the story came out of the fact that this—this crabbed old bachelor would see this—this waif and suddenly say, He's too valuable to—to leave in the woods there. And the story was simply a matter of showing incidences to—to show the relationship between these two people, that this—this old man suddenly had seen a duty and was going to do it, that he didn't know—he'd probably never been to school himself, but he saw that something could be made out of this waif simply because that little waif was a human being.

 

Why does the narrative unfold in the order it does? (26 February 1958; 1:10)

Unidentified participant: Well, then couldn't you perhaps put the—the part toward the end where he took the boy after his parents had gone away, first say, and then have the hunt come afterwards, after we know that the—that the man has taken the boy? [And then]—

William Faulkner: Could, but I think that my way made a better story. [audience laughter] That's—that's a matter of opinion, but I think that mine, to—for the payoff to come last, was a little more effective. If anything, it makes the story seem a little more condensed, shorter maybe.

Unidentified participant: But you had first, in—in mind the ending [how it was]

William Faulkner: Yes, yes.

Unidentified participant: When you wrote your—

William Faulkner: Yes. Well, it was the relationship between these—these two people. It was a bizarre relationship. The—the story itself was—was simply an invention of—of anecdotes to tell the story, and they come out of—of the storehouse which—which any writer has of experience, of observation, of imagination, that he reaches around in his workbox and picks up whatever plank or board he will need.

Are there double entendres in the title of the story? (26 February 1958; 1:01)

John Coleman: Mr. Faulkner, when you put that title down, "Race at Morning," did you think of the appropriateness of that title on really various levels. That is, the fact that the "morning" is the boy. The "race" means human race as well as the literal race in the hunt? You can interpret that title in various ways. I was just thinking about it as you were talking.

William Faulkner: No.

John Coleman: About the value of the title.

William Faulkner: No, the title is in the little boy's terms, the morning of his life, and it happened in the morning, and I—I used the word "race" as—to the—the exuberation— the exuberance of—of speed. That, to him, was—that life at that age never does go slow. When it begins to slow up you get bored. It's always at top speed. No, I hadn't thought of it in reference to humanity. It just—it was his—his title, his terms.

Faulkner describes the relationship between Mr. Ernest and the boy. (26 February 1958; 1:46)

William Faulkner: Yes, sir.

Unidentified participant: When you were talking about the education being so that he could learn not only what was right, but since he already knew what was right, were you being—was that supposed to be sort of comical?

William Faulkner: No. This uneducated, ignorant man was fumbling after something which he had realized late in his life was not only true but important. That—that no man can be an island to himself, that you have a responsibility toward mankind. That is, you may do right because—through instinct, or because it's been beat into you, but that—that may be all right for you, but you have a responsibility toward people that have not been trained to do right. They've got to know why they must do right, and only education can give you the—the—the rhetoric, the—the—the capacity to think on your feet, to explain to the—to the ignorant, the intractable, why something is right, why he must do something because it's right. That was—in fact, the association with that child had—had done that much to the man. If they hadn't met, the man would have gone on and would have been content to—to be crabbed and ignorant and a—a—a hard farmer, to make a little money every year, but suddenly the responsibility of that child—that man, too, had entered the human race. In a way they were—were to be the salvation of one another, mutual salvation of one another.

How to they change each other? (26 February 1958; 1:15)

William Faulkner: Yes, sir.

Unidentified participant: Unidentified participant: You think then that the boy will go to school?

William Faulkner: I should think so, yes. He may—will probably never be a Phi Beta Kappa, [audience laughter] but this man will—will see that he learns to read and write and—and with the hope, the idea that maybe once he learns to read he will of his own curiosity read enough to—to learn why man does right, himself.

Unidentified participant: The—the boy then will be changed by going to school and the man will be changed also by having the responsibility of this orphan?

William Faulkner: Well, the man would be changed by the responsibility of the orphan. The little boy, at that age, was pretty well started in the way he would go. All he needed was just an—an occasional prod and some directing, that already he was—was truthful and—and brave, and he was willing to—to give devotion, fidelity. All he needed was education, to learn to read, to—to—to know more of the history of his race. The man was probably changed more than that little boy was. The little boy was not changed so much as saved.

What are they really hunting? (26 February 1958; 0:51)

William Faulkner: Yes, sir.

Unidentified participant: Then were they hunting not only the deer but, in a way, themselves, too?

William Faulkner: Well, of course, they didn't know that, but that's what they were finding. That is, the—the man had—in teaching the little boy that—that—that never to touch satiety was valid. Maybe he had never thought of that before, that his notion was to take the two weeks off and get out there and—and kill every deer that got up in front of him, until suddenly his responsibility for the little boy made him stop and think, Well, what is better, to just drag the dead meat in or—or to see the beautiful, splendid creature run its native element?