This book is truly remarkable in achieving what it sets out to do.

As far as I can perceive, its intention is to elicit a wide range of reactions. At best, it might prompt a response of "ah yes, I see what you did there," indicating a moment of recognition and perhaps even appreciation.

On the other hand, it could potentially drive some readers to the extreme of throwing the book across the room in frustration or mute disdain.

It's quite a feat to be able to evoke such intense and diverse emotions.

Whether one loves it or hates it, there's no denying that this book has the power to make an impact.

Yay for its ability to stir up such a storm of reactions!

Experimental fiction at its finest.

My favourites of the collection are (in order of appearance): "Frame-Tale", which offers a unique and mind-bending narrative structure that keeps the reader on their toes.

"Night-Sea Journey" takes us on a mysterious and captivating adventure through the subconscious, filled with vivid imagery and thought-provoking ideas.

"Lost in the Funhouse" is a masterful exploration of identity, perception, and the nature of storytelling itself.

"Life-Story" presents a complex and engaging account of a person's life, blurring the lines between fact and fiction.

"Menelaiad" rounds out the collection with its own brand of experimentalism, challenging the reader's expectations and inviting them to see the world from a different perspective.

Each of these stories is a testament to the power and potential of experimental fiction, pushing the boundaries of what is possible and offering a rich and rewarding reading experience.

Lost in the Funhouse, with all its postmodern/meta "glory," was truly a tiresome endeavor in stroking the male ego. John Barth is indeed inventive in his twists of character and format, and the weirdness of each story was enjoyable up to a certain point.

As "self-conscious" as Barth claims to be (or has since been described as), his collection of short stories, which are either loosely connected or not at all connected (you can choose), still compels readers to obsess over the motives and intentions of either Barth himself, his white, male protagonist (specifically Ambrose in the first few stories), or an unnamed/rarely mentioned narrator.

My frustration with this book might stem from my college English class discussions, where three or four pretentious boys dominated the entire conversation. However, a deeper frustration arises from the fact that postmodern writers saw themselves as brave and artistic for parodying modernist convention and discarding meaning, without realizing that they could only make this "artful" "leap of faith" because they inherently held a position of power and authority in the American novel. In other words, they were only able to challenge its conventions because they had already benefited from the system that created those conventions.

Barth's demeaning references to both women and people of color, especially Black people, may be ironic or "to make a point," but he never bothers to develop this "point." And although "Barth" seemingly exists as a character within his own written work, and postmodernism suggests the separation of the actual author from the text, I perceive tired disgust masquerading as progressive art.

True parody of convention would involve the disregard for gender (on any binary), the inclusion of minority/underrepresented characters in areas where white men usually prevail, or simply reversed poems and strings of meta-consciousness (which, I'll admit, Barth seems to excel at).

But unfortunately, overall in this novel, I read 200 pages of senseless, self-obsessed prose from yet another white man who thought he was "woke" and "creative." The irony just wasn't sufficient, and this genre is yet another old boys' club.

I’m truly and honestly at a loss for words when it comes to the tragedy that this book represents.

No matter how many times I make an attempt, no matter how hard I try, I simply cannot fathom or figure out what on earth any of the stories within this book are about.

It is a complete mystery to me, and I find myself unable to make any sense of it all.

Therefore, I would not recommend this book to anyone.

It is just too confusing and lacks any clear meaning or coherence.

I feel that it has failed to engage me or draw me into its supposed narrative.

Perhaps others may have a different perspective, but for me, this book is a disappointment.

I can only hope that future works will be more understandable and enjoyable.

As critics loudly decried the supposed Death of the Novel, Death of the Story, Death of the Author, and so on, Barth chose to embrace the chaos and even add to the destruction. His collection, though billed as a connected series, actually covers a wide range of relatively unconnected topics. It jumps between personal narrative, self-reflexive formal displays, and re-imagined mythology. While it's all very clever, for me, the content sometimes struggles to match the level of cleverness. In the earlier part of the book, the more linear narratives can feel sluggish mainly because their comedic ideas aren't humorous enough to carry them through. Later on, we encounter complete deconstruction that may lack substance beyond its form, or Greek mythologies that are repurposed for rather obscure meta-purposes. (I'm not a classicist, but I thought I knew enough to understand these reasonably well, yet they seem to get lost in the manipulation of their own artificial period mechanics. The closer "Anonymiad" is the only one with a somewhat balanced story form.) Despite this, it's actually the crazy metastories in the middle that intrigued me the most - the narrative-formal-reflexive sweet spot of the title story, the metaphysical panic of "Life-Story" and "Title". Each of these is remarkable, but they exist as bright spots among a bit of a slog. It's still worth it for these, and perhaps there's even more to discover if more patient readers dig deeper. Impatient readers will likely get frustrated - as seen in the apparent complaint of critics who thought the opener was narrated by a fish. No, it's much weirder and better than that, although the conceit may push the patience of those who caught on from the first pages. So, basically, I continue to find Barth interesting but also rather challenging. At least there were no characterizations that bothered me as much as in Giles, Goat Boy.

The nemesis of all writing, but metafiction in particular, is boredom without the promise of knowledge. And I'm afraid Barth's collection of essays succumbs with rare exceptions.

