Donald Barthelme Read online

  DONALD BARTHELME

  COLLECTED STORIES

  Come Back, Dr. Caligari

  Unspeakable Practices, Unnatural Acts

  City Life

  Sadness

  Amateurs

  Great Days

  FROM Sixty Stories

  Overnight to Many Distant Cities

  FROM Forty Stories

  Uncollected Stories

  Charles McGrath, editor

  LIBRARY OF AMERICA E-BOOK CLASSICS

  DONALD BARTHELME: COLLECTED STORIES

  Volume compilation, notes, and chronology copyright © 2021 by Literary Classics of the United States, Inc., New York, N.Y. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Published in the United States by Library of America.

  Visit our website at www.loa.org.

  Come Back, Dr. Caligari © 1964 by Donald Barthelme. Unspeakable Practices, Unnatural Acts © 1968 by Donald Barthelme. City Life © 1970 by Donald Barthelme. Sadness © 1972 by Donald Barthelme. Amateurs © 1974 by Donald Barthelme. Great Days © 1979 by Donald Barthelme. Overnight to Many Distant Cities © 1983 by Donald Barthelme. Reprinted by arrangement with Counterpoint Press and the Estate of Donald Barthelme.

  Sixty Stories © 1981 by Donald Barthelme. Forty Stories © 1987 by Donald Barthelme. Reprinted by arrangement with the Estate of Donald Barthelme.

  “Edwards, Amelia,” “A Man,” “Basil from Her Garden,” and “Tickets” © 1972, 1985, 1989 by Donald Barthelme. Reprinted by arrangement with Counterpoint Press.

  Distributed to the trade in the United States by Penguin Random House Inc. and in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Ltd.

  ISBN 978–1–59853–684–3

  eISBN 978–1–59853–696–6

  Contents

  Introduction by Charles McGrath

  COME BACK, DR. CALIGARI

  Florence Green is 81

  The Piano Player

  Hiding Man

  Will You Tell Me?

  For I’m the Boy Whose Only Joy Is Loving You

  The Big Broadcast of 1938

  The Viennese Opera Ball

  Me and Miss Mandible

  Marie, Marie, Hold On Tight

  Up, Aloft in the Air

  Margins

  The Joker’s Greatest Triumph

  To London and Rome

  A Shower of Gold

  UNSPEAKABLE PRACTICES, UNNATURAL ACTS

  The Indian Uprising

  The Balloon

  This Newspaper Here

  Robert Kennedy Saved from Drowning

  Report

  The Dolt

  The Police Band

  Edward and Pia

  A Few Moments of Sleeping and Waking

  Can We Talk

  Game

  Alice

  A Picture History of the War

  The President

  See the Moon?

  CITY LIFE

  Views of My Father Weeping

  Paraguay

  The Falling Dog

  At the Tolstoy Museum

  The Policemen’s Ball

  The Glass Mountain

  The Explanation

  Kierkegaard Unfair to Schlegel

  The Phantom of the Opera’s Friend

  Sentence

  Bone Bubbles

  On Angels

  Brain Damage

  City Life

  SADNESS

  Critique de la Vie Quotidienne

  Träumerei

  The Genius

  Perpetua

  A City of Churches

  The Party

  Engineer-Private Paul Klee Misplaces an Aircraft Between Milbertshofen and Cambrai, March 1916

