"Short fiction is not my long suit." - John Barth, Foreword to LITF

Got that right, John.

Okay, so there's no fun to be had in this collection of stories. It seems as if Barth woke up one Tuesday morning and randomly decided, "I think I'll write experimental short stories today." Then he went on to haphazardly attach experimental fiction clichés and accessories - those that a mainstream writer who doesn't truly understand experimental fiction might imagine - to his otherwise mainstream and banal fiction. He摆弄着形式元素，却根本不知道如何运用它们。

If you happen to read this book, you'll see what I mean right away.

Pass.

It's truly a disappointment. The stories lack the depth and innovation that one might expect from an experimental work. Instead, they come across as forced and contrived. Barth's attempt to blend the mainstream with the experimental falls flat, resulting in a collection that fails to engage or inspire the reader. It's a shame, really, as there was potential here that was unfortunately not realized.

I threw in the towel at page 130.

Once again, I was explicitly made fun of for continuing to read it.

This is objectively terrible.

It goes beyond the limits of annoyance that John Barth knows I know it's terrible.

The constant ridicule and the realization that the work is of such poor quality have finally worn me down.

I can no longer tolerate the frustration and disappointment that comes with persevering through this text.

At this point, I have decided to give up and move on to something more worthwhile.

Perhaps there are other works out there that will engage and inspire me, rather than leaving me feeling insulted and dissatisfied.

It's a pity that this particular book has failed to meet my expectations, but such is the nature of reading and exploration.

Sometimes we encounter duds, and it's important to recognize when it's time to cut our losses and seek out better literary experiences.

Lost in the Funhouse by John Barth is a remarkable collection of short stories that was initially published in the late sixties.

The stories within this collection are interconnected as they explore similar themes. They can be best characterized as meta-stories or stories about stories. For instance, there is a story where a writer speculates that he might actually be a character in a story. Another is presented from the perspective of the story itself. In this manner, Barth showcases a series of stories as if they are seen through a funhouse mirror, with each being distorted in its own unique way.

Although the stories in this collection are inventive and, at times, clever, I would find it challenging to recommend this book to a friend. Some passages are extremely difficult to read. In "Glossolalia," an entire paragraph is transformed into unintelligible gibberish. The pinnacle of this reader-abusive behavior occurs in "Life-Story" with the following passage:

"The Reader! You, dogged, uninsultable, print-oriented bastard, it's you I'm addressing, who else, from inside this monstrous fiction. You've read me this far, then? Even this far? For what discreditable motive? How is it you don't go to a movie, watch TV, stare at a wall, play tennis with a friend, make amorous advances to the person who comes to your mind when I speak of amorous advances? Can nothing surfeit, saturate you, turn you off? Where's your shame?"

Despite the arduous parts of the book that are difficult to slog through, there are some genuine gems hidden within. Particularly, the title story stands out. In it, Barth tells what appears to be a simple story of a boy who gets lost in a funhouse. However, not content with a straightforward narrative, he dissects and critiques the story as he unfolds it. The combination is jarring, giving the impression of a story being bounced between its original form and a funhouse mirror that reveals the story's inner workings while altering its overall shape.

This collection is a complex and thought-provoking work that requires patience and a willingness to engage with its challenging aspects. While it may not be everyone's cup of tea, those who are willing to persevere will discover a rich and rewarding reading experience.

Read as part of the assigned reading for the Open Yale Course - ENGL 291: The American Novel Since 1945 / Amy Hungerford.

To be honest, this particular reading material is not my cup of tea. It just doesn't seem to resonate with me on a personal level.

I find it difficult to engage with the content and I don't have a lot of enthusiasm for it. As a result, I can't really give it any star ratings.

Maybe it's because the style or the subject matter is not something that interests me. Or perhaps I'm just not in the right frame of mind to appreciate it at the moment.

Either way, I'll continue to do my best to understand and analyze it as part of the course requirements, but it's not something that I'm really looking forward to reading again.

