To call this work pretentious or pompous

is a criticism that I can understand. Indeed, there are elements within it that might give the impression of being overly showy or self-important. However, I believe Barth is quite conscious of this perception.

I won't attempt to defend the work in this regard, as I can see the validity of the criticism. But upon finishing the book, I was deeply struck by its powerful message.

It affirms writing as a craft and a choice, emphasizing that the act of writing itself is what truly matters. This idea challenges us to look beyond the trappings of style and reputation and focus on the essence of the creative process.

It reminds us that writing is not just about producing something to be admired or criticized, but about the act of putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and expressing our thoughts and ideas.

In a world where so much emphasis is placed on the end result, this message is both refreshing and profound. It encourages us to embrace the journey of writing and to find joy and fulfillment in the act itself.

"Quattro stelle e mezza" is an interesting expression. It might refer to a rating or a description of something.

Perhaps it's used to rate a hotel, a restaurant, or a product. Four and a half stars is a relatively high rating, indicating that the item in question has many positive qualities.

It could also be used in a more figurative sense. For example, someone might say "This experience was quattro stelle e mezza" to mean that it was really great, but not quite perfect.

Overall, "quattro stelle e mezza" is a phrase that catches the attention and makes you wonder what it's referring to. It implies a certain level of quality and excellence, while also leaving a little room for improvement.

Whether it's used in a literal or figurative sense, it's a phrase that adds a touch of sophistication and elegance to any conversation or description.

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. Life is a complex journey filled with various challenges and uncertainties. Sometimes, the weight of these difficulties can seem overwhelming, leading some to consider extreme measures like suicide. However, for me, even in the face of fatigue and hardships, I have come to the realization that there is still a certain value and purpose in continuing to swim, so to speak. Drowning oneself might seem like an escape, but it also means giving up on all the potential that lies ahead. By choosing to keep going, I am perhaps choosing to embrace the unknown, to face whatever comes my way with a glimmer of hope. It may not be an easy path, but it is one that I believe holds more meaning and possibility than the alternative.

A few stories in, and I was truly amazed. I was ready to place this work on a shelf alongside Calvino, Nabokov, and the other great luminaries of post-modern meta-fiction. It seemed to have so much promise.

Unfortunately, just like so many front-loaded albums from bands that you only have a mild liking for, the second half of this collection was supremely tiresome. The initial excitement wore off quickly, and I found myself struggling to get through it. Overall, it was a disappointment.

But the highs – oh, the highs! There were definitely a few stories in here that are an absolute must-read for fans of the genre. "Night-sea Journey" is a spectacular tale. It tells the story of a confused spermatozoa cell, and its brief existence forms densely-layered metaphors on human life, philosophy, and questions of purpose. It might sound unappealing at first, but trust me, it isn't. It's truly brilliant and makes you think in ways you never thought possible.

There are also a few "standard-format" stories in the first half that are very pleasant as well. They draw you in and keep you engaged. But then Barth's multitude of styles and narrative techniques come to a head in the title story "Lost in the Funhouse." This story might be one of the most fun things I've come across in a long time. Barth tells an incredibly mundane story, but it is absolutely littered with self-awareness, meta-fictional winks at the reader, and explanations of what certain sentences and sections are supposed to be accomplishing in terms of the narrative. It's pretty much a perfect example of the genre, showing just how creative and innovative Barth can be.

Unfortunately, the next several stories utilize either a very similar method, which gets old quickly and never reaches the same heights as "Lost in the Funhouse," or they go into Greek mythology in a completely uninteresting way. I found myself skimming over these stories, which is never a good sign.

All in all, this collection is worth it for the handful of standout stories, but it's not as great as I was hoping it would be going into it. I think I'll have to try out his novels instead, as I'm sure they are a little more focused and might offer a more satisfying reading experience.

\\" 'I dare you!' Helen Dared.

\\" 'Which Helen?' cried Peisistratus. [...]

\\" ' \\" ' \\" 'Why?' I repeated,\\" I repeated,' I repeated,\\" I repeated,' I repeated,\\" I repeated,' I repeat.

This collection presents a truly interesting bag of short stories that span from the traditional to the experimental. I found myself really enjoying the majority of the stories within it. Unlike a lot of more experimental and meta-fiction works that can be a chore to read, this one wasn't overly so. There were, however, a couple of moments that just became a bit too much, especially when several meta-stories were about stories being written. But most of the stories more than made up for those few annoying ones. The Menelaiad was one of my absolute favourites. As seen in the quote above, it's a story that focuses on the retelling of stories from multiple different points in time, all of which are denoted by different levels of quotation marks. It adds a unique and engaging layer to the narrative, making it stand out among the other stories in the collection.