  A Film

  The Sandman

  Departures

  Subpoena

  The Catechist

  The Flight of Pigeons from the Palace

  The Rise of Capitalism

  The Temptation of St. Anthony

  Daumier

  AMATEURS

  Our Work and Why We Do It

  The Wound

  110 West Sixty-First Street

  Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby

  The School

  The Great Hug

  I Bought a Little City

  The Agreement

  The Sergeant

  What to Do Next

  The Captured Woman

  And Then

  Porcupines at the University

  The Educational Experience

  The Discovery

  Rebecca

  The Reference

  The New Member

  You Are as Brave as Vincent van Gogh

  At the End of the Mechanical Age

  GREAT DAYS

  The Crisis

  The Apology

  The New Music

  Cortés and Montezuma

  The King of Jazz

  The Question Party

  Belief

  Tales of the Swedish Army

  The Abduction from the Seraglio

  The Death of Edward Lear

  Concerning the Bodyguard

  The Zombies

  Morning

  On the Steps of the Conservatory

  The Leap

  Great Days

  (FROM) SIXTY STORIES

  Eugénie Grandet

  Nothing: A Preliminary Account

  A Manual for Sons

  Aria

  The Emerald

  How I Write My Songs

  The Farewell

  The Emperor

  Thailand

  Heroes

  Bishop

  Grandmother’s House

  OVERNIGHT TO MANY DISTANT CITIES

  They called for more structure . . .

  Visitors

  Financially, the paper . . .

  Affection

  I put a name in an envelope . . .

  Lightning

  That guy in the back room . . .

  Captain Blood

  A woman seated on a plain wooden chair . . .

  Conversations with Goethe

  Well we all had our Willie & Wade records . . .

  Henrietta and Alexandra

  Speaking of the human body . . .

  The Sea of Hesitation

  When he came . . .

  Terminus

  The first thing the baby did wrong . . .

  The Mothball Fleet

  Now that I am older . . .

  Wrack

  On our street . . .

  The Palace at Four A.M.

  I am, at the moment . . .

  Overnight to Many Distant Cities

  (FROM) FORTY STORIES

  Chablis

  On the Deck

  Opening

  Sindbad

  Rif

  Jaws

  Bluebeard

  Construction

  Letters to the Editore

  January

  UNCOLLECTED STORIES

  Basil from Her Garden

  Edwards, Amelia

  A Man

  Tickets

  Chronology

  Note
on the Texts

  Notes

  Introduction

  BY CHARLES MCGRATH

  DONALD BARTHELME was, by his own design, a hard writer to categorize. Even at the height of his fame, in the late ’70s and early ’80s, there were readers who just didn’t get him, or suspected his work was a hoax or a joke they weren’t in on. At The New Yorker, where he was a regular contributor for decades, clerks in the library were expected to type up on index cards brief summaries of every article, fact or fiction, that appeared in the magazine. Barthelme’s cards sometimes contained just one word: “gibberish.”

  By most standards, many of his stories aren’t stories at all. They don’t have plots, or even realistic, believable characters, and they touch on human emotion only indirectly. Barthelme loved arcane vocabulary, and called such pieces “slumgullions”—stews, that is. In the manner of visual artists like Duchamp and Rauschenberg, they incorporated all sorts of found materials: snippets from ad copy, old travel guides, textbooks, and instruction manuals, even other writers. The range of references and allusions in his stories is vast and encyclopedic: cheesy movies, nineteenth-century philosophers, opera, country-and-western, military history, art, architecture, soft-core pornography. For a while he even took to illustrating his work with engravings and pictures clipped from old books and magazines. He once wrote, only half-joking, that “the most essential tool for genius today” was rubber cement.

  Many of the stories feel like riffs, jazzy improvisations on the way people speak: musician-talk, military lingo, art-jargon, academic highbrow. He was like his character Hokie Mokie, in the story “The King of Jazz,” of whom it is said, he “can just knock a fella out, just the way he pronounces a word. What intonation on that boy! God almighty!” Still other stories are retellings, or reimaginings, of older stories: Captain Blood, Bluebeard, the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Barthelme’s version of Balzac’s Eugénie Grandet includes a reference-book summary of the novel; a woodcut of Eugénie herself, holding a ball for some reason; and the word “butter” repeated ninety-seven times.

