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Please notify the publishers regarding corrections. These minor changes, all of which improve the address stylistically have been incorporated here.Įvery effort has been made by the publisher to credit organizations and individuals with regard to the supply of audio files. * The speech was apparently revised by the author for publication in The Faulkner Reader. The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.įrom Nobel Lectures, Literature 1901-1967, Editor Horst Frenz, Elsevier Publishing Company, Amsterdam, 1969 It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last dingdong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. He writes not of the heart but of the glands. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed – love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. There are no longer problems of the spirit. Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand here where I am standing. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work – a life’s work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. William Faulkner’s speech at the Nobel Banquet at the City Hall in Stockholm, Decem* Share via Email: William Faulkner – Banquet speech Share this content via Email.Share on LinkedIn: William Faulkner – Banquet speech Share this content on LinkedIn.Tweet: William Faulkner – Banquet speech Share this content on Twitter.
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