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美国作家威廉·福克纳深受家庭传统和南方风土人情的影响。他的作品中有南方人特有的幽默感，深入刻画黑人与白人的地位、相处、矛盾等敏感问题，生动描绘出惟妙惟肖的南方人形象。
福克纳的很多小说都设在虚构的约克纳帕塔法郡 （Yoknapatawpha County） 中，原型是他故乡所在的拉斐特郡 （Lafayette）。约克纳帕塔法是福克纳作品的标志，是文学史上有名的虚构地点之一。莫言笔下的“高密东北乡”就是类似福克纳的约克纳帕塔法镇一般的文学地理世界。
1949年，因为“（for） his powerful and artistically unique contribution to the modern American novel”，福克纳获得诺贝尔文学奖。他在斯德哥尔摩发表的得奖感言是诺贝尔文学奖最精彩的感言之一。他说道：“我拒绝认为人类已经走到了尽头……人类能够忍受艰难困苦，也终将会获胜。”这席发言和他的性格十分吻合。他捐献了自己获得的奖金，要“成立一个基金以支持鼓励文学新人”，最后建立了国际笔会/福克纳小说奖。
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.
福克纳的很多小说都设在虚构的约克纳帕塔法郡 （Yoknapatawpha County） 中，原型是他故乡所在的拉斐特郡 （Lafayette）。约克纳帕塔法是福克纳作品的标志，是文学史上有名的虚构地点之一。莫言笔下的“高密东北乡”就是类似福克纳的约克纳帕塔法镇一般的文学地理世界。
1949年，因为“（for） his powerful and artistically unique contribution to the modern American novel”，福克纳获得诺贝尔文学奖。他在斯德哥尔摩发表的得奖感言是诺贝尔文学奖最精彩的感言之一。他说道：“我拒绝认为人类已经走到了尽头……人类能够忍受艰难困苦，也终将会获胜。”这席发言和他的性格十分吻合。他捐献了自己获得的奖金，要“成立一个基金以支持鼓励文学新人”，最后建立了国际笔会/福克纳小说奖。
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.