Lost in the Funhouse was truly my gateway drug into the vein of postmodernism. Ever since reading this remarkable work and many other of Barth's fictions, I have fallen completely under the spell of metafictive postmodernities and their ilk.

This book consists of sort of loosely linked stories. Several characters, like Ambrose from "Lost in the Funhouse", make reappearances throughout the collection. However, largely speaking, this is an experiment not only in fictional structure but also in interpretive form. Several stories were crafted with the intention of being consumed in a non-traditional manner. For instance, "Autobiography" is meant to be received via a recording while the author sits silent beside it. This unique approach challenges the reader's conventional expectations and forces them to engage with the text in a whole new way.

The collection as a whole offers a rich and complex exploration of the possibilities of fiction, blurring the boundaries between reality and imagination, and inviting the reader to question the very nature of storytelling itself. It is a must-read for anyone interested in postmodern literature and the art of the novel.

Lost in the Funhouse, John Barth's collection of fourteen metafictional short-stories, stands as an extreme example of self-reflexive postmodern literature. Each story within this collection is a unique exploration of the boundaries of fiction.

Frame-Tale, a mere ten words long on a Mobius strip, challenges our perception of narrative. Night-Sea Journey, a ten-pager, delves into the profound themes of life and death in the tradition of Blaise Pascal's Pensées. And the eponymous Lost in the Funhouse, about a young boy on the cusp of adolescence, awakens complex emotions within the reader.

To give a more in-depth taste of this collection, let's focus on one of the most captivating stories, Title. This story exemplifies several major themes in the postmodern world.

Poiumena, the concept of a story about the process of creating a story, is vividly展现 in Title. The opening paragraph sets the tone, questioning the direction and quality of the narrative. Irony and playfulness are also prominent, as the first-person narrator, John-John, directly addresses the reader and pokes fun at the challenges of developing a plot and theme.

Pastiche is another element at play, with John-John pasting together various genres and styles, including digressions on grammar, direct addresses to the reader, and reflections on self-reflexive fiction-writing. Minimalism is evident in the way the author provides only the barest descriptions, leaving the reader to fill in the blanks. And maximalism is demonstrated by Barth's use of every literary device at his disposal.

Finally, metafiction, the act of writing about writing, is central to Title. The story constantly reminds us that we are reading a work of fiction and challenges us to think about the nature of storytelling.

In conclusion, Lost in the Funhouse is a remarkable collection of short-stories that offers a unique and thought-provoking reading experience. Whether you are a fan of postmodern literature or simply looking for something new and different, this collection is sure to satisfy.

Lost in the Funhouse, John Barth’s collection of fourteen metafictional short-stories could take the cupcake for the most extreme form of self-reflexive postmodern literature ever written.



Frame-Tale is ten words long on a Mobius strip, Night-Sea Journey a ten-pager, an occasionally light, occasionally dark brooding on life and death in the tradition of Blaise Pascal’s Pensées, and the longest piece in the collection, Lost in the Funhouse, about a young boy on the threshold of his teenage years, a story that awakened my own buried, complex emotions when I was of similar age, a story utilizing metafictional techniques in the telling of a traditional coming-of-age tale.



However, to give a reader a more decided taste of John Barth’s scrumptious vanilla with honey cream cheese frosting cupcake collection, I will focus on one of my favorite of these delectable specimens, the title of which is (and let us not be shocked since we are talking metafiction): Title. Here goes with my linking Title with a batch of major themes in the world of the postmodern:



Poiumena – Big word, but don’t be put off, it means a story about the very process of creating a story, even the very story we are reading, as in the first short paragraph of Title: “Beginning: in the middle, past the middle, nearer three-quarters done, waiting for the end. Consider how dreadful so far: passionless, abstraction, pro, dis. And it will get worse. Can we possibly continue?” Actually it does continue for another nine pages, and, fortunately, this metafictional story gets better not worse. Better, that is, if you are into metafiction.



Irony and Playfulness – The first-person narrator, we can call him John-John (I have no shame as I just used this silly name in a previous John Barth review) tells us directly how he is required to develop a plot and theme by getting down and dirty into some serious conflicts and complications. Of course, big difference between talking about conflicts and actual conflicts, just as there is a big difference between reading about a fistfight and the reality of exchanging blows and coming home with a bloody nose. The authors of metafiction have the smallest number of bloody noses per page compared with all other genres. No kidding – I did the counting myself.



