Donald Barthelme

There is a new biography of Donald Barthelme that was reviewed in the NYT this weekend, and has been getting a lot of notice. I probably won't read the book because I already have too much to read, and I mostly only read reviews anyway, but it was good to read that Donald Barthelme is being fondly remembered.

I remember reading his stories and then buying one of his books of stories in the early 80s and reading them over and over, slowly. It was exciting. I knew he was trying very hard to do something, and I felt from the energy of the story that whatever point he was making was a big step. It was something of a turning point, probably very self-consciously.

I don't think I ever really got the point. I don't read enough for that. It was post-modern. It was beyond avant-guard and it was very descriptive of how I felt about the world, and probably still do. But it didn't really make much sense, which was I guess, part of the point. His stories had a beautiful flow, but no story, not even a narrative, hardly a character.

Each sentence was beautifully written, and constructed. But each sentence usually didn't seem to have that much to do with a sentence that was two sentences away.

Reading the review of the new biography made it kind of clear what I had kind of known, that his life was often a mess. A long time ago I had read about how he and his brother lost thousands of dollars gambling in Biloxi. He drank an awful lot, and had been married four times, which is different from me.

I kind of admire people who struggle like that, to find the edge. It takes it's toll.

I have clients like that. I try to find the balance between encouraging them, but making sure it's they who really want to go there, and not just me.