Dear Mr Barth,

As I find myself once again penning a letter to you in the context of a review of a book that seems to be about writing about writing about writing (sigh!), I feel compelled to offer my apology. I must admit that I lack the intellectual acuity to fully understand what on earth you are trying to convey in pretty much all of this. If I were to invest the time in deconstructing your stories, I suspect that your only overarching message would be that life is rather dismal and that we are all inevitably doomed to die one day. In that case, I would have to thank you for this highly original and purportedly important message that is supposedly worthy of our time and consideration.

However, let's be honest here. NOT!

(Sigh!)

This book seems to be a convoluted mess, and I struggle to find any real value or substance within its pages. It's as if you are trying too hard to be profound and end up simply being confusing. I hope that in the future, you might consider presenting your ideas in a more straightforward and accessible manner.

44th book of 2022.

This is truly a real postmodern piss-around. I've had the desire to read Barth for quite some time. However, similar to some of the other postmodernists like Vollmann, he's rather hard to come across (at least as far as I've seen) here in England. Finally, I managed to find this copy and a copy of Giles Goat-Boy in my favorite second-hand bookshop just the other week.

The first story in this collection, "Frame-Tale", told me all I needed to know about what Barth was up to (and he was up to quite a lot). It urges you to cut the page from the book and twist and glue it into a Möbius strip.

Following that is "Night-Sea Journey", which is really great. By the end, we realize that our narrator, who is describing a strange nightmarish land where his fellows drown around him and darkness reigns, is actually a sperm. A very philosophical sperm, in fact, who says near the end of the story, ''You who I may be about to become, what You are: with the last twitch of my real self I beg You to listen. It is not love that sustains me!'' If you have the opportunity to read this story alone, I highly recommend it. Presumably, it is the birth of the recurring character Ambrose through some of the stories. The titular "Lost in the Funhouse" is decent enough, as is "Ambrose His Mark". The meta devices keep growing and growing, and by the end of the short story collection, I'll admit that I had almost no idea what was going on in what I was reading. On a sentence level, I like Barth and I'm looking forward to reading more of him, but these ultra-meta stories were more of a headache than enjoyable.

"Menelaiad" is the most confusing, with Greek myth within Greek myth. To borrow The New York Times' outlining of the story, it's a convoluted mess where at one point the hero Menelaus is telling us what he told Telemachus what he told Helen what he told Proteus what he told Eidothea the sea-nymph. The quotation marks get ridiculous, as characters quote someone else who is quoting someone else who is quoting someone else. Read these lines to get an idea of how confusing it is:
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'''''''''Why?' I repeated,'' I repeated,' I repeated,'' I repeated,' I repeated,'' I repeat. '''''''''And the woman, with a bride-shy smile and hushed voice, replied, 'Why what?'
'''''''''Faster than Athena sealed beneath missile Sicily upstart Enceladus, Poseidon Nisyros mutine Polybutes, I sealed my would-widen eyes; snugger than Porces Laocoön, Heracles Antaeus, I held to my point interrogative Helen, to whom as about us combusting nightlong Ilion I rehearsed our history horse to horse, driving at last as eveningly myself to the seed and omphalos of all. . .''('((''(((')))

\\n

The brackets at the end there are tiny, as small as the apostrophes in the text, but Goodreads, of course, cannot replicate them. As these lines alone demonstrate, the apostrophes are beyond headache-inducing, and the references to Greek myth are extremely heavy. I wouldn't recommend even bothering without reading The Odyssey or The Iliad. A lot of the flying names I don't even know. I only know Laocoön, for example, because he is one of my favorite statues in the Vatican. Most names are beyond me other than the well-known ones.

I can't imagine I've inspired anyone to read it. That wasn't my purpose per se, but I would never recommend this other than "Night-Sea Journey". I hope his novels are better. This is 201 pages long and it took me 11 days to read it, and I mostly skimmed the last story because I couldn't find anything to hold onto. OK, Barth, you're clever. I fled (fled!) to Yale for some answers, and Professor Amy Hungerford said this, though it hasn't made me feel much better. I didn't like The Crying of Lot 49 much, I preferred Gravity's Rainbow. I'm a big Nabokov fan, but I wouldn't say he's like Barf. My apologies, Barth.

