I just read this blog post by a writer who visited the grave of Nathaniel Hawthorne in Massachusetts, and left her pen behind.
If you visited the grave of a favorite writer, what might you leave as a taken of respect?
If someday I visit the grave of my favorite, William Faulkner, I might leave a sprig of honeysuckle or a pair of six pound flat-irons.
Do you know why?
Metaphor 
Thanks Julia, for the inspiration! As I Lay Dying is a great novel, despite what I seem to remember about misgivings on Faulkner’s part. He was being hard on himself, as we have to be. But the book is important, not just as a fine story, but as one of the threads of generation as a force throughout Faulkner’s work. He wasn’t sentimental about family, but he was practically obsessed with the intractable passage of generations. So am I. I guess it’s part of being us.
Thanks for the link, Kyle! I would love to visit William Faulkner’s grave as well (my favorite of his was As I Lay Dying).