An author-recommended book that ended up being a real letdown. Barth meanders in short story form, droning on about how difficult it is for him to write anything comprehensible (thus, "Lost In the Funhouse"). Amid this chaos, there are two captivating short stories, but otherwise, it's just an egotistical and arrogant stream-of-consciousness lament circa the mid-1960s. Multiple times throughout the second half of the book, he poses the question to the reader as to why they're still reading and then inserts himself into Greek mythological settings to gripe even more about life.

It somehow earned him a nomination for the National Book Award, though what that's truly worth is debatable. The truth is, I likely would have relished reading more of his legitimate short stories if only he could have accepted the fact that he was proficient at writing short stories. There's so much to loathe about late 1960s literature.

This book is truly a remarkable piece of work. It is extremely well crafted, with a depth that engages the reader on multiple levels. The stories are not only interesting but also highly original, offering a unique perspective on various themes.

However, I did notice a few points of misspelling or repetition that seemed out of place. It made me wonder if the editor was perhaps asleep during the proofreading process. But then again, maybe there is some deeper meaning to these imperfections that I am simply oblivious to.

Overall, the short pieces in this book are for the most part incredible. Only one or two of them can be considered tiresome postmodern dreck, but that might just be because I am a bit of a philistine. Or perhaps it's because I have a chip on my shoulder when it comes to certain forms of postmodernism that I find masturbatory, sterile, introverted, and annoying.

Mostly, I was highly impressed with the execution of the pieces in this work. The second story, "Night-Sea Journey," was a great introduction and definitely a prime example of metafiction. The postmodern aspects of this book are often valid and add an extra layer of complexity to the reading experience.

For instance, the bit of masterful metafiction quoted here is truly outstanding: "The reader! You, dogged, uninsultable, print-oriented bastard, it's you I'm addressing, who else, from inside this monstrous fiction. You've read me this far, then? Even this far? For what descreditable motive? How is it you don't go to a movie, watch TV, stare at a wall, play tennis with a friend, make amorous advances to the person who comes to your mind when I speak of amorous advances? Can nothing surfeit, saturate you, turn you off? Where's your shame?" (127)

Well, John Barth, you definitely got me there. Your most miserable, introspective, inverted, precious meanderings didn't turn me off from the awesome pieces that you clearly laboured over. The Anonymiad and Menelaid were great notes to close on, each a pleasure to read. I left my shame around the beginning of the book and never looked back.

Sometimes, though, I was close to throwing your book at the wall or putting it down in favour of something less sterile. But you always managed to come back from your weaker moments and demonstrate that postmodern fiction doesn't have to be a feeble half-step towards a valid new style.

I highly recommend this book to those who can stomach it. And of course, to scholars as well. Et cetera (Barth almost killed my sympathy for that particular Latin phrase).

3.5 Stars.

This book of short stories initially had me completely bored to death. It was really slowing down my progress, especially since I had expected it to be a quick and easy read.

However, things took a rather unexpected turn when there was a story about conjoined twins having sex, with one of them being worried about being absorbed by the other. This strange and rather shocking tale really caught my attention.

After that, it was just a series of meta-fictional bangers and oddball tall tales. Each story seemed to be more outlandish and interesting than the last.

Overall, it was truly a fun read. I found myself getting lost in this funhouse of short stories, but somehow I managed to find my way to the end. And I have to say, I'm really glad I did. It was a wild and crazy ride that I won't soon forget.

This place is truly a funhouse!

Why? Because of all the amazing and enjoyable words you'll encounter while reading within it.

It's like a magical realm where each word is a little treasure waiting to be discovered.

As you turn the pages, you'll be filled with excitement and anticipation, eager to see what wonderful words will come next.

The good words in this funhouse have the power to transport you to different worlds, make you laugh, or touch your heart.

They are like a symphony of letters, creating beautiful melodies in your mind.

So, come on in and explore this funhouse of words.

Lose yourself in the joy and wonder that awaits you.

You'll be glad you did!

“Indeed, if I have yet to join the hosts of the suicides, it is because (fatigue apart) I find it no meaningfuller to drown myself than to go on swimming.” ― John Barth, Lost in the Funhouse

Darwin ate (U) his mark.

