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Many things of great quality are not understood, not just art. Some never are ("full many a flower" etc. etc.). Moby Dick was unappreciated for years. Much of Bach's greatest music was used for fish-wrap and lost forever. Van Gogh sold a room full of paintings for about 25 bucks.

I couldn't see what was so great about Huck Finn until I read Tom Abshur's very good book, Men and the Goddess, and he explained it to me. Huck immediately surpassed d'Artagnan as my favorite fictional character.

I read The Sound and the Fury four times, and I still didn't know what the hell was going on. When I read Falkner's explanation, I was more confused than ever. Then one night at a party at my sister's house, I met a woman, a friend of hers, who taught Falkner in college. I said to her, "You're not leaving here tonight until you tell me what that damn thing is about." For the next hour and a half we sat on the sofa, and she explained it in great detail and answered my questions. Then when I reread it, it was as clear as crystal. (But I was so depressed I wished I'd never found out.) (I am in love with Caddie Compson though. So was Falkner.)

I've got James Joyce's Ulysses in the book case next to me right now. Who knows? Maybe some day I'll tackle that.

It's a good thing The Renaissance didn't depend on me, isn't it?

It's comforting to know that one's coming and departure will be noted no more than the sea's self shall note a pebble into the waters cast. It's a lot more fun being a lazy slob than being responsible for--say--The Renaissance.

Enjoyed reading your reply. And you are right, many things of great quality are not understood. And much literature, once understandable, has become obscure. There is no way that E.D. Hirsch (What Every 3rd Grader Ought to Know) will bring us up to speed on Pound's Cantos. One must first be responsible for the Rennaissance.

Still, life is short and often works of profound complexity yield no reward. It just isn't worthwhile studying Derrida or Foucault, not to speak of the mountains of secondary literature responding to it (perhaps Levinas is a worthwhile exception). Modern art has been at first deliberately private (even in the case of Faulkner, Joyce, and imitators) and then even more so by being deliberately intended not to be understood. This last is part of the tendency toward a dehumanization which concerned Ortega.

All good things come through hard work.

Thanks for you thoughts. There's probably more to be said.

Having read Faulkner's Sanctuary twice and portions of the work numerous times, I don't think I want it explained. From time to time a light bulb comes on in my brain and a revelation comes to me about some passage. This keeps the literary work alive for me. I think S & F has the same quality. I havn't yet given the attention to it that I plan to. Ulysses , forget it. I.m not ready for madness.