William Faulkner: Speech Accepting the Nobel Prize in Literature I feel that this award was not made to me as a man but to my work --a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit not for glory and least of all for prof it but to create out of the materials of the human spir it something w hich did not ex ist before. So this award is on ly mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a ded ication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and sign if icance of its origin But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women alread dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand here where I am standing Our tragedy today is a general and un iversal physical fear so long susta ined by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit there is only the question: When will i be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman riting today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conf lict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them aga in. He must teach himse lf that the basest of all things is to be afraid and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his orkshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed --love and honor and pity and pride and sion and sacrifice Until he does so, he la bors under a curse He writes not of love but of lust of def eats in w hich nobody loses a nything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion His grief grieve on no universal bones, leav ing no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands. Until he re learns these things he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man i decline to accept the end of man. It is easy e nough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last ed and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexha ustible voice, still ta lk ing. I ref use to accept this. i believe that man w ill not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrif ice and endurance The poet's, the writers, duty is to write about these things. It is his priv ilege to help man endure by lif ting his heart by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrif ice which have been the glory of his past. The poet' s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail
William Faulkner: Speech Accepting the Nobel Prize in Literature I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work -- a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be dif ficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle f rom which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand here where I am standing. Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be af raid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed -- love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His grief s grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands. Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet’s, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lif ting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail
