“Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting.” Them, who? Hitting, what—or whom? Cops a face with a baton. Schoolyard kids a ball with a bat. Or some other someone doing something to someone or something else. The ambiguity is tantalizing. I appreciate, too, how Faulkner deftly puts the reader on notice that it’s not always clear what a narrator is thinking, saying, feeling, or perceiving. How many layers between the subject who experiences this or that Something! A fence! Stems, petals, tendrils! And the negative spaces between them! How many layers between a reader and a narrator, between a reader and an author! A furiously gorgeous opening sentence. The sounds of meaning being created. In the beginning. Word.