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'Windy McPherson's Son' and Silent McEachern's son: Sherwood Anderson and 'Light in August.' (Special Issue: William Faulkner)

William Faulkner repeatedly praised Sherwood Anderson with generosity and enthusiasm(1), but it is only in the context of Anderson's influential role as stimulus to Faulkner's own creativity that we can understand the full implications of the latter's appreciation and gratitude. In this essay I would like to show the surprising parallels in plot and characterization between Anderson's first novel, Windy McPherson's Son, and Faulkner's masterwork, Light in August -- or, as Faulkner might have titled his novel had he wished to make the Andersonian link still clearer -- Silent McEachern's Son. This seemingly whimsical but seriously intended title suggests that we keep in mind the differences as well as the points of likeness between the Anderson and Faulkner novels: for example, Windy McPherson is endlessly talkative, while McEachern is grimly quiet; Sam is Windy's biological son, while, Joe is McEachern's legally adopted son. Yet the hate of both sons for their similarly named fathers is similarly envenomed and has comparable consequences: both sons attack, their fathers and think they may well have killed them in the process. The differences, as this one example may suggest, need to be taken into account, but the likenesses are striking and revealing.

The shared theme of the two novels is the misery that society creates for itself through the denial of love and through the grotesque replacement of love by guilt. We see how, in both books, mental disturbance, notably including the pathology of misogyny, results from repeated emotional traumas that are in turn linked to pervasive mistrust of love. Relentless persecutorial gossip is a theme shared by the novels, as is the grotesque promotion of ego-status through hypocritical lies. Special emphasis is placed, by both Anderson and Faulkner, on the destructive dynamics of oedipal conflict and on the reciprocal psychological mirroring of a man and a woman who reflect back each other's fundamentally identical guilt complexes. Both books are somber, and their shared critiques are penetrating: at a deep level the two works are intimately interrelated.

Since both books are many-faceted, it is best to begin with a clear summary of the chief parallels: this will convey the scope of influence (or as I would prefer to call it, creative appropriation) at the outset, and it will afford an orienting framework for the more detailed points to be made later. In this way, there will be no risk of getting lost, even when we find that Faulkner has evidently distributed events or motifs from young McPherson's life among various characters in Light in August -- not only Joe Christmas and McEachern, but Hines and Joanna and Hightower too.

Unlike Joe Christmas, young Sam McPherson is not portrayed in mythic or archetypic terms as a Christ-figure; but Sam's early visionary mentor, Mike McCarthy, a mentally disturbed but often lyrically inspired prisoner whose ravings are overheard from his cell in the village jail, is indeed presented, though grotesquely and half-parodically, as Christlike -- loving but martyred. For although he shows aggressive urges and has been involved in violence, the mentally troubled McCarthy also preaches at intervals a message of cosmic love, just as Joe Christmas bears the name of a God of love. Sam's other early visionary mentor, Mr. Telfer, though saner than McCarthy, is nevertheless a misogynist who, if less horrifying than the arch-misogynist Hines in Faulkner's book, similarly skews the young protagonist's initial perceptions in all unhealthy direction.

After these introductory parallels, the ones that follow intensify the drama of both books. Windy McPherson, like Joe Christmas's foster father McEachern, so enrages his son that, as noted above, young Sam (like young Joe) reacts with violence: indeed, Sam has good reason to believe he may have killed Windy. When Sam goes to an older woman named Mary for counseling and sympathy, the town suddenly fills with prurient, rancorous gossip: the persecution-by-gossip theme is not transferred to Joe's life in Light in August, but rather attaches to the life of the social outcast and defrocked minister Hightower. It is also appropriate here to note that Windy got his opprobrious nickname chiefly from boasting of his heroic exploits during the Civil War: it turns out that these boasts were lies. The motif of hypocritical-lies-about-Civil-War-heroism is also transferred in Faulkner's novel to the the of Hightower, who is brought up on similar false tales about his glorified grandfather.