  Barthelme was also fascinated by the trite and clichéd, and sometimes incorporated snatches of writing that were deliberately clumsy and hackneyed, or else close to incomprehensible, like this one, from “Paraguay,” a story that also includes lengthy cribbings from obscure books:

  Relational methods govern the layout of cities. Curiously, in some of the most successful projects the design has been swung upon small collections of rare animals spaced (on the lost-horse principle) on a lack of grid. Carefully calculated mixes: mambas, the black wrasse, the giselle. Electrolytic jelly exhibiting a capture ratio far in excess of standard is used to fix the animals in place.

  One of his favorite devices was the list, an occasion for tossing in all sorts of rag-picked stuff just for its own sake: “two ashtrays, ceramic, one dark brown and one dark brown with an orange blur at the lip; a tin frying pan; two-litre bottles of red wine; three-quarter-litre bottles of Black & White, aquavit, cognac, vodka, gin, Fad #6 sherry; a hollow-core door in birch veneer on black wrought-iron legs; a blanket, red-orange, with faint blue stripes; a red pillow and a blue pillow; a woven straw wastebasket; two glass jars for flowers; corkscrews and can openers; two plates and two cups, ceramic, dark brown; a yellow-and-purple poster; a Yugoslavian carved flute, wood, dark brown; and other items.” Many stories of this assembled sort have an almost painterly quality; they remind you of Warhol sometimes, in their fascination with found objects and cultural detritus, and of Kurt Schwitters, in their collage-like layering of seemingly random elements.

  But toward the end of his career Barthelme wrote stories so minimal and pared-down they were almost abstract, just alternating lines of overheard conversation preceded by a dash. Almost from the beginning, there were also stories that were monologues, stories that took the form of a catechism or a Q&A, stories that were out-and-out parodies, stories within stories, stories in the form of numbered lists, stories disguised as essays or interviews, and one story that consists of a single unfinished sentence seven pages long. Barthelme even wrote a few stories that seemed old-school, with real people and actual beginnings, middles, and ends. Late in his life he wrote a prize-winning children’s book, and though his gifts were not really novelistic, he nevertheless wrote four novels—extended, book-length narratives that paid a certain homage to the old conventions of the novel while also undermining them from within. If there’s a constant in his career, it’s restlessness and a dread of seeming predictable.

  Barthelme hated labels, but grudgingly accepted that “post-modernist” might not be too far off the mark, and biologically, at least, he really was one. His father, Donald, Sr., was an architect who ardently championed the work of Walter Gropius, Mies van der Rohe, Frank Lloyd Wright, and Le Corbusier. Modernism in the Barthelme household was practically a religion. The family lived in a modern house, designed by Don, Sr., so radical in its time and place, a Houston suburb in the ’50s, that people used to park outside and gawk. The furniture was modern, and so were the paintings and the books. The father was impatient and imperious, and he and his namesake, his eldest child, were frequently at odds. But Barthelme nevertheless inherited from his father an unassailable conviction that there had been a revolution in art, and that there was no going back to the old ways.

  The contemporaries Barthelme allied himself with were of a similar bent, anxious to dispense with the tired and old-fashioned: Walter Abish, Robert Coover, William Gass, William Gaddis, Jerome Klinkowitz, John Hawkes, John Barth, Joseph McElroy, Susan Sontag, and Thomas Pynchon. In 1983 he famously invited them all to a meal at a SoHo restaurant. (Pynchon, it goes without saying, was a no-show.) The occasion came to be known as the Post-Modernists’ Dinner, and probably entailed a lot of wine and a certain amount of unspoken invidiousness, since some of his contemporaries resented Barthelme’s success at The New Yorker and privately accused him of selling out. Barthelme differed from his fellow postmoderns in at least two respects. He had little use for the notion of “metafiction,” so much in vogue back then: the idea that writing should call attention to its own made-upness. And he lacked the high seriousness of so many postmods, their habit of making grand pronouncements. Barthelme accepted that the age in which he found himself was not a golden one. He never pretended to greatness, and he made fun of those who did. His fallback, his signature, is always humor. For all his avant-gardism, and occasional difficulty, he is a very funny writer, even a jokey one at times. He’s more entertaining to read, and requires less heavylifting, than many of the post-moderns, and he enjoyed more popular success than just about any of them.

