I was sixteen the year Faulkner died and dressed in black for a month to mourn his passing. My mama said, "Girl, you got to be crazy, wearing black in this God-awful Georgia heat."
Now my mama had a way with words, short and to the point, Unlike Faulkner, who lingered and made his last; but Mama never had time to read, so I read for both of us and found in Faulkner a reason for being-- both hers and mine.
Each person is but a grain of sand resting beside the sea. This thought sets the tone for Jill Eisnaugle’s latest poetry collection, Beside Still Waters.
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"Mourning Faulkner"... Intriguing, exoteric... symbolistic, reverent and esoteric.
In admiration,
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
Cheers,
Dan