After running away from the scene of the violent conflict with his father, Sam gets married, in Chicago, to an extremely cerebral woman, a social-reforming do-gooder of a patronizing kind who, deep down, hates life. The characterization of Sam's wife, Sue, is carried over with striking faithfulness into that of Joe's paramour, Joanna. What is more, the reinforcing parallelism of the Andersonian couple's mutually mirroring names, Sam and Sue, indicates that psychologically, too, they are mutual mirrors: each bears the cross of a profound, perhaps indelible guilt. Both the parallel names and the parallel burdens of guilt are carried over in Faulkner's portrayal of Joe and Joanna, mirrors of Sam and Sue. Even more surprisingly, Sam and Sue both come to view themselves as killers. So do Joe and Joanna.

Eventually Sam escapes from his loveless marriage to take on innumerable varied jobs in various cities across the country; Joe does this too -- though he does it before he meets Joanna, not afterwards. Here the parallels end: Sam returns at length to his hapless wife and they try to start a new life together, whereas we know of Joe Christmas's more desperate escape, and of his final castration and (so we may call it) crucifixion. Faulkner was not happy with Anderson's relatively happy ending, nor was he satisfied with the relatively limited cast of characters in McPherson, which has no equivalents at all to Lena Grove, or Lucas Burch, or Byron Bunch. (Even in the character psychologies of Sam and Joe, differences arise through Faulkner's deepening and enriching of the protagonist's inner life: Joe is an incomparably greater fictional achievement than Sam, though both men's lives are comparably shaped in their main outlines by a succession of guilt traumas.) But the parallels we do find suggest that Light in August cannot be accurately perceived in context without a somewhat more leisurely look at each of the McPherson motifs that probably caught Faulkner's eye, or heart.

Let us look first at the events from Sam's earlier years (up to the seeming murder of his father) that appear to have influenced Faulkner's imaginings of Joe Christmas's life and character. Then we will examine the Andersonian themes of guilt-inducing gossip and hypocritical deception that Faulkner apparently transfers to the subplot of Hightower. Finally, we will look at Sam and Sue, Joe and Joanna, to study the reciprocal mirroring of recurrent traumas and consequent guilt obsessions.


The Faulknerian relevance of McCarthy and Telfer, Sam McPherson's early mentors, may be treated briefly, for the main thrust of Anderson's novel -- as Faulkner evidently saw it -- lies in the psychological struggle of father and son (Windy and Sam), and in the reciprocal mental mirroring of husband and wife (Sam and Sue). Mad McCarthy prefigures Joe Christmas's blending of aggression and endlessly frustrated desire for love, as well as intimating (though in grotesque fashion) the Christ-typology later to be associated with Joe. Christ-typology is grotesquely parodied in McCarthy's reference to the twelve female disciples in Caxton with whom he has had affairs: "The twelfth woman I have just left, leaving her man in the road a bleeding sacrifice to thee" (WMS, p. 43).(2) It is not clear whether McCarthy killed this man, since all his remarks are tinged with madness, but we do see a prefiguring of Joe's involvement with violence and his troubled relations with women just as we see Joe's longing for love, his suicidal urges, and his Christlike martyrdom tragically prefigured in McCarthy's prayer: "I am sick of my life. ... Oh Father! Send down to men a new Christ"; "Oh Father! help us men of Caxton to understand that we have only this, our lives, this life so warm and hopeful and laughing in the sun" (p. 44). Unfortunately, in his more paranoid moments McCarthy turns from penitent suppliant to fancied avenger: "I am Michael, son of God. I have cut a man with a knife, so that his red blood ran upon the ground" (p. 42). On such an occasion McCarthy makes us think not of Joe but of McEachern, who "Perhaps ... believed that he had been guided and were now being propelled by some militant Michael Himself"(3) as he seeks to punish Joe for so-called lechery.

Telfer, a childless "dandy" (WMS, p. 33) who serves as Sam's early mentor, is not so violently deranged as McCarthy, yet can hardly be considered a wholly salutary influence despite his love of poetry and art, for in his repetitive speeches to Sam he introduces the misogyny theme that will later have extended ramifications in Faulkner's novel:

No man or boy can grow toward the purpose of life while he thinks of women. Let

him try it and he will be undone. What is to him a passing humour is to them an

end. They are diabolically clever. ... He sees them here and their about him. His

mind is filled with vague, delicious thoughts that come out of the very air; before

he realises what he has done he has spent his years in vain pursuit and turning

finds himself old and undone. (WMS, p.60) This is not as wild as the rabid misogyny of Joe's early self-appointed guardian Hines, from whom we get interjections like "Womanfilth .... Before the face of God" (p. 145). Hines may owe more to Anderson's other, wilder misogynist, Wash Williams, who says things like "The sight of a woman sickens me."(4) Both Wash and Telfer, though, seem relevant to Faulkner's developing desire to analyze the pathological sources of misogyny in Light in August.