Prof. A.H.: If you think that Barth in all his heady, intellectual, canonical difficulty is uninterested in the world outside of his fiction, I think you could argue that it's on this notion of desire that he stakes his work's connection to the world. And the echo of that desire is, I would say, pleasure: something like, in this case, Nabokov's aesthetic bliss, but here it's more funny than that. It's not even so much the transportation and the nostalgic quality of Nabokov's description, sometimes. It's that wit, that pleasurable wit, the pleasure we get reading, being absorbed by something that we have to work hard to read, and yet repays us with that pleasure. When you read Crying of Lot 49 I'd like you to think about what that novel represents in the relation between language and the world. Is it similar? Barth and Pynchon are often talked about as part of the same metafictional movement in this couple of decades, '60s and '70s. Are they assimilable to one another in these terms? Think about that as you read.\\n

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I had a conversation with a cis white guy who, during a trip, claimed that he understood the world.

In his Tinder bio, under interests, he had "ethical polyamory."

It was quite an interesting encounter. I wonder what exactly he meant by understanding the world. Maybe he had some profound experiences during his trip that led him to this conclusion.

And this mention of "ethical polyamory" in his bio also piqued my curiosity. What does he think is the ethical way to practice polyamory?

As we talked, I tried to get a better sense of his perspectives. He seemed passionate about both his newfound understanding of the world and his stance on ethical polyamory.

It made me think about how different people's experiences and beliefs can shape their views and identities.

Overall, it was a thought-provoking conversation that left me with a lot to consider.

A Challenging Read for Me

I really appreciate the overall structure of this work. Some of the short stories within it truly resonated with me, touching on emotions and ideas that I could easily understand and connect with. However, others seemed to be making a rather ludicrous ask of me as a reader.

The problem lies in the fact that I simply am not well-read in the myths and legends that Barth is constantly referencing. Despite my best efforts to dig in and do the research, huge chunks of this were still borderline impossible for me to parse. Barth is an academic, and I mostly appreciate this work as a theoretical experiment. It tests the limits of narrative, proving by comparison how staid and static the medium has become over the past couple of centuries.

Among the stories, my favorites were Ambrose His Mark, Petition, the titular story, Life Story, and Anonymiad. These stories had something special that made them stand out for me, whether it was the unique plot, the interesting characters, or the thought-provoking themes.

I firmly believe that John Barth's "experimental novel" was a complete failure from start to finish.

To be fair, there were a few shining gems within it. Ambrose His Mark and Petition were both rather remarkable, and it was precisely these exceptions that made the book somewhat readable.

However, unfortunately for this particular reader, far too many of the stories served more to impede my progress towards my ultimate goal of completing the book and moving on to my next one (forget about reading for pure enjoyment).

Many of the stories seemed more like barriers rather than conduits for ideas. The story arc was disjointed, and the author often left huge gaps in the plot.

If this were simply a collection of short stories billed as such, I might feel less contemptuous towards the author. But here, it seems that Mr. Barth has taken his audience for granted, leaving me with the feeling of being like a Bolivian sex worker on a Sunday morning.

I would not recommend this book to anyone except perhaps sadomasochists and die-hard, avant-garde literati.

The exhibition that I visited recently had only a few standout pieces.

These particular works truly caught my eye and left a lasting impression. However, the metanarratives that were presented throughout the exhibition were a bit too over the top for my liking.

They seemed to be trying too hard to make a grand statement and, as a result, came across as somewhat forced and artificial.

Despite this, I did appreciate the effort that had gone into curating the exhibition and the overall presentation was quite impressive.

I might consider returning at a later date to see if there are any new additions or if my perspective on the metanarratives has changed.

Overall, it was an interesting experience, but one that could have been improved with a more refined approach to the metanarratives.

LOST IN THE FUNHOUSE is a short story that I found extremely difficult to understand. I gave it a rating of 0/5 as I could not make heads or tails of it. Besides that, I also noticed some very disturbing elements in the story. It seemed to be racist, homophobic, and pedophiliac. The use of such offensive and inappropriate themes made it a very uncomfortable read. I'm not sure what the author was trying to achieve with this story, but it definitely failed to have any positive impact on me. I would not recommend this story to anyone, as it contains content that is not only offensive but also potentially harmful.

Такий собі дуууже завуальований персоналізований Улісс. He is truly an extremely remarkable and personalized Ulysses. This unique individual seems to possess a charm and character all his own. His presence commands attention and his actions are always filled with a certain flair. One can't help but be intrigued by his story and the events that have shaped him into the person he is today. Whether it's his adventures or his relationships, there is something about Улісс that makes him stand out from the crowd. He is a complex and multi-faceted being, and it's a pleasure to explore his world and learn more about him.

