Part 26 (2/2)

Don's colleagues at the conference hailed him as a hero, an example of a serious literary artist persisting in his work despite steep odds against him. McMurty said he believed few people were adept at both novels and short stories. ”Speaking from my generation of fiction writers in America, I can think of only two: Donald Barthelme...and, I suppose, Leonard Michaels,” he said. ”They have developed princ.i.p.ally as short story writers and managed to achieve some reputation and sustain some kind of a career”-this in spite of having ”no places to publish what they write.”

When an audience member pointed out that short fiction was thriving in Latin America and in other parts of the world, the panelists debated whether there was something in U.S. culture now that resisted this once-robust American form. All agreed that there was less leisure time in Americans' daily lives but that this didn't account for the story's decline. Again, the speakers blamed the commercial market. Publishers could make more money selling peanut b.u.t.ter.

Later that month, Don appeared at a symposium on fiction at Was.h.i.+ngton and Lee University in Lexington, Virginia, with his old pals William Ga.s.s, Grace Paley, and Walker Percy.

Percy was struggling with his fourth novel, Lancelot. Lancelot. In March, he had confessed to Don that he was drinking heavily because he was ”not very happy.” ”I keep remembering what Faulkner said: that if a writer doesn't write, he is certain to commit moral outrages,” he wrote. In March, he had confessed to Don that he was drinking heavily because he was ”not very happy.” ”I keep remembering what Faulkner said: that if a writer doesn't write, he is certain to commit moral outrages,” he wrote.

To cheer him up, Don convinced Was.h.i.+ngton and Lee to invite Percy to speak.

During the panel discussion, Paley clashed with Ga.s.s, who said fiction was only about fiction-the ”world” was not particularly relevant to what a writer did. What a writer did was illuminate the qualities of his medium. Paley argued that readers always looked for the world in the work. Ga.s.s claimed he didn't want want that kind of reader. ”Well, it's tough luck for you,” Paley said. that kind of reader. ”Well, it's tough luck for you,” Paley said.

Percy was less contentious, but he insisted that fiction was a ”form of knowing” different from any other ”form.” Fiction, he said, was a cognitive (and moral) exploration of the ”forms of feelings.”

Don served as moderator, diplomat, provocateur. He goaded Ga.s.s into metafictional flights, Percy into abstract meditations, and Paley into praise of ”story.” ”I wonder about our need [for a] linear sense of what happened then, and then what happened, and what came next. what happened then, and then what happened, and what came next. I wonder to what extent that isn't...necessary...it seems to me a very honorable business to be a storyteller and to tell stories to people,” Paley said. I wonder to what extent that isn't...necessary...it seems to me a very honorable business to be a storyteller and to tell stories to people,” Paley said.

Don never took sides. He orchestrated the conversation and made sure all views got an airing. He was still worried about the state of publis.h.i.+ng. He said, ”Publishers are very brave, as brave as the famous diving horses of Atlantic City, but they're increasingly owned by conglomerates, businesses which have nothing to do with publis.h.i.+ng and these companies demand a certain profit out of their publis.h.i.+ng divisions. They take very few risks....”

He insisted that ”one of the funny things about experimentalism in regard to language is that most of it has not been done yet....There's a lot of basic research which hasn't been done because of the enormous resources of the language.” He intended to ”work more on [the] rather simple-minded principle of putting together more or less random phrases-but not so random as all that....The writer in the twentieth century who went farthest in this direction is of course Gertrude Stein...she's a greatly misunderstood writer, and that's where I would locate experimentalism.”

As for ”truths”: ”I have heard only one in the last ten years that I thought was any good,” he said, ”a large statement about life, and this comes from my friend Maurice Natanson who's a philosopher and he was quoting a Hasidic scholar, and the statement is as follows: 'It is forbidden to grow old.' ”

A month later, Percy wrote to Don: Thanks for getting me to Va.-it was a good thing to do....It didn't help much [with my depression], but...I found the solution in The D. F. The D. F. The only thing to do is hasten senescence by drinking and smoking whereupon...all dear [women] will say: you are, you are, you are too old.... The only thing to do is hasten senescence by drinking and smoking whereupon...all dear [women] will say: you are, you are, you are too old....The reason I know The D. F. The D. F. is a very good book is that when I read it, I feel better, even exhilarated. is a very good book is that when I read it, I feel better, even exhilarated.

Most reviewers agreed. They had awaited a second novel from Don. Its publication provided an occasion to evaluate his career. ”Over the past 10 years Barthelme...[has] been getting better and better. So have his sales,” noted Jerome Klinkowitz in The New Republic. The New Republic. ”As with Barthelme's earlier work, the funniest and most effective things in ”As with Barthelme's earlier work, the funniest and most effective things in The Dead Father The Dead Father are accomplished by language, by the writing itself...[it is] essential reading.” are accomplished by language, by the writing itself...[it is] essential reading.”

