How Does Faulkner Portray Mental Illness In 'The Sound And The Fury'?

The portrayal of mental illness in 'Ningen Shikkaku' is raw and unflinching. Through the protagonist Yozo's eyes, we see a man drowning in self-loathing and existential dread, unable to connect with others or find meaning in life. His constant mask of cheerfulness hides deep depression, a facade that eventually crumbles under the weight of his alienation. The novel doesn't romanticize mental illness - it shows the exhausting cycle of self-destructive behavior, failed relationships, and substance abuse. What strikes me most is how it captures the isolating nature of depression, where even love feels like another burden. Yozo's descent isn't dramatic; it's quiet, relentless, and terrifyingly relatable for anyone who's battled inner demons. The book's genius lies in making his irrational thoughts feel painfully logical from his perspective.

'Girl, Interrupted' dives deep into the messy, raw reality of mental illness through Susanna's eyes. It portrays borderline personality disorder (BPD) with brutal honesty—her impulsive actions, unstable relationships, and that gnawing emptiness. But it doesn’t stop there. The film also shows depression swallowing Daisy whole, Lisa’s sociopathic manipulation masking her own pain, and Polly’s childlike innocence trapped beneath schizophrenia’s fire scars. The brilliance lies in how it refuses to reduce these women to diagnoses. Their illnesses aren’t just symptoms; they’re tangled with loneliness, societal expectations, and the suffocating 'treatment' of the 1960s. The film questions what 'crazy' even means—is it them, or the world that locks them away? The portrayals ache with authenticity, making you feel the weight of their struggles without cheap dramatics.

The portrayal of mental illness in 'Dark Notes' is raw and unflinching. The protagonist's struggle with depression isn't romanticized or glossed over - we see the gritty reality of sleepless nights, the weight of invisible chains, and the constant battle against one's own mind. What struck me most was how the author captures the cyclical nature of mental illness, where small victories often get swallowed by relapses. The narrative shows how trauma rewires the brain's pathways through fragmented memories and disjointed timelines. Medication side effects are depicted with brutal honesty, from zombie-like numbness to violent mood swings. Yet amidst the darkness, there's a powerful thread of resilience - not as some inspirational trope, but as a messy, imperfect survival instinct that keeps the main character fighting even when hope seems lost.

Reading 'A Corner of the Universe' was a deeply moving experience because of how authentically it portrays mental illness through the character of Adam. The book doesn’t sugarcoat his struggles with schizophrenia; instead, it shows the raw, unfiltered reality of his condition. Adam’s episodes are depicted with such vivid detail that you can almost feel his confusion and fear. The way he sees the world—filled with distorted perceptions and paranoia—is heartbreaking yet eye-opening. What stands out is how the author contrasts Adam’s inner turmoil with the ignorance and prejudice of the people around him. His family tries to hide him away, treating his illness as a shameful secret, which only amplifies his isolation. The protagonist, Hattie, becomes our lens into Adam’s world. Her growing understanding of his condition is one of the book’s strengths. She doesn’t just pity him; she learns to see him as a person beyond his illness. The novel also explores how mental health was stigmatized in the 1960s, when institutionalization was often the default response. Adam’s tragic fate underscores the consequences of a society that fails to empathize or provide proper care. The book doesn’t offer easy solutions, but it forces readers to confront the harsh realities of mental illness and the importance of compassion.

As someone who's struggled with anxiety, 'Turtles All the Way Down' nails the relentless spiral of obsessive thoughts. Aza's intrusive thoughts about microbes aren't just quirks—they're chains that dictate her every move. The way Green writes her compulsions makes you feel the claustrophobia of her mind. Her hand sanitizer ritual isn't comedy; it's a lifeline. What struck me hardest was how relationships fracture under mental illness—Aza pushes people away even when she craves connection. The novel doesn't offer easy fixes. Therapy helps but isn't magic, and medication doesn't erase her reality. It's one of the few portrayals where recovery isn't linear or guaranteed.

In 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest', mental illness is portrayed as a complex interplay between societal norms and individual struggles. The book doesn’t just focus on the patients’ conditions but also critiques how institutions often dehumanize them. McMurphy’s arrival shakes up the ward, challenging the oppressive system led by Nurse Ratched. His rebellious spirit highlights how the patients’ so-called illnesses are often reactions to control and lack of freedom. The novel suggests that many of the inmates aren’t truly 'ill' but are victims of a system that labels and confines them. It’s a raw, unflinching look at how society handles those who don’t fit the mold, making readers question what 'normal' really means.

In 'Mrs Dalloway', mental illness is portrayed with a raw, unflinching honesty that feels almost too real. Septimus Warren Smith, a war veteran, is the embodiment of PTSD and depression. His hallucinations, detachment from reality, and overwhelming guilt are depicted in a way that makes you feel his pain. Woolf doesn’t sugarcoat it—she shows how society fails him, how doctors dismiss his suffering, and how his wife, Rezia, struggles to understand. The contrast between Septimus’s inner turmoil and the bustling, superficial world of Clarissa Dalloway’s party is stark. It’s a reminder that mental illness often exists in silence, hidden behind the facade of normalcy. Woolf’s stream-of-consciousness style immerses you in Septimus’s mind, making his anguish palpable. The novel doesn’t offer solutions but forces you to confront the harsh reality of how mental illness is misunderstood and mishandled. Clarissa’s own struggles, though less severe, add another layer. Her moments of introspection, her fear of aging, and her suppressed feelings for Sally hint at her own battles with identity and mental health. Woolf masterfully intertwines these narratives, showing that mental illness isn’t confined to one type of person—it’s universal, yet deeply personal.

The way 'A Streetcar Named Desire' handles mental illness is nothing short of haunting. Blanche DuBois isn’t just a character; she’s a walking, talking embodiment of a fractured psyche, and Tennessee Williams crafts her descent with such delicate brutality. Her mental unraveling isn’t sudden—it’s a slow bleed, a series of cracks widening under pressure. You see it in her compulsive lies, the way she clings to illusions of grandeur like a lifeline. She rewrites her past, fabricates suitors, and bathes in dim light to hide her aging face, all while the real world—embodied by Stanley’s raw, violent honesty—chips away at her. The play doesn’t just show mental illness; it makes you feel the weight of it, the suffocating grip of denial. Blanche’s hallucinations, like the echoing voices and the ghostly Varsouviana polka, aren’t just theatrical flourishes. They’re visceral reminders of trauma—her husband’s suicide, the loss of her family home, the predatory men who exploited her. Williams blurs the line between her reality and delusions so skillfully that you’re never quite sure what’s real. Even her final breakdown, where she’s led away by the doctor, feels less like a defeat and more like a tragic release. The play doesn’t judge her fragility; it exposes how society fails those who can’t conform. Stanley’s aggression, Stella’s enabling, even Mitch’s rejection—they all contribute to her collapse. Mental illness here isn’t an isolated flaw; it’s a product of a world that chews up the vulnerable and spits them out.