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This is one of the greatest American novels of the 20th century - it says so right on the cover - but for me, it was more work than pleasure. There's no doubt that the man could write but it was one of those books that would need a second reading just so that you could understand and enjoy ( if that's the word) what the hell he was writing about. (It would have helped to know that there are two Quentins, for example, an uncle and a niece, which would've cleared up my confusion about the constant sex changes in pronouns.) I'm glad I read it but I'm reminded of a story that the late Spaulding Gray told of a literary event in the Soviet Union where he was asked if he'd ever read William Faulkner; he said he'd read one novel. Did he like it? He was satisfied.