Faulkner appears even more indebted to Anderson for the latter's graphic presentation of quasi-murderous oedipal conflict. A chronically idle, semi-deranged alcoholic braggart, Windy McPherson at length so enrages his son that the latter, fights "with himself to control a desire to spring across the room and kill the man who he believed had brought his mother to her death and who now sat bellowing and talking at her very death bed" (p. 84). Finally, "like one seized with an insane nightmare," Sam starts to throttle Windy, then throws "his burden down a short grassy bank into the road"; shortly thereafter he reports (mistakenly as it turns out) to his friend Mary Underwood that "I have just killed my father" (pp. 84, 91). Joe's father is quite different from Sam's -- puritanic, not dissolute; repressive rather than self-absorbed, and consequently hated rather than despised by his adopted son. But the nightmarish anger Joe displays is similar as he brings down a chair on top of his tyrannic father's head during the traumatic dance-floor episode (p. 225). Here, too, the rage is quasi-murderous, though in neither case can we conclude that any killing took place. The crucial point of comparison is that McEachern and McPherson goad their sons to nearmadness.


When Sam goes to the motherly Mary for some human contact and psychological comfort, the populace of the village respond with prurient gossip -- and here, to find Faulknerian parallels of a striking sort, we must turn for a moment toward the Hightower subplot. Hightower, like Sam (and Joe), feels like a killer because, preoccupied with his own visionary narcissism, he paid little attention to his wife; since she later despairingly jumped from a hotel window in Memphis, Hightower regards himself as her "seducer" and "murderer" (p. 538). After the scandal of his wife's death is revealed, town gossip is relentless in its condemnation of Hightower, just as comparable slander poisons Sam's life after his "murder" of Windy and his recourse to Mary. In Anderson's novel the self-righteous village moralists

sit under the eloquence of evangelists, shouting of heaven and hell -- the call to

the one being brother to the call of the other -- crying upon the troubled air of hot

little churches, where hope is fighting in the jaws of vulgarity, "The weight of my

sins is heavy on my soul." Along streets they go lifting heavy eyes to peer into the

lives of others and to get a morsel to roll upon their heavy tongues. (p. 130) Hightower's thoughts on the mentalities of self-styled pious moralists in his village have a similar ring:

the [church organ] music has still a quality stern and implacable, deliberate and

without passion so much as immolation, pleading, asking, for not love, not life,

forbidding it to others, demanding in sonorous tones death as though death were

the boon, like all Protestant music.... Pleasure, ecstasy, they cannot seem to bear:

their escape from it is in violence, in drinking and fighting and praying; catastrophe

too, the violence identical and apparently inescapable And so why should not their

religion drive them to cruxifixion of themselves and one another? he thinks. (pp. 404-405) Self-righteous village moralizers/crucifiers appear so oppressively in McPherson that it is hard to believe they did not affect Faulkner when he wrote the equally dismaying descriptions of their self-styled piety in Light in August.

But hypocrisy abounds in the McPherson and Hightower families, too. Windy's boastings about his heroics as Civil War bugler are dramatically deflated when, on the occasion of the town's commemorative parade, he reveals no previous experience whatever at bugle-playing (p. 24). Hightower's grandfather's glorified military exploits during the Civil War are proved, in parallel fashion, to have been sheer lies used to cover up what was in fact the ignominy of a chicken thief (p. 535). The grotesque consequences of falsely advertised Civil War heroics, presented with wonderful grotesque drama by Anderson,(5) seem to have inspired Faulkner to a comparable feat of sardonically comic skill.


