Yoknapatawpha county. William Faulkner’s fictional “postage stamp of native soil.” Where nothing is as it seems, and family ties may range wider or grow tighter than you might imagine.
Jefferson seems to be a sleepy county seat, but a lot of things are happening under the surface. Over at the Compson place, by the golf course, word is that Jason’s niece Quentin has run off with a fellow from the traveling fair, and the Bundrens finally got Addie buried, although you can still smell… something… mostly near old Miz Grierson’s house. Over in Frenchman’s Bend, Flem Snopes seems to have swindled several folks by selling them some untameable wild spotted ponies. Hear tell, Old Ike McCaslin is out on another bear hunt, and something too sordid to mention is going on at the Old Frenchman place. There’s a lot to investigate… if you’re sure you want to know the truth.
It’s the 1920s in the deep South. Or is it 1890? Or 1863, the afternoon just before Pickett’s Charge? Because here in Yoknapatawpha county, the past is never dead. It’s not even past.