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Impossible! During those bouts he didn't know what he was doing. He would lie in his own filth in bed. He was helpless. Then he'd go on the wagon for months while he wrote and not touch a drop. His capacity was not very great. It didn't take too much to send him off. Then he was absolutely worthless until he pulled himself together.

One of the things that you must remember about Bill Faulkner is that in World War I, he was an aviator, and his plane was wrecked, and for twelve hours he hung suspended in the wreckage head down. I've always felt that maybe this had some permanent effect on him, because when they found him he was delirious.

But he was a great gentleman. And he always took time to answer. You'd say, “Nice day, Bill, isn't it?" And he'd wait and consider as though this was a very important question. He'd say, “Well, it's a pretty nice day, but there are some clouds up, there.” Every question he took seriously.

When he wasn't drunk.

When he wasn't drunk. The girls all adored him, and everybody had deep respect for him. He had a little daughter named Jill whom he worshipped, and his wife Estelle. For some years they lived together down in Oxford, Mississippi, ate three meals a day together, and never spoke a word to each other! They would communicate through little Jill. Bill would say, “Tell your mother I want some more ham,” and she