I somewhat regret that I can read.

Reading has opened up a world of knowledge and ideas for me, but it has also brought some unexpected emotions.

Sometimes, when I read about the hardships and sufferings of others, I feel a sense of sadness and helplessness.

I wish I could do more to help those in need.

On the other hand, reading has also made me more aware of the complexity and diversity of the world.

I have learned that there are many different perspectives and opinions, and that not everything is black and white.

This has made me more open-minded and tolerant, but it has also made me question some of my own beliefs and values.

Overall, while I may have some regrets about being able to read, I also recognize that it has been a valuable and life-changing experience.

I will continue to read and learn, and try to use my knowledge and understanding to make a positive difference in the world.

Reading this collection truly infuriated me with my undergraduate professors from San Francisco State in the early 1980s. They never took the trouble to teach me that Postmodern Literature, specifically the postmodern novel, not only existed in America but was actually born here. Why did we feel obliged to overlook Joseph Heller and John Barth, not to mention Gaddis, Gass, Pynchon, and even Don DeLillo until White Noise? Instead, we had to buy it back from Italo Calvino and Milan Kundera in overpriced trade paperbacks, pushed on us by Reaganite American psychos in the publishing industry, hell-bent on finding ways to make us spend twice as much on a product we needed only half as much. Was a John Barth pocketbook not good enough for the big-haired boys and girls who danced to Depeche Mode? Was all that padding really necessary in the shoulders of our blazers? Did we really have to import Duran Duran and convince David Bowie to abandon art and dance when we had the Violent Femmes, Husker Du, The Replacements, Tom Waits, and Prince in our Midwestern backyard? Well, Waits was in L.A., but you get my point. Such are the mysteries of history and the mistakes that a culture makes. (Music made the same mistake two decades earlier when Hermen's Hermits outsold Motown's finest despite all those British blokes constantly covering Smokey Robinson.)

That's about all I have to say on that matter. Barth really hit the nail on the head. Sure, If on a Winter's Night a Traveler might be more lighthearted and accessible, but if you're not educated enough to know the Iliad and the Odyssey, then perhaps you don't even want to read any Pomo novels in the first place. Lost in the Funhouse is simply brilliant, in that perfect, self-reflexive Pomo way, and even beyond that.

Although I wonder less if I might be a character in a novel and more about how I can become a character in a novel.

This is not a traditional review; it's a reaction. The first step was reading the book. Now it's your turn.

3 STARS

CW: misogyny, death, blood, mention of incest

Anyone who has ever engaged in a conversation with me regarding literature will, at some point, perhaps even numerous times, have heard me rave about metafiction. Ever since penning my first term paper on metafictional strategies in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales last year, I have been completely enthralled by this form of writing. Every theoretical text I have perused about metafiction has sooner or later mentioned John Barth. Naturally, I had to pick up this book to witness just how far the boundaries could be pushed.

Let me inform you that the boundaries can indeed be pushed to great extremes. I find myself simultaneously fascinated and astounded, confused and lost. After reading this, I have a profound respect for John Barth. This is a complex book, highly original, and I could spend hours contemplating some of the narrative decisions he makes as an author within it. That being said, I also felt rather daft while reading this book. I consider myself intelligent, yet when confronted with this, I simply had to abandon my attempts to understand everything, as it is simply impossible on a first reading. Some of the stories left me indifferent, even bored, while others immediately drew me in.

My absolute favorites were Menelaiad, Autobiography, Life-Story, and Echo. The eponymous Lost in the Funhouse and Title were decent. My least favorite was probably Night-Sea Journey, which bored me to tears. And Anonymiad failed to truly convince me either...

Overall, I am extremely glad that I read this, but also very relieved that I have completed it. I have learned to consume postmodern fiction in moderation, as too much of it is like Icarus flying perilously close to the sun. I am in awe of some of the stylistic and structural experimentation that John Barth incorporated into his stories, and I will most definitely continue my pursuit of reading more metafictional tales. I might even seek out some secondary literature on Barth's works to enhance my appreciation. All that being said, I would strongly advise against picking up this book if you are seeking light reading, have no interest in metafiction, and are not prepared to endure a bit of struggle while reading.