Pastiche – In postmodern literature, pasting together various genres or styles. Not to be outdone, John-John pastes together a story with digressions on grammar, direct addresses to the reader, William Faulkner swearwords, reflections on self-reflexive fiction-writing, among others. And, by the way, in one of his other stories collected here, Menelaiad, an entire paragraph consists of quotation marks.



Minimalism – As it turns out, this John Barth collection includes a life story compressed into fourteen pages and an autobiography boiled down into six pages. Does it get any more minimal that that? One way minimalism can be defined is the manner in which an author will provide the barest descriptions and ask the reader to fill in the blanks. Again, not to be outdone, in Title, John-John asks us directly to fill in the blank at least once; and in other passages, we are asked indirectly to fill in the blanks. By my latest count, I filled in the blank twenty-seven times.



Maximalism – Thou shall leave no literary device unturned. In his author’s Forward to this collection, John Barth informs us writers tend by temperament to be either sprinters or marathoners and how really, really, short fiction is not his long suit. But after tapping many the literary device in a string of doorstopper novels, he wanted to, by golly, get his fiction in those collections of short stories, the kind of books he always uses to teach from. “Not all of a writer’s motives are pure.” Thus we have Title and the other short stories here. Got to hand it to you Sir John, you are a maximalist with a vengeance!



Metafiction – A close cousin with a story about a story, metafiction deals with writing about writing. And there is plenty of such in Title, as when we read: “Once upon a time you were satisfied with incidental felicities and niceties of technique: the unexpected image, the refreshingly accurate word-choice, the memorable simile that yields deeper and subtler significances upon reflection, like a memorable smile. Somebody please stop me.” No problem, John-John – I’ll stop you. As the dice below spell out, we have reached the end. I hope this short review provides enough information to enable a reader to judge if Lost in the Funhouse is your cupcake of tea. And that's "T" as in Title.

The reader! Oh, you, the dogged, uninsultable, print-oriented bastard!

It is precisely you that 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 discreditable motive?

How is it that you don't 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 surfeit, saturate you, and turn you off?

Where, oh where, is your shame?

Do you have an insatiable appetite for words, for stories that may seem strange and perhaps even a little perverse?

Or is there something else driving you, some hidden longing or curiosity that compels you to keep reading, no matter what?

Maybe you are seeking something, something that you can't quite put your finger on, something that only these written words can offer.

Well, here I am, waiting for you to discover it.

Literally, I had to recover from reading this collection of short stories. It was such an intense experience that I found myself in need of some light-hearted entertainment to unwind.

So, I decided to turn to Netflix and ended up watching for a solid 3 hours. The stories in the collection were so engaging and thought-provoking that they left me with a whirlwind of emotions.

Each one seemed to take me on a different journey, exploring various themes and characters. Some were heartwarming, while others were spine-chilling.

By the time I finished reading, I felt a bit drained and in need of a break. That's when Netflix came to the rescue. The shows and movies on there provided the perfect escape from the world of the short stories and allowed me to relax and recharge.

It was a much-needed break that helped me to process everything I had read and get back to my normal state of mind.

Lost in the Funhouse is an extremely challenging book to review. It seems to demand a clever, self-aware, and self-reflexive metafictional review. However, the tricky part is that reviews are inherently self-aware and self-reflexive. For example, it's not at all surprising to see the author interject and say something like "hey guys, this is Sentimental Surrealist (not my real name) and here's what I think of Lost in the Funhouse or whatever it is I'm currently reviewing, which is Lost in the Funhouse. My god, what is this, a third-grade book report? 'The book I chose to review is Lost in the Funhouse by John Barth.'" I have a BA in English, and yet here I am resorting to such tricks. Come on now.

So, what can be done? I could cross-reference other people's reviews, nod to how Aidan or Darwin8U (the only friends of mine who have reviewed this book) did it, or express surprise that Paul liked it. But that wouldn't have the desired effect here because, again, nobody would be surprised by that. Or I could draw from my other reviews and mention how I reviewed The Big Sleep in the style of Raymond Chandler. But who wants to read that? The focus of the review should be the book being reviewed, not the author or the review itself. After all, books are works of art and should justify themselves as long as they're good, which Lost in the Funhouse mostly is. Although, "Anonymiad" seems to get lost in itself, and I'm still not sure if "Meleniad" is anything more than an exercise in quotation marks.

