Velociworld

Sanctuary

In William Faulkner's 1931 novel Sanctuary, the protagonist is a 16 year-old spoiled Mississippi debutante named Temple Drake. At the beginning of the novel she leaves town on an ill-advised date with an alcoholic University of Virginia graduate named Gowan Stephens. Gowan stops outside of town for yet more whiskey at the Old Frenchman Place, a rundown house in the deep woods inhabited by bootleggers. Gowan is soon intoxicated again, leaving Temple vulnerable to the predations of the assorted ruffians.

Despite a warning from a bootlegger's wife to stay out of sight in back of the house, Temple proceeds to brazenly engage the ne'er-do-wells. After Gowan awakens from his stupor and slinks off without finding Temple, she is savagely raped with a corn cob by the impotent gangster Popeye. Popeye subsequently takes Temple to live in a whorehouse in Memphis, where she quickly becomes debauched, having craven sex with Popeye (via his pistol) and a variety of other men.

Temple is eventually rescued by her father and borne away to Paris, both to assuage the author's guilt and to mollify his scandalized publisher's indignation.

Yea, verily, I often think we are all of us Temple Drakes. We've too many of us accumulated easy credit, and too much housing. We pshawed the warnings, and ploughed ahead with wanton disregard in our selection of leaders. Now we find ourselves in Miss Reba's whorehouse, waiting for Popeye to show up.

Oh, occasionally we'll hook up with Red, the other party, the other guy. But when Popeye returns we are ready and willing to succumb to his advances. He's "Daddy", after all.

Actually, I believe we are all of us still at the Old Frenchman Place, chastened by the cob, but still with a choice: do we proceed to Memphis, and further humiliation, which at this point is the easy way out, or do we stand and fight for our dignity?

I, for one, do not want a sugar daddy. Nor do I aspire to a life of indolence, not having to work, devoid of affirmation of life, or meaning. And ever susceptible to the cob, and the barrel. Too many of our brethren have chosen the path of degradation. A trillion dollars is a dangerous thing in the hands of Popeyes. It buys the souls of many, and weakens the resolve of many more.

I shall not be tempted. I will not succumb to the pecunious hand, the proffered fruit. I am rich beyond measure in the luxury of civil disobedience, the wealth of self sustenance, the spoils of family and friend. The siren calls, I heed it not.

It would behoove the entranced to remember that Popeye is impotent, after all. That which satiates for the moment is not true, but borrowed. We all thirst at some level for Popeye's bootleg whiskey, myself included. It is human nature. But beware the hangover of the illicit brew. And the cost.

Find your true sanctuary.