Talker

After clinging for so long to the solitude of his work and his Mississippi home, Novelist William (A Fable, The Sound and the Fury) Faulkner of late has been tasting--and enjoying--the pleasures of loquacity. In what might be called his transformation from hermitage to Hermitage (of a good year, of course), Faulkner has been reluctant to talk about the one subject he is most qualified to discuss--the art of writing. But for the new issue of the English-language quarterly, the Paris Review, Novelist Faulkner relented sufficiently to deliver some explicit comments on his trade.

On responsibility: "The writer's only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is good. Everything goes . . . to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the Ode on a Grecian Urn is worth any number of old ladies.''

On environment: "Art is not concerned with environment; it doesn't care where it is. If you mean me, the best job that was ever offered to me was to become a landlord in a brothel.* In my opinion it's the perfect milieu for an artist to work in. The place is quiet during the morning hours, which is the best time of day to work. My own experience has been that the tools I need for my trade are paper, tobacco, food and a little whiskey."

On work: "One of the saddest things is that the only thing a man can do eight hours a day, day after day, is work. You can't eat for eight hours a day nor drink for eight hours a day nor make love for eight hours--all you can do for eight hours is work. Which is the reason why man makes himself and everybody else so miserable and unhappy."

* Said Faulkner last week when asked whether he meant this literally: "I am a fiction writer and I am not responsible for any construction made on any interview I have ever given."

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