The true psychological center of Windy McPherson's Son's is the marriage of Sam to Sue Rainey, the businessman's daughter whom he meets and weds in Chicago; and the parallels between this relationship and that of Joe and Joanna in Light in August will take us, I think, to the psychological core of that work as well. Sue is well-meaning, and Sam's initial experience of loving her suggests to him that, whatever Telfer may have thought, "Sex is a solution, not a menace" (p. 180.), just as Joanna seems at first to have achieved something remarkable in having at least dented Joe's long-standing misogyny. But it turns out that, with Sue, passion will forever be kept under the strictest control of a tyrannic, cerebral superego-humanitarian in its orientation (Sue has been inspired by the lectures of a socialist orator) but no less dictatorial for all that:

I can find a man whom I can control and who will believe as I believe. My money

gives me that power. But I want him to be a real man, a man of ability, a man who

does things for himself, one fitted by his life and his achievements to be the father

of children who do things. ... You will have to be new kind of father with something

maternal in you. You will have to be patient and studious and kind. You will

have to think of these things at night instead of thinking of your advancement. You

will have to live wholly for me because I am to be their mother, giving me your

strength and courage and your good sane outlook on things. And then when they

come you will have to give all these things to them day after day in a thousand little

ways. (pp. 178-179) It is tall order; Sam must be wholly subservient to Sue's coldly enunciated ideals. In Faulkner's comparable portrayal, Joanna's demands on Joe are felt as equally demeaning and insupportable. Joe is required to study at a black school, chosen from among those to which, Joanna gives charity then he must learn law from a black lawyer who manages Joanna's charities -- these requirements directed at a man whose profound mental sufferings have all been nightmarishly related to society's derogatory notions of his own supposed blackness -- and when Joe refuses these peremptory demands, he is ordered to kneel and pray, together with Joanna, that he may soon change his mind and succumb to her moral pressure! (pp. 303-308).

Sue and Joanna, then, equally serve as embodiments of condescending moralism taking the place of empathy -- abstract principle, armed with self-righteousness, taking the place of genuine human love. The two characters are such similar (and similarly incisive) psychological portraits that it is hard to see how Faulkner's creation of Joanna could have remained uninfluenced by Anderson's portrayal of Sue.

But it is in the juxtaposing of the two couples -- Sam and Sue, Joe and Joanna -- that I think we truly clinch the argument for creative appropriation as well as shed considerable light on the main psychological crux of the two novels. As the alliterative name-pairings indicate in both cases, we are dealing here with two instances of mutual mirroring. Specifically, the mirroring is psychological: Sam and Sue, like Joe and Joanna, reflect each other's overpowering sense of guilt.

Let us look first at the psychological development of Sam and Joe; then we can study the mirroring-effect as we consider the specular roles of Sue and Joanna. At the deepest psychological level it is tragically easy to pinpoint the determining factor that shapes, and plagues, the lives of Sam and Joe: repeated emotional traumas, which are the origin of guilt obsessions.

We have seen that even though Sam did not kill his father, he might nearly have done so, and he lives with abiding guilt: "|I have become older than all of these people here,' thought the youth. |They play at life and death, and I have felt it between the fingers of my hand'" (p. 97). When Sue suffers the last of three miscarriages, Sam, terrified at the sight of the baby, flees -- and this, too, brings on a guilt trauma based once again on a delusion of having committed murder: "Into his head came the idea that he had killed Sue" and that a policeman he sees is intent on taking him "back to where she lay white and lifeless" (p. 204). The delusion really reflects Sam's unconscious guilt for a loveless marriage that oppresses him, but its effects are no less real for all that. Finally, when Sam returns to Sue for a while, in a psychologically compensatory power bid he betrays her father, who is his business partner, in a financial deal. When the father commits suicide, Sam runs away still another time, feeling "pursued" (p. 265) as if he had committed a third murder. Repeated built traumas are very clearly the theme of Sam's life.

Faulkner develops this theme with even more oppressively tragic accumulations of mutually confirming emotional traumas in his portrayal of Joe Christmas. The sequence of guilt-inducing crises is the story of Joe's life: at age five, his being terrorized by the paranoid dietitian who thinks lie had been spying on her tryst; at age eight, his experience of disgust when his mother stealthily. offers him food after his tyrannic foster father has determined that he doesn't deserve it; at age fourteen, his terror of the sexuality of the teenage girl, whom he beats up to assert his self-possession; at age eighteen, his suffering a blow from McEachern for having sold a heifer for clothes to wear at a dance (pp. 135, 169-171, 172-173, 180). We recall, too, Joe's trauma of thinking he has murdered his relentlessly judgmental father. This is not of course a complete list, but the point is clear: Anderson's theme of repeated guilt traumas has been taken up with zeal in Faulkner's imagination. Joe is an enlarging, clarifying mirror of Sam.

