Tonight as I looked over my notes for Sunday and felt the thick viscous unmoving air of August’s motionless heat and gloaming I pulled from my shelf a man’s writings I’ve not outgrown, for his pen captured me as a boy with Quentin Compson and Darl and Flem Snopes and Thomas Sutpen and Dilsey, and I planted my literary foot again in Yoknapatawpha County’s mud and dust and linguistic lushness. Your pen moves me still.