(A.) Once upon a time there was a review that began:

(B.) (b.)Once upon a time there was a review that began (a.) Barth wrote a novel for himself. He wrote a novel to himself. He doesn't care about you. He is not writing for you. He is not going to make you eat your short fiction or even make you shoot Chekhov's gun sitting on the fictional wall next to you.

Barth makes me sometimes regret my decision to not go to Johns Hopkins. What was I thinking? Perhaps, I could have met Barth. Perhaps, I did go to Johns Hopkins and I did meet Barth in another story in another life. Or, perhaps, I just don't remember, or perhaps I am dreaming I lived a life where I didn't meet Barth.

Why am I trying to even write a Meta-review of Barth well developed for its age? Everything about Barth has already been transmitted, written about, alluded to, sketched on the soft walls of a thousand reflective uteruses by a million different swimming swimmers prior to drowning. I have nothing left to add. Nothing new that I can capture. No heritage to contribute. No flower to pollinate. No stylized ambition. No original thoughts. The WORLD and the WORD are both paraded parodies.

Barth's works are a complex web of self-reflection and experimentation. His novels seem to exist in a world of their own, independent of the expectations and demands of the readers. This can be both frustrating and fascinating. On one hand, it makes it difficult for the average reader to fully engage with his work. On the other hand, it challenges us to think differently about the nature of literature and the role of the author.

The quote from Lost in the Funhouse reflects Barth's own attitude towards life and art. He seems to be suggesting that there is no real meaning or purpose in either, but that we continue on anyway, much like a swimmer who keeps swimming even though there may be no end in sight. This nihilistic view is both disturbing and thought-provoking, and it is one of the things that makes Barth's work so unique.

Overall, Barth's work is not for everyone. It requires a certain level of intellectual curiosity and a willingness to engage with complex and often challenging ideas. But for those who are willing to take the plunge, it can be a rewarding and enlightening experience.

Love is a beautiful and complex emotion that has the power to transform our lives. It can bring us joy, happiness, and a sense of fulfillment.

Love can take many forms, such as romantic love, platonic love, or the love we have for our family and friends.

It is often described as a feeling of deep affection and connection towards someone or something.

When we are in love, we may experience a range of emotions, including excitement, nervousness, and even jealousy.

However, love is not always easy. It requires effort, commitment, and sacrifice.

We need to be willing to give and take, to understand and support each other.

Love also means accepting someone for who they are, flaws and all.

Despite the challenges, love is worth fighting for. It can bring us some of the most precious moments in our lives and make us feel truly alive.

" ' " ' " ' " Love " ' " ' " ' "

The reader! You, the dogged, uninsultable, print-oriented bastard, it is you I am addressing. Who else could it be, from within this monstrous fiction? You have read me this far, haven't you? Even this far? For what discernible motive? Why don't you go to a movie, watch TV, stare at a wall, play tennis with a friend, or make amorous advances to the person who comes to your mind when I speak of such things? Can nothing satiate you, turn you off? Where is your shame?

Where indeed? Up through the titular story (p94), everything was working for me. In fact, it had all the necessary elements of a tour-de-force: a purloined apiary, ontological gamete theory, article adjective noun, and a metaphor that resembled a simile. At one point, my wife interrupted me to ask what I was reading, and I told her.

"You read some weird shit," she said. "I'm sticking with Wine Spectator."

"Night-Sea Journey" and "Lost in the Funhouse" are the highlights of the first half. After that, Barth "heads up his ass" so far that the going becomes rough to the point of being unreadable. I had to grit my teeth, take breaks, and preserve the series with verb phrases. "Life-story" and "Title" are both guilty of being blank. They are so extremely Droste-recursive and painfully self-consciously meta-fictional that there is almost no room for anything else. (No mistake here, I checked the galley-proofs: this is what the author intended.)

Then Barth comes out of it and into something entirely different in the penultimate and tailpiece: "Menelaid" and "Anonymiad". For the former, it helps to at least be acquainted with Greek mythology, if not have recently read The Odyssey (which I have done 5 times in the past five years, since I "teach" that work), and not worry too much about all the nested quotation marks the first time through. We understand that Menelaus' immortality is real, if linguistic ("...this isn't the voice of Menelaus; this voice is Menelaus, all there is of him.").