Metafiction, which lies between fiction (on which it comments and in which it is rooted) and nonfiction, especially philosophy, to which it endeavors to contribute, has its own challenges. The problem with Barth's collection, as much as I wished there were none, is that the fictional part is too thin to be captivating, and the philosophic aspects are largely either self-evident or obscure.

The story worth reading is the Night-Sea Journey. For the rest, attempt only if you feel an absolute necessity.

It seems that Barth's collection fails to strike a proper balance between the fictional and the philosophical elements. The lackluster fictional component makes it difficult for readers to engage deeply, while the either overly simplistic or overly complex philosophical musings may leave them confused or uninterested. However, the Night-Sea Journey stands out as a redeeming feature, offering a glimmer of hope within the collection.

One of the strangest reading experiences of my life, especially after having read The Tobacco Grower and seeing how Barth is able to produce two such radically different books. It is evident that Barth is good at doing what he intends to do; that is, reflecting on literary language and on its possibilities of being exhausted or not. It is essential to have read his essays "The Literature of Exhaustion" and "The Literature of Replenishment", where he suggests that the possibility that literary realism is over, in order to understand what he intends to do here, which is basically to explore literary possibilities with new narrative methods and by making use of classical stories and seeing how they can be recycled again and again to create new stories.

It may seem like a good starting point to begin reading John Barth because they are short stories and it is a book of only 200 pages, but I would not recommend it: it is complex, cryptic and, let's admit it, very boring for a large part of its stories. There are some very good and interesting ones ("Ambrose His Mark", which is a story with a classical narrative and therefore is very digestible; "Lost in the Funhouse", the best, in my opinion; and others like "Title" or "Life-Story", which introduce some very interesting postmodern concepts) and that, despite carrying such a brutal experimentation, come out well as entertaining stories. Others, like "Menelaiad", have a purely theoretical interest.

Rascally John Barth! Oh, it would be precisely like him to place an interminable story right at the very commencement of his collection of short stories.

How on earth am I ever going to reach the second story when the first one seems to have neither a beginning nor an end? It's truly exasperating.

Secondly, and this is a rather crucial point, how am I expected to read this book when I don't have an affinity for your stories? Now, to be entirely fair, I must admit that I usually encounter difficulties with short stories in general.

They often seem to lack the depth and development that I crave in a narrative. But still, Barth's decision to start with this never-ending tale makes it even more challenging for me to engage with the rest of the collection.

I'm left wondering if I should persevere or simply give up and move on to something else.

First, an admission: I didn't read the final two stories. I'm not well-versed in Greek mythology, and thus the constant allusions simply flew over my head.

However, the remainder of the intensely metafictional, highly self-referential, labyrinthine, and almost Borges-on-drugs-like stories in this collection were both enjoyable and somewhat bewildering. Surprisingly, they ended up providing me with a wealth of inspiration for my own writing. Barth can sometimes be overly clever for his own good, but he's always an optimistic and fascinating writer. I relished those stories that I could understand and simply skipped over those that eluded me.

It's quite interesting to contrast these stories with those in his later work, "The Development". The stories in this collection possess the raw energy of a writer delving into metafictional games with unadulterated delight. In contrast, his later stories temper the metafiction with captivating tales of their own. Barth's linguistic games are indeed entertaining, but in my view, they lack inherent meaning on their own. As thought experiments, they can be extremely enjoyable, but to me, they're equivalent to literary candy.

And this is some rather tough candy that demands a great deal of effort to bite into. By the end of the book, I just didn't feel that the rewards were commensurate with the effort expended.

True Story from my European Breakdown:

At Westminster Abbey, I came to a halt to peruse a plaque. Suddenly, as I looked up, I was shocked to realize that the group had vanished.

Americans who couldn't be bothered to read. Sigh.

Officially, I was lost.

Reflexively, the thought crossed my mind, “How shall I find the group?”

After a mere 2.3 seconds, rational thought made a comeback. The gods of fate had smiled down upon me and bestowed their favor. Gone was the extrovert who felt the need to loudly narrate every crack in the pavement and every fleck of paint all over Europe.

I found myself enjoying being lost and even took active steps to become even more lost.

Why is this story relevant?

Because I would out-lose John Barth in the funhouse.

The Green Light at the End of the Dock (How much I spent):

Softcover Text - $13.54 from Amazon

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Video-review: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_76F...

Featured in my Top 20 Books I Read in 2016: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4X6OQ...

Now, let's talk about the question: To whom is the funhouse fun? Well, for the Bookchemist, it might hold a certain charm. However, it's important to note that this book isn't for everyone. If you don't have a clear understanding of what you're getting into, it could very well end up annoying you. But if you're someone who is willing to take a chance and explore the unknown, then by all means, roll up roll up. Open the pages and see where this literary adventure takes you. Who knows, it might just be a wild and wonderful ride that you'll never forget.

Barth is emerging as one of the truly wacky uncles within the realm of postmodern literature. His works are crafted in a manner that gives the distinct impression that he is right there beside you, a drink held firmly in his hand, and softly whispering into your ear. It's as if he is inviting you into a world where the rules of traditional storytelling are bent and twisted. His writing style is both captivating and confounding, making you question everything you thought you knew about literature. With each turn of the page, you are drawn deeper into his unique and often chaotic universe. Barth's books are not just to be read; they are to be experienced, as if you are a part of the story itself.