The New Yorker praised Don's ability to ”flick...scenes onto the page with scarcely a breath” and called his body of work ”an appropriately slapstick homage to the spirit of anarchy.” praised Don's ability to ”flick...scenes onto the page with scarcely a breath” and called his body of work ”an appropriately slapstick homage to the spirit of anarchy.”

Peter Prescott said in Newsweek Newsweek that Don was ”always witty, and occasionally beautiful.” that Don was ”always witty, and occasionally beautiful.” The Atlantic The Atlantic said that ”he provides a way of listening to the cacophony around us; he gives comfort.” said that ”he provides a way of listening to the cacophony around us; he gives comfort.”

The New York Times Book Review chose chose The Dead Father The Dead Father as one of its Editor's Choices for 1975. ” as one of its Editor's Choices for 1975. ”The Dead Father is the author's most sustained, ambitious and successful work,” the editors wrote on page one. They commented that it was ”deadly serious” and that ”most other 'experimental' ventures seem mild compared” to it. ”In the Freudian sense, it is a brave book.” is the author's most sustained, ambitious and successful work,” the editors wrote on page one. They commented that it was ”deadly serious” and that ”most other 'experimental' ventures seem mild compared” to it. ”In the Freudian sense, it is a brave book.”

Jerome Klinkowitz, now an English professor at the University of Northern Iowa, was still busy compiling a comprehensive bibliography of Don's work. He had proved to be one of Don's most incisive critics. Don told him, ”[Y]ou d.a.m.ned critics are pus.h.i.+ng us d.a.m.ned writers a little too closely...making me uncomfortable. But I was already uncomfortable.” The bibliography seemed accurate and complete, he said, and ”persuaded me that I've been working too hard these last years and should begin judicious use of lit. contraception.”

Still, he was grateful for Klinkowitz's ”effort,” which, he said, ”affirms what I am always in doubt about, that I am a writer. May seem to other people that one is doin' pretty well, but always seems to the midget in question that he has just f.u.c.ked up again maybe not so badly as the last time but still behind the door when the brains were pa.s.sed out. I think only very good or really terrible writers have confidence, for the rest of us it is Anxiety City, forever.” He invited Klinkowitz to call on him in New York ”and let us have a drink or many drinks.”

In late October, Klinkowitz responded and made an appointment to drop by. ”Don's neighborhood...was something I hadn't expected,” he wrote later. ”This didn't seem like the urban ma.s.s of Manhattan at all, for as the rumble of the Seventh Avenue subway faded behind me I found myself walking up a tree-shaded sidestreet of two and three storey townhouses, each with its neatly fenced front yard. Strollers waved to friends in windows or sitting on the steps, and up ahead Sixth Avenue offered nothing more imposing than a corner grocery store, a liquor shop, and a pizzeria. I could have been back in Cedar Falls.”

At 113, he found a mailbox labeled ”Barthelme / Knox”-”taped to it, a sc.r.a.p of bond paper with the neatly typed message, 'Bell broken. Stand at window and yell.' ” He stepped back and shouted, ”Don! Oh, Don? Hey, Don!” He felt like a kid calling his buddies to come out to play. Eventually, Don appeared at the window and motioned him into the building.

Inside, Don sat in a ”straight-backed cane rocker that made him look very upright and nineteenth-century in a rather stern Scandinavian way,” Klinkowitz said. ”Yet all was friendly.” Don introduced him to Marion and they had a ”couple scotches.” Then Don suggested they walk to a restaurant called Hopper's, over on Sixth Avenue.

Hopper's was trendy and new. A young man greeted them as soon as they sat down: ”Good evening, my name is William and I'm your waiter-”

”No you are not not!” Don answered with mock severity.

”Sir?” the waiter asked.

In his book Literary Company: Working with Writers Since the Sixties Literary Company: Working with Writers Since the Sixties, Klinkowitz recounted the scene: ”I said you are not not a waiter!” Don repeated. He moved his head from side to side, taking in Marion and myself for the bit of wisdom to come. ”This is Greenwich Village, young man. You are really an actor, or a painter. Maybe even a writer struggling for a break. But you are most certainly a waiter!” Don repeated. He moved his head from side to side, taking in Marion and myself for the bit of wisdom to come. ”This is Greenwich Village, young man. You are really an actor, or a painter. Maybe even a writer struggling for a break. But you are most certainly not not a a waiter waiter!”The restaurant was filling with customers and young William surely had enough to do already. Marion and I had become uncomfortable with Don's teasing, and I could tell she was about to intercede and ask for more scotch as a way of smoothing the waters....Thankfully William stood up for himself.”I'm sorry, sir,” he said with firmness, ”I am am a waiter and a d.a.m.n good one! May I please have your order?” a waiter and a d.a.m.n good one! May I please have your order?”He wasn't getting one from Don, who reacted with a moody silence and downcast glance that didn't rise 'til William had left. Marion ordered chicken Kiev for Don and lamb for herself.