"I'm still not sure if 'Meleniad' is anything but an exercise in quotation marks," my inner monologue says. "Listen to yourself, Sentimental Surrealist. You have a BA in English, but you don't understand that 'Meleniad' is really an exercise in nested narrative, tying it into one of the creepier images of the earlier 'Petition?' You, who's always making these connections about how it all ties together, couldn't see that one coming? Jesus, maybe they should take that degree back."

"I get it," I reply to my inner monologue. "But look, man. Barth had already perfected the art of recursion with the jaw-dropping 'Lost in the Funhouse,' where Borges' idea of the labyrinth-as-story is put into haunting practice. 'Meleniad's' narrative layers are kind of cool, but it strikes me as an example of the emotionless formalism that Barth's critics accuse him of. So yes, my inner monologue, 'I'm still not sure if 'Meleniad' is anything but an exercise in quotation marks.'"

See, there you go again, throwing around names like Borges, mentioning that you know what formalism is, and bringing up your English degree twice. People are going to find this review inevitably off-putting, Sentimental Surrealist. You've disappeared up your own ass, and there's no way out now. You've pretty much ensured that only English majors will want to read this book. (Of course, it's hard to imagine your average James Patterson fan enjoying John Barth. [Wait a minute, aren't you supposed to be some sort of postmodernist? Is it okay to refer to yourself as a postmodernist, or does that make you a douche?] Aren't these kinds of "true literature vs. popular fiction" distinctions supposed to be beneath you? [Or is low art the new high art? People are now looking down on a lot of rock music and holding disco up alongside Beethoven, which definitely wouldn't have happened thirty years ago.] I think you need to rethink your approach, man.)

So, let's get to the point. Now that I'm so deep up my own ass that I can see my own digestive tracts working, and it's so gross that I'm going to throw down a rope ladder and boogie on out of here. Lost in the Funhouse is filled with stories about people writing stories, stories that deconstruct the idea of the story as a linguistic construct, stories that take the form of labyrinths, stories told from unexpected perspectives, and more. It breaks every rule of storytelling you've ever read. If you hate the formalists and would rather read the old masters (who could be anyone from Harper Lee to Jane Austen, as long as they wouldn't touch metafiction with a ten-foot pole), you're out of luck here. But if you're obsessed with postmodernism, scoop this one up. Even though it's difficult to review.

Barth is truly a remarkable and lyrical writer, standing out in sharp contrast to the majority of the brooding postmodernist group. Just take a look at the opening story, "Night-Sea Journey." Its imagery is simply gorgeous, and it is richly filled with philosophical inquiry, making it worthy of comparison with Calvino.

Moreover, Barth doesn't confine himself to a single style. He gracefully transitions from one style to another, moving from the captivating "Night-Sea Journey" to strange biographies, then to formal experiments, and finally to lyrical and haunting childhood tales. Above all else, the entire body of his work can be seen as a big, long love letter to the writing process itself.

Unfortunately, I have the sense that people don't read Barth as frequently as they once did. However, his influence on David Foster Wallace is undeniable. So, if you have a deep appreciation for DFW, it is highly recommended that you go and read Barth. Both this work and "Giles Goat-Boy" are truly phenomenal and well worth exploring.

I picked up this collection of short stories for a specific reason. It was referenced in a David Foster Wallace novella called "Westward the Course of Empire Takes it's Way" that I truly adored. The influence of Barth on DFW is quite evident. "Lost in the Funhouse" is like a thrilling carnival ride of a book. It is filled with self-reflection, mobius strips, and retold Greek myths.

The stories are relatively readable if you're not overly concerned with elements such as plot and plot resolution, a trick that DFW cleverly adopted. However, the ideas underlying the stories are extremely powerful and compel you to approach fiction in a new manner. For all the drawbacks of postmodernism, there is a vibrant allure in some of the earlier works, a sense of wonder, and limitless imagination - stories without rules.

Of course, this can be taken to extremes, and that's when you end up with silly things like having one word per page or thirty blank pages. One has to question if an artistic statement is really worth all that paper and if the writer is truly that good. But with this book of stories, the inventiveness is balanced by a purpose. At times, the balance can verge on complete collapse, but then some human touch will bring it back into equilibrium.

Overall, it's a fascinating read that challenges your perception of what fiction can be.