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7.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 difficult 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 from 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 afraid; 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
griefs 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 lifting 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.

　