Mosquitoes, William Faulkner
Mosquitoes
First published in 1927 by Boni & Liveright, Mosquitoes is a satirical novel and was largely inspired by Faulkner’s involvement in the New Orleans creative community, where he spent time before moving to France. Beginning and ending in the city of New Orleans, the narrative follows a diverse cast of artists, aesthetes and adolescents as they embark on a four-day excursion aboard the motorised yacht, the Nausikaa, owned by a wealthy patron of the arts.
The narrative is organised into six sections, with a prologue that introduces the characters, followed by four body sections each of which documents a day of the yacht trip hour-by-hour, concluding with an epilogue that returns the characters, changed or unchanged, to their lives off the boat.
The inspiration for Faulkner’s second novel has been traced to a specific yachting excursion in Faulkner’s life that took place in April 1925 on Lake Pontchartrain. He was joined by members of the real-life New Orleans’ artistic community, which included artist William Spratling, author Hamilton Basso and the novelist and short-story writer Sherwood Anderson.
Though the parallels between this trip and the fictive journey documented in Mosquitoes are clearly evident, it has been noted by critics that direct references to Faulkner’s life do not end here. Dawson Fairchild’s character, for example, is known to be a satirical portrait of his mentor Sherwood Anderson and is cited as the reason for his falling-out with Faulkner.
The hour-by-hour, day-by-day organisation of the narrative’s body sections suggests, in form as well as function, the nature of the days spent on the cruise ship, vastly repetitive and mundane. By grounding the repetitive activities of the characters in concrete temporal divisions, Faulkner fashions a structure to what might otherwise appear as an endless stream of conversation and interaction between various combinations of the yacht’s passengers.
Though many views on the contemporary culture of the 1920’s American South could be drawn from the endless cultural references in the text, two major themes are notable: Faulkner’s exploration of sex and sexuality and the societal role of the artist.
Several critics consider Mosquitoes to be Faulkner’s weakest and most imitative work, recognising his debt to the styles of Aldous Huxley, T. S. Eliot, and James Joyce. Nonetheless, Mosquitoes represents a period in Faulkner’s career where he begins to cultivate the personal literary style for which he would later become famous.
The first edition
Contents
Prologue
The First Day
The Second Day
The Fourth Day
Epilogue
Lake Pontchartrain, Louisiana – a primary setting of the novel
Sherwood Anderson, Faulkner’s friend and mentor. Unfortunately, due to Faulkner’s satirical depiction of Anderson in ‘Mosquitoes’, the two authors fell out.
TO HELEN
In spring, the sweet young spring, decked out with little green, necklaced, braceleted with the song of idiotic birds, spurious and sweet and tawdry as a shopgirl in her cheap finery, like an idiot with money and no taste; they were little and young and trusting, you could kill them sometimes.
But now, as August like a languorous replete bird winged slowly through the pale summer toward the moon of decay and death, they were bigger, vicious; ubiquitous as undertakers, cunning as pawnbrokers; confident and unavoidable as politicians; They came cityward lustful as country boys, as passionately integral as a college football squad; pervading and monstrous but without majesty: a biblical plague seen through the wrong end of a binocular: the majesty of Fate become contemptuous through ubiquity and sheer repetition.
PROLOGUE
I
“THE SEX INSTINCT,” repeated Mr. Talliaferro in his careful cockney, with that smug complacence with which you plead guilty to a characteristic which you privately consider a virtue, “’is quite strong in me. Frankness, without which there can be no friendship, without which two people cannot really ever ‘get’ each other, as you artists say; frankness, as I was saying, I believe—”
“Yes,” his host agreed. “Would you mind moving a little?”
He complied with obsequious courtesy, remarking the thin fretful flashing of the chisel beneath the rhythmic maul. Wood scented gratefully slid from its mute flashing, and slapping vainly about himself with his handkerchief he moved in a Bluebeard’s closet of blonde hair in severed clots, examining with concern a faint even powdering of dust upon his neat small patent leather shoes.
Yes, one must pay a price for Art…. Watching the rhythmic power of the other’s back and arm he speculated briefly upon which was more to be desired — muscularity in an undershirt, or Ms own symmetrical sleeve, and reassured he continued:
“… frankness compels me to admit that the sex instinct is perhaps my most dominating compulsion.” Mr. Talliaferro believed that Conversation — not talk: Conversation — with an intellectual equal consisted of admitting as many so-called unpublishable facts as possible about oneself. Mr. Talliaferro often mused with regret on the degree of intimacy he might have established with his artistic acquaintances had he but acquired the habit of masturbation in his youth. But he had not even done this.