After dinner, the waiter brought Don a complimentary brandy. Satisfied, Don paid for the meal. For Klinkowitz, the incident ill.u.s.trated a mannerism of Don's that was also one of his literary strategies: ”His very posturing was the sort that set him up for a fall-for a pratfall, in fact, that he seemed to enjoy taking,” Klinkowitz said. It was a ”style,” in life and on the page, ”of inevitable deflation.”

Of course, Don also knew Sartre's example of ”bad faith” in Being and Nothingness: Being and Nothingness: a waiter who overidentifies with his role, and is therefore alienated from his true self. Don's story ”A Shower of Gold” was all about bad faith, and it was one of the first pieces he worked on when a waiter who overidentifies with his role, and is therefore alienated from his true self. Don's story ”A Shower of Gold” was all about bad faith, and it was one of the first pieces he worked on when he he moved to Greenwich Village. Now in midcareer, hosting an enthusiastic critic, Don seemed to want to recapture a bit of the old adventure. moved to Greenwich Village. Now in midcareer, hosting an enthusiastic critic, Don seemed to want to recapture a bit of the old adventure.

Back in Don's apartment, Marion disappeared into her study to work. ”[W]ithout Marion as an audience his penchant for display seemed less keen,” Klinkowitz said. Don surprised him by praising a ”conservative crowd” of writers: Walker Percy, Joyce Carol Oates, Ivy Compton-Burnett, Anthony Powell. Then he rose and pulled from his shelf Klinkowitz's latest book, Literary Disruptions Literary Disruptions, a discussion of contemporary American writers. ”Kurt Vonnegut,” Don said, thumbing through the first chapter. ”No question about [his importance]-absolutely first-rate! We're friends, you know.”

He turned to chapter two. ”Now this next fellow, 'Barthelme,' I have no idea whatsoever about him, but for the third one I think you're making a mistake.”

”Jerzy Kosinski? Don't you like his work?” Klinkowitz asked.

”The Painted Bird is good, but halfway through is good, but halfway through Steps Steps the writing begins to lose substance. And since then he's done absolutely nothing.” the writing begins to lose substance. And since then he's done absolutely nothing.”

Don continued down Klinkowitz's list. ”Leroi Jones hasn't written fiction for years. Probably never will. James Park Sloan-a one-book man. Now, Ronald Sukenick. He hasn't done his best work yet, but he's obviously thinking. Sukenick-okay.”

”What about Raymond Federman?” Klinkowitz asked.

”Nope.”

”Gilbert Sorrentino?”

”Nope.” Don closed the book and sat even more upright in his chair. ”Now if you want to be the top-dog critic, and you surely do, you're going to have to be right a lot more often than you're wrong.”

”Isn't three for eight a good average?” Klinkowitz asked. ”That's. .h.i.tting. 375, good enough to lead most leagues!”

”But you're not the hitter,” Don said. ”We're the hitters. You're the fielder, and you're not going to get anywhere if you keep dropping every other ball.”

Klinkowitz wrote of what ensued: For this I had no ready answer and Don sat there in satisfied silence. Then we heard Marion's voice from down the hall. ”Why, Donald,” she was saying, and I could see her coming up behind his chair. From Don's point of view the timing was perfect, and I could see from his smile that he was antic.i.p.ating some praise, some marvel about himself that his fiancee had just discovered.”Why, Donald,” Marion repeated, now standing just behind his chair. ”Your father's is bigger than yours!”With a lunge forward Don fought not to choke on his drink, from which he'd been taking a pleasurable sip to accompany Marion's expected praise. As his complexion struggled through different shades...I could see Marion enjoying her trick on him-and also to what she was referring, for in her hands was the latest edition of Who's Who Who's Who, where she had doubtlessly just compared the entries for Donald Barthelme, Senior and Junior.

In the months ahead, as Klinkowitz got to know Don better, he saw in Don's ”posing” a perfect, ”cla.s.sically simple...generating force for narrative”: the ”subject poses, upright and n.o.ble, impressed with its own feeling of command. A statue, n.o.ble and erect; a veritable monument. But life isn't so static. As language, [life] is all motion and change.” What is the Dead Father but a ”steadfast object” amid the s.h.i.+fting narrative, particularly the play of women's language?

And what was The Dead Father The Dead Father but an astonis.h.i.+ng marker in the flow of Don's life? He looked back-”I married. Oh, did I marry. I married and married and married moving from comedy to farce to burlesque with lightsome heart,” he wrote. And he looked ahead. He dedicated the book to Marion. but an astonis.h.i.+ng marker in the flow of Don's life? He looked back-”I married. Oh, did I marry. I married and married and married moving from comedy to farce to burlesque with lightsome heart,” he wrote. And he looked ahead. He dedicated the book to Marion.

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