“And mine is Graham—J. W. Graham. The J stands for John and the W for Westley.”
“Westley Graham!” exclaimed Joe. “Why, I know who you are! I mean I’ve read stories——”
“Yes, I don’t doubt it. You could scarcely fail to, my boy, for I write a horrible lot of them. I try not to, but they will out, like murder—or measles! Ever read any you liked?”
“Why, I like them all!” cried Joe. “They’re dandy! There was one last month about a man who discovered an island that nobody knew about, and——”
“Yes, I recall that. Well, I’m glad you like them, my boy. I do myself, when I’m writing them, but afterwards I try hard to forget them.”
“But why, sir?” Joe’s eyes opened very wide. “I wish I could write stories like those!”
“Do you? I try to forget them because I come of Puritan ancestry. Know anything about the Puritans, Faulkner?”
“Why, I know what it tells in the history, sir.”
“Perhaps history doesn’t particularly emphasise the quality I have in mind, however. The Puritans were endowed with the ineradicable belief that whatever gave one pleasure in the doing was wrong. All my life I have been at odds with my inherited Puritan principles. Every time I write one of those stories Conscience sits at my elbow and weeps. I try to console myself with the promise that some day before I pass on I shall write something very dull and very learned and very, very difficult, something that I shall utterly detest doing. But never mind my soul worries now. Tell me something about you, Faulkner. What do you do when you don’t chase over the country apprehending defaulting clerks? You told me you were going to school, I think?”