“Yes,” his host agreed again, thrusting a hard hip into him. “Not at all,” murmured Mr. Talliaferro quickly. A harsh wall restored his equilibrium roughly and hearing a friction of cloth and plaster he rebounded with repressed alacrity.
“Pardon me,” he chattered. His entire sleeve indicated his arm in gritty white and regarding his coat with consternation he moved out of range and sat upon an upturned wooden block. Brushing did no good, and the ungracious surface on which he sat recalling his trousers to his attention, he rose and spread his handkerchief upon it. Whenever he came here he invariably soiled his clothes, but under that spell put on us by those we admire doing things we ourselves cannot do, he always returned.
The chisel bit steadily beneath the slow arc of the maul. His host ignored him. Mr. Talliaferro slapped viciously and vainly at the back of his hand, sitting in lukewarm shadow while light came across roofs and chimneypots, passing through the dingy skylight, becoming weary.
His host labored on in the tired light while the guest sat on his hard block regretting his sleeve, watching the other’s hard body in stained trousers and undershirt, watching the curling vigor of his hair, Outside the window New Orleans, the vieux carré, brooded in a faintly tarnished languor like an aging yet still beautiful courtesan in a smokefilled room, avid yet weary too of ardent ways.
Above the city summer was hushed warmly into the bowled weary passion of the sky. Spring and the cruellest months were gone, the cruel months, the wantons that break the fat hybernatant dullness and comfort of Time; August was on the wing, and September — a month of languorous days regretful as woodsmoke. But Mr. Talliaferro’s youth, or lack of it, troubled him no longer. Thank God.
No youth to trouble the individual in this room at all. What this room troubled was something eternal in the race, something immortal. And youth is not deathless. Thank God.
This unevenly boarded floor, these rough stained walls broken by high small practically useless windows beautifully set, these crouching lintels cutting the immaculate ruined pitch of walls which had housed slaves long ago, slaves long dead and dust with the age that had produced them and which they had served with a kind and gracious dignity — shades of servants and masters now in a more gracious region, lending dignity to eternity.
After all, only a few chosen can accept service with dignity: it is man’s impulse to do for himself. It rests with the servant to lend dignity to an unnatural proceeding. And outside, above rooftops becoming slowly violet, summer lay supine, unchaste with decay.
As you entered the room the thing drew your eyes; you turned sharply as to a sound, expecting movement. But it was marble, it could not move.
And when you tore your eyes away and turned your back on it at last, you got again untarnished and high and clean that sense of swiftness, of space encompassed; but on looking again it was as before: motionless and passionately eternal — the virginal breastless torso of a girl, headless, armless, legless, in marble temporarily caught and hushed yet passionate still for escape, passionate and simple and eternal in the equivocal derisive darkness of the world.
Nothing to trouble your youth or lack of it: rather something to trouble the very fibrous integrity of your being. Mr. Talliaferro slapped his neck savagely.
The manipulator of the chisel and maul ceased his labor and straightened up, flexing his arm and shoulder muscles.
And as though it had graciously waited for him to get done, the light faded quietly and abruptly: the room was like a bathtub after the drain has been opened. Mr. Talliaferro rose also and his host turned upon him a face like that of a heavy hawk, breaking his dream. Mr. Talliaferro regretted his sleeve again and said briskly:
“Then I may tell Mrs. Maurier that you will come?”
“What?” the other asked sharply, staring at him. “Oh, Hell, I have work to do. Sorry. Tell her I am sorry.”
Mr. Talliaferro’s disappointment was tinged faintly with exasperation as he watched the other cross the darkening room to a rough wood bench and raise a cheap enamelware water pitcher, gulping from it.
“But, I say,” said Mr. Talliaferro fretfully.
“No, no,” the other repeated brusquely, wiping his beard on his upper arm. “Some other time, perhaps. I am too busy to bother with her now. Sorry.” He swung back the open door and from a hook screwed into it he took down a thin coat and a battered tweed cap. Mr. Talliaferro watched his muscles bulge the thin cloth with envious distaste, recalling anew the unmuscled emphasis of his own pressed flannel.
The other was
