Dry September by William Faulkner

White power!

William Faulkner drops more n-bombs than most gangster rappers, which can be pretty shocking if you're not already familiar with his work. I still find it jarring and impossible to ignore. I honestly don’t know enough about Faulkner’s personal racial politics to say whether this reflects his own beliefs or whether he’s deliberately trying to capture the ugly, everyday racism of the early 20th-century American South as he saw it. Probably some combination of the two. Either way, I much prefer his short stories over his novels and Dry September is a strong example of why.

Even though I still think Faulkner is a bit overrated overall, there’s no denying that he was a a gifted writer. This story makes that clear almost immediately. His prose is tight, controlled, and unsettlingly poetic, which only heightens the horror of what’s happening. What really stood out to me is how effectively he uses the oppressive heat to mirror the simmering rage and racism of the white men at the center of the story. The town feels baked dry by the sun, tense and brittle, like it’s just waiting to crack.

Faulkner makes the heat feel almost alive. The air is thick, the dust hangs everywhere, and everything seems slowed down and irritated by the weather. As a reader, you can practically feel the sweat on the page. That physical discomfort feeds directly into the men’s emotional state. They are restless, angry, and looking for somewhere to unload all that pent-up frustration. When a rumor spreads about a Black man allegedly raping a white woman, it gives them exactly the excuse they have been waiting for. Logic, evidence, and truth don’t matter. The heat and their racism combine into something combustible, and from that point on, the outcome feels grimly inevitable.

The final section of the story is what stuck with me the most. Faulkner shifts perspective and gives us a glimpse into the inner life of the white mob leader, revealing not just a virulent racist but also an abusive husband trapped in a miserable domestic life. I’m not sure Faulkner wants us to sympathize with him (if anything, I don’t think he does), but the insight adds another layer to the story. It shows how this man’s cruelty spills out in every direction, not just toward Black people but toward anyone weaker than him. His violence isn’t situational; it’s foundational to who he is.

Dry September is disturbing, uncomfortable, and bleak, but I think that might have been the author's intention. Faulkner captures how racism isn’t just an ideology. It’s a pressure cooker, intensified by environment and collective rage. The heat doesn’t just set the scene; it becomes a metaphor for a society rotting from the inside, ready to explode at the slightest provocation.