Slipping so many times and still trying to get up and keep walking, walking forever on the windy road, the rain falling late at night, trudging, fumbling, trying to step, stepping on the slimy, muddy, filthy, filthy, thorny, dark, bloody, endless path that people call the path of life. Even though i’m not from your sack i know you’ve still got my back happy father’s day mug. For a lifetime of almost thirty, what does Faulkner want to pass on to our generation? From the first volume of The Marble Faun poetry to the last foggy haunted novels, what does Faulkner mean? Why does Faulkner keep writing troublesome, chaotic, lengthy, leisurely, messy, dark, heavy texts?