Everything I've ever read by him gives the impression that the deep Southern reverence for tradition is completely misguided because nothing there merits reverence. He and Joyce both make me feel they use stream of consciousness chiefly to drown their sorrows and shame. I can appreciate the style, just usually don't care for the story; this is one of the better ones, IMHO, but typical. The selfish abusive tyranny of Miss Emilys family and community indulgence of it summons relief rather than regret at the prospect of their demise (the pervasive wistfulness in Faulkners stories must baffle non-Southern readers). Thank God there's more to the South than alternately elegant and ignorant brutality, but a student of all his works could be excused for never suspecting Virginia alone produced the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, Congress, seven Presidents and Americas first public university.