  For much of the 1970s, in fact, if slush-pile submissions to The New Yorker were any indication, Barthleme was the most widely imitated writer in America. I was a young editor then and every week would come across a dozen or so wannabe Barthelmes. In 1973 one enterprising forger even managed to sell a passable Barthelme imitation—not to The New Yorker but to one of the little quarterlies. “Quite a worthy effort, as pastiches go,” Barthelme said of it, “and particularly successful in reproducing my weaknesses.” (For a while one of Barthelme’s brothers, Frederick, was among the imitators, and it wasn’t until he found a very different voice of his own that he, too, went on to become a regular New Yorker contributor.) But Barthelme’s heyday was short-lived. In a few years his imitators had been replaced by writers trying to copy Raymond Carver (Frederick Barthelme went through a phase of that, too) and the slush pile now overflowed with stories set in trailer parks.

  The Barthelme example proved to be not just harder to copy than it looked but also so original it didn’t lead anywhere. You can see glints and traces of Barthelme in writers like Donald Antrim, Mary Robison, George Saunders, Nicholson Baker, and Dave Eggers, but Barthelme never inspired a whole school of fiction writing the way Carver did. Where Carver is rooted in the deepest tradition of American realism, Barthelme seems to come out of nowhere. Before becoming a
full-time writer, he worked as a museum director and editor of an arts magazine, and his roots, such as they were, were as much in the visual arts as in literature. He’s a one-off, and that turns out to be his greatest claim on posterity: he’s like no one else. He also embodies, more inventively and more entertainingly than any of his contemporaries, that moment in American fiction when so many writers were seized by a need to kill off their ancestors, throw out the old forms, and make everything new. One of his best stories, “A Manual for Sons,” later part of a novel, is a sort of guidebook to that moment: it’s about how to cope with dead fathers who won’t stay dead.

  That Barthelme had such a long and fruitful relationship with The New Yorker—publishing 129 stories there over twenty-six years, not to mention dozens of “Notes and Comment” pieces, and even filling in as a temporary film reviewer in the ’70s—now seems remarkable, for he was in many ways the least likely New Yorker contributor ever. He was consciously arty, for one thing, with a formidable, bristling intellect, at a time when the magazine maintained a tone of studied casualness and unpretentiousness. He cultivated a long, mustache-less beard, which made him look like an Amish farmer or else Captain Ahab. Nor was his work especially well liked by many on the staff. The writer and editor William Maxwell said he just didn’t get what Barthelme was up to, but whatever it was, it wasn’t fiction, and the magazine’s then managing editor used to stalk testily around the office and quiz people: Did they really understand this Barth-helm, or however he said his name?

  But he had two important allies: Roger Angell, the editor who discovered him, and William Shawn, the magazine’s editor-in-chief, who readily embraced Barthelme, as he did so many experimental writers. In the beginning, what Shawn and Angell saw in Barthelme was probably another humorist, in the tradition, say, of S. J. Perelman, whose work Barthelme began to admire when he was still in high school, and who got him to start reading The New Yorker in the first place. His first published piece in the magazine, in the issue of March 2, 1963, was not one of his slumgullions but what The New Yorker called a “casual,” a piece of light humor—in this case, a parody of an Antonioni screenplay. As Barthelme’s work began to evolve in new and more daring directions Shawn and Angell stuck with it—they even relaxed, just for him, some of the magazine’s usual fussiness about punctuation—and the relationship proved mutually beneficial, as it did with so many longtime New Yorker contributors. In this case, Barthelme got an audience, something like a steady income (though it was never enough, and he was frequently in debt to the magazine), and the freedom to experiment. The magazine got a controversial but also widely admired writer who helped dispel the cloud of the so-called New Yorker story: the magazine’s reputation—outdated then but still lingering—for publishing stories that were mostly plotless evocations of suburban ennui.