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Rowan Oak. The southern place of the day.
Posted on 2/16/26 at 10:21 am
Posted on 2/16/26 at 10:21 am
Rebs, you all been doing a good job. Look at that Greek Revival masterpiece.
Look at that back yard balcony!
7
Posted on 2/16/26 at 10:23 am to Harry Rex Vonner
Posted on 2/16/26 at 10:28 am to Harry Rex Vonner
Posted on 2/16/26 at 10:28 am to Harry Rex Vonner
Beautiful
Posted on 2/16/26 at 10:29 am to Harry Rex Vonner
looks like I got downvoted by one Yankee POS
Posted on 2/16/26 at 10:32 am to pgaddxn
You wonder if Faulkner's wife ever helped him edit some of his writing, but then again you hear the story that Faulkner never edited one word. Once it was written, it was carved in cement whether or not he wanted to change it or not.
Posted on 2/16/26 at 10:32 am to Harry Rex Vonner
There's a really nice walking trail if you park at the OM Museum on campus and want to walk through the woods to the property - it's a great way to visit.
Posted on 2/16/26 at 10:32 am to Harry Rex Vonner
Nice effort-post bro. The South is beautiful and worth celebrating.
Posted on 2/16/26 at 10:35 am to OleVaught14
William Faulkner’s speech at the Nobel Banquet at the City Hall in Stockholm, December 10, 1950 *
Ladies and gentlemen,
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. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. 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.
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. 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.
He must learn them again. 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. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. 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. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. 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.
I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. 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. The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. 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 voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
Ladies and gentlemen,
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. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. 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.
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. 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.
He must learn them again. 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. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. 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. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. 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.
I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. 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. The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. 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 voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
Posted on 2/16/26 at 10:35 am to Harry Rex Vonner
Home of a couple of raging alcoholics.
Posted on 2/16/26 at 10:39 am to Harry Rex Vonner
That’s pretty remarkable commitment. People and their word were just different back then.
Posted on 2/16/26 at 11:30 am to OleVaught14
quote:
There's a really nice walking trail if you park at the OM Museum on campus and want to walk through the woods to the property - it's a great way to visit.
I used to walk from my house to baseball games using that path. It came out at the tennis courts above right field. There was no place to sit except a little retaining wall back then, and no one sitting in that area except Curtis Wilkie and me. He was always kind enough to share his beer with me, which we used for drinking instead of throwing into the air.
Posted on 2/16/26 at 11:51 am to SEC Doctor
quote:
Home of a couple of raging alcoholics.
My kind of people
Posted on 2/16/26 at 11:52 am to TeeteringBrink
quote:
I used to walk from my house to baseball games using that path. It came out at the tennis courts above right field. There was no place to sit except a little retaining wall back then, and no one sitting in that area except Curtis Wilkie and me. He was always kind enough to share his beer with me, which we used for drinking instead of throwing into the air.
I would love to meet Curtis Wilkie. I read his book with Jim McDougal.
Posted on 2/16/26 at 12:05 pm to Harry Rex Vonner
Unfortunately, I've heard the ice storm did some pretty bad damage to the trees on the grounds. It's a pretty neat place to visit.
Posted on 2/16/26 at 12:12 pm to Harry Rex Vonner
9 haters I see.
What a sad, pathetic bunch.
Nice topic.
What a sad, pathetic bunch.
Nice topic.
Posted on 2/16/26 at 1:25 pm to NickPapageorgio
quote:
9 haters I see.
What a sad, pathetic bunch.
Nice topic.
Several people hate me on this message board
they're all leftist Democrats and/or RINOs - and cajunbama
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