So, the way I read LitF is not as discrete stories but as a curated set that, when read together, comprise a "work," if not a novel of sorts. I tend to think that the heady, minstrel Ambrose is the narrating-author of "Title" and "Life-Story," penning his own crack-up. So, when Barth "'heads up his ass,'" in "Menelaid" and "Anonymiad," he comes out on the other side of sanity: into a fully fictional world that he can now manipulate as an author in the same way conventional folk perambulate. He's a character whose awareness of his own fictionality has unmoored him from his docking.

...my crux, my core, I'm cutting you out; __________; there, at the heart, never to be filled, a mere lacuna. (177)

To go further would transmogrify: review --> essay. Suffice it to say that if one is enough of a trouper to soldier through the middle section, there's a big pay-out. Or at least there was for me.

To be moved to art instead of to action by one's wretchedness may preserve one's life and sanity; at the same time, it may leave one wretcheder yet. (117)

Here we make an end: bereft of all reference points, Lost in the Funhouse. 4.25/5

Before anything else, I must say that this book is unique. It introduced a new genre, metafiction, into modern postmodern writing. Due to its technical nature, I would only recommend it to those who enjoy experimental, postmodern, and patafiction works. It's for those who are looking for new forms and are brave enough to engage with a challenging text. And truly, they have to be in love with this kind of challenge.

On the other hand, since a large part of Barth's experimental works is related to the use of language, I highly recommend reading the English text to fully appreciate it.

John Barth here throws all the rules of storytelling together. He constantly reminds you that "yes, this is a story, and I am the author, and you are reading through the window of my mind!" And if you are a fan of this kind of mental game, you will enjoy it. Barth's text is very rich and full of sharp satire. Even in the preface he wrote for it, he doesn't hold back and laughs at us, but not in a demeaning way.

All the stories in this book are related to each other. Some of the stories have similar protagonists, but the main unifying thread of the stories is the similar framework. That is, all these stories look at the story from the inside out and the process of creating the story. The stories are not just about characters or events, but about the story itself. It's as if the text is constantly looking at itself and asking: "What am I doing?" Especially in his famous story, "Lost in the Funhouse", where a young boy gets lost in a thousand mirrors, but in fact, we also get lost in Barth's language games.

During the reading of the book, which took about 25 days, I came across several key and recurring points in the analysis of the stories that I would like to share with you:

1. Self-reflexivity:

Almost in all the stories, the text reflects on itself. That is, the narrator or the structure of the story reminds the reader that "this is a story", and as a result, we are never completely immersed in the story. This technique makes the reader always aware that he is reading something with a certain structure.

2. The author in the story:

The author himself or the voice of the author often directly enters the story. Sometimes the narrator even stops writing and says, "Now I don't know how to continue." This is also part of the postmodern game: the author doesn't have a godlike role, but acts just like the characters.

3. The breakdown of the traditional structure of the story:

Beginning, middle, end? Not here! Often the story is cut off in the middle, or it doesn't reach a conclusion at all. Barth shows that we can no longer define a story like before, because its form and structure have become a problem.

4. The theme of identity and loss:

In the story "Lost in the Funhouse", from which the title of the whole book is taken, the main character (Ambrose) gets lost in the funhouse, but this loss is more internal and psychological. This theme is also present in other stories: the characters are looking for meaning or stability, but they can't find it.

5. Satire and parody:

Barth often makes fun of or plays with other writing styles. For example, in one place he writes a story as if he is teaching how to write a story, but then he goes beyond that and creates a new story from his heart.

6. Emphasis on form:

Barth loves form and structure. Maybe a story is simple in terms of content, but its structure is so complex that a dissertation can be written about it! Form is a kind of content for Barth himself.

Barth announces his presence with this collection in a way: "Here I am, until I break the old forms and create new ones." And well... he succeeds, of course, for those audiences who have the courage for these mental and formalistic games.