I had high hopes for In the Fall after the first few chapters. A long, multi-generational tale of a Vermont Yankee who marries a former slave after the Civil War, the book basically falls into three parts. The first is a family saga about the principal couple’s first twenty-five years together and is the best part of the book. The second is a literary noir about small town bootlegging pre-WWI and is well done but nothing special. The final third is a ridiculous attempt at southern gothic, ruining for me what had been more good than bad up to that point. Much of the book was overwritten, with characters engaging in long monologs that sounded a bit too close to the author’s own voice, but the ideas were interesting and the characters beautifully drawn, at least until the end. That’s when the sixteen year old protag of the final section heads south to find out why his grandmother committed suicide, loses his virginity to a distant cousin within four hours of meeting her, and learns just how horrible the south can be.
Faulkner it ain’t. And after seventy years or so of reading this crap, I’m so done with 20th c. male literary writers making no attempt whatsoever to explain why their female characters jump into bed with their male protags the minute they meet them.
So done.