Further: in the same way that Sue mirrors Sam, Joanna mirrors Joe. The women are as guilt-plagued as the men. Before Sue's first pregnancy she admits that, in defiance of all her abstractly maintained humanitarian principles, she has developed strongly negative feelings about her prospective newborn: "A thing I worked years to suppress in me has come back. I have been hating myself and the baby" (p. 195). As if in punishment, Sue suffers not one but three miscarriages in succession, in strict parallel to the three people (Windy, Sue, Sue's father) that Sam imagines he has killed. Sue is not a killer any more than Sam is, but Anderson has set things up so that she comes to live in a paranoid dream-world, just as Sam does, a world where guilty wishes, even unconscious or half-conscious ones (such as a wish that a baby might not be born). are immediately and disastrously and multiply punished. Guilt rules the mind, and world, of Sue as it rules those of Sam.

In comparable fashion, Joanna's guilt-ridden mental world reflects that of Joe in Faulkner's novel, though the mutual mirrorings here are not as mathematically precise as those of Sam and Sue (with their three imagined "murders" apiece). If Joe suffers multiple guilt traumas, Joanna's equally oppressive feeling of guilt is unintermittent and unending. In a long speech, Joanna's father at one point early in her life says to her,

|Remember this. Your grandfather and brother are lying there, murdered not by

one white man but by the curse which god put on a whole race before your grandfather

or your brother or me or you were even thought of. A race doomed and cursed

to be forever and ever a part of the white race's doom and curse for its sins. Remember

that. His doom and his curse. Forever and ever. Mine. Your mother's. Yours, even

though you are a child. The curse of every white child that ever was born and that

ever will be born. None can escape it.' And I [Joanna] said, |Not even me? and he

said, |Not even you. Least of all, you.' (p. 278) So, as Joanna imagines "all the children coming forever and ever into the world, white, with the black shadow already falling upon them before they drew breath," it is not surprising that she seems "to see the black shadow in the shape of a cross" and to see the while babies "as if they were nailed to the cross" (p. 278). She herself Joanna Burden, bears the cross, the burden, of guilt, socially and parentally imposed. It is the same burden as that of Joe Christmas, the burden of imagined guilt.

Of course this imposition of guilt is an imposture: "Christmas" is supposed to imply the much easier yoke and lighter burden of love, not guilt. But the guilt obsession is tragically real in its effects, both in the Andersonian world of Windy McPherson's Son and in the Faulknerian world of Light in August, in the world of Sam and Sue as in that of Joe and Joanna. Joe, for his part, wanders everywhere to try to escape guilt: he travels on a road that is "fifteen years long" and does every kind of work he can think of in every place he can imagine, like an Everyman on a pilgrimage to nowhere: "he was in turn laborer, miner, prospector, gambling tout; he enlisted in the army, served four months and deserted and was never caught" (p. 246). As for Anderson's protagonist, "For weeks and months Sam led a wandering vagabond life and surely a stranger or more restless vagabond never went upon the road" (p. 262). As Kim Townsend sums it up, Sam tries "everything from physical labor to philanthropy, from bartending to labor organizing."(6) Sam's travels may well have set the pattern for Joe's; there is no real conclusion to the seemingly interminable peregrinations of either man -- only a somewhat arbitrary interruption, or so it would seem (Joe's fifteen years of wandering are interrupted by the interlude with Joanna, but his wanderings recommence with the final chase). Spiritually, Sam and Joe are homeless.

