“I feel this award was not made to me as a man,” he begins with apparent humility, seemingly denying personal prowess and heading off, as Faulkner always did, the all-too-evident relations between his stories and his biography, “but to my work, a life’s work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit.”
All the attention must be on the work, but as a manifestation of saintly human endeavour. Whose? Faulkner’s of course.
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