Anderson wrote the ending to his novel twice, but the second version, though more realistically beleaguered with doubt as a believable residue from a legacy, of guilt traumas, is no more convincing than the first insofar as it is still intended to be a "happy ending."(7) In both cases, Anderson relies on the quasi-magical device of having Sam find three new children who need caring for, and whom he duly brings home (with their mother's permission) to be raised by him and Sue. This ending, in whichever version, pleased nobody and is probably largely responsible for the novel's traditionally having been regarded as a failure. Faulkner was wise not to resort in Andersonian style to arbitrary, supernatural-style replacements of the dead, for the self-indulgent escapism of such a maneuver would be at odds with the social and psychological critique that forms one of the major strengths of Light in August, as it is also the central strength of Windy McPherson's Son. Faulkner learned from Anderson's failure.

But Windy McPherson's Son, if in some ways a failure, is a valuable one, for despite the book's unevenness and unsatisfactory conclusion, its profound exploration of traumas, as individually experienced and socially induced, often conveys the same hallucinatory vividness as do the most convincing of guilt nightmares. To read the work alongside Faulkner's Light in August is to increase our pleasure in, and our comprehension of, both creative achievements. Anderson's oneirically obsessive vision stimulated Faulkner's psychological imagination in ways that could not have been foreseen, but for which the reader may well be grateful.

(1) Multiple references to Anderson in Frederick L. Gwynn and Joseph L. Blotner, eds., Faulkner in the University: Class Conferences at the University of Virginia 1957-1958 (Charlottesvil University of Virginia Press, 1959; see index for references) make Faulkner's indebtedness abundantly clear. Despite this fact I cannot find in the secondary literature any reference at all to possible influences of Anderson's Windy McPherson's Son on Faulkner's Light in August. That an Andersonian allusive pattern is present is made more probable by the fact that Light in August may well be the most richly allusive of all Faulkner's books. I have studied a number of its patterns of allusion in four previous articles: see "Victorian Vision in Mississippi: Tennysonian Resonances in Faulkner's Dark House/Light in August," Victorian Poetry, 23 (1985), 43-57; "Faulkner's Variations on Romantic Themes: Blake, Wordsworth, Byron, and Shelley in Light in August," Mississippi Qurterly, 38 (1985),277-286; "Faulkner's Kinship with Schopenhauer: The Sabbath of the Ixion Wheel," Neophilologus, 71 (1987), 447-459; "The Ring and the Book and Light in August: Faulkner's Response to Browning," Victorian Newsletter, No. 81 (Spring 1991), 51-59. (2) All quotations from this work refer to Sherwood Anderson, Windy McPherson's Son, ed. with introduction Wright Morris (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1965) rev. ed. originally published B. W. Huebsch, 1922). Kenny J. Williams, A Storyteller and a City: Sherwood Anderson's Chicago (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1988), pp. 47-87, contains a very thorough historical survey of McPherson criticism, which (regrettably) has been mostly dismissive. But the "theme of repressed and distorted sexuality, whatever one wishes to say of the rest of the book, is handled with the understanding of a psychologist and the facility of an artist," notes J. R. Scafidel, "Sexuality in Windy McPherson's Son," Twentieth Century Literature, 23 (1977), 100. (3) William Faulkner, Light in August, corrected text, ed. Noel Polk (New York: Random House, 1987), p. 224. The fact that Faulkner capitalizes "Himself" after "Michael" may indicate that he is remembering McCarthy's confusion of Archangel Michael with Jesus. (4) Sherwood Anderson, Winesburg, Ohio (New York: B. W. Huebsch, 1919; rpt. New York: Viking Penguin, 1976), p. 224. I made this suggestion in "Refashioning Coleridge's Supernatural Trilogy: Sherwood Anderson's |A Man of Ideas' and |Respectability'," Studies in Short Fiction, 27 (1990), 235, n5. (5) This episode is singled out for special praise by Irving Howe, Sherwood Anderson: A Biographical and Critical Study (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1966), pp. 76-80. (6) Kim Townsend, Sherwood Anderson (Boston: Houghton, 1987), p. 67. (7) I agree with Ray Lewis White, "The Revisions in Windy McPherson's Son, Sherwood Anderson's First Novel," Midwestern Miscellany, 12 (1984), 51, in his praise of the greater "imperfection and ambiguity" realistically incorporated into the revised ending, though I would still stress the fundamentally unchanged quasi-supernatural arbitrariness of that ending.
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Author:Bidney, Martin
Publication:The Mississippi Quarterly
Date:Jun 22, 1993
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