That's Not the "Snow White" I Remember

For the last few days I've been working out what I think of Donald Barthelme's very unconventional telling of "Snow White," which I hope you're ready to be surprised but this is almost 100% not the story of Snow White, not that story in any of its previous derivations, although I'm specifically referring to the Disney version, I admit (so has Disney colored my opinion of so many fables and historical characters, like how about those many wonderful cows in 2004's "Home on the Range"? What more am I to think of them?).

So Donald Barthelme went somewhere different, and I won't lie to you who is reading this blog, I was very prepared for that. But I'm not bragging, although it may seem like bragging -- when you know something and maybe, maybe, others do not. I assure you in this case it is not bragging. A month ago I read and reviewed Barthelme's "Not-Knowing" and in it there are a number of articles and references to the avant-garde fictional qualities of "Snow White" and really essentially all of his work. So there you have it. That is how I knew in advance of reading of it, and you might say it is also how I knew of it at all. But that would be wrong because I knew of "Snow White" before I read "Not-Knowing." It was the substance of the story I was missing, and that "Not-Knowing" proffered.

With a story as obviously and intentionally non-linear and profoundly irreverent as "Snow White" it is easy to stamp your own sort of meaning on everything and anything you encounter, this is a symbol of that and so forth, et-cetera. And I suppose if New Criticism still held sway "Snow White" could be appropriately treated as a work of itself by itself with no empiricism required, but happily that critical theory doesn't and there are a few external things worthy of consideration. I'm interested in for one thing that the story was first published in 1967 as a whole and contiguous work, and prior to that in segments by The New Yorker in 1965. No one else can lay claim to the disjointedness and terse but loaded sentences belonging to his "Snow White." They are Barthelme through and through.

Today we see the abrupt humor of a Barthelme story in so many authors' work it would be useless to attempt to name them all, although some examples that come to mind are George Saunders, Etgar Keret, Barry Hannah and even David Foster Wallace and Dave Eggers in various stories. Take for example the following line from "Snow White" -- "Then I took off my shirt and called Paul, because we were planning to break into his apartment, and if he was there, we could not do so." And this line brings to mind other Barthelme stories, like "Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby," and the dark humor inherent in the casual morbidity of its opening line: "Some of us had been threatening our friend Colby for a long time, because of the way he had been behaving. And now he'd gone too far, so we decided to hang him." It's very lyrical as well, almost like a poem. One of those lines that has a way of dancing in your brain, in and out. And that to me is much of what Barthelme is about and is so deftly able to achieve.

Now I'm obviously not saying Barthelme didn't have antecedents per se -- a few would be Hemingway (of course, since he basically influenced everyone who followed him like it or not), Samuel Beckett and Franz Kafka, the latter two being most frequently cited by critics (Barthelme himself made frequent mention of Heinrich von Kleist, also) -- but Barthelme like all great creative and original minds took what he was given and made it all his own.

That's why "Snow White" -- for all of its difficulties -- works in the end. It uniquely demonstrates Barthelmeian thought -- its austere, detached narrators each philosophizing on a myriad of subjects, all of them conveying a kind of meaning which begs a second look, not because this meaning is inscrutable but because it is to the contrary so lucent. By that I mean his sentences are already pared to their barest limit, so that the inscrutability of his work comes from circumstances and diction, and thus these are the most apparent points of analysis.

His character's circumstances are never consistent and probably aren't meant to be, since "Snow White" is a piece that was originally serialized and, more importantly, Barthelme always seemed inclined to write within certain narrow places, a burst of creativity and then on to the next one, an inclination his terse writing style harmonizes with nicely. So each page and a half seems its own vignette without necessarily needing concerted elaboration but not hurting from contiguous placement with its other serialized, discrete parts. "Snow White's" division is less pronounced than that of a book of short stories, and more akin to a collection like John Barth's "Lost in the Funhouse."

As for Barthelme's diction, let me say that he was great at breaking down convention with his usual wry humor and misleadingly basic prose, because behind his employing words spartanly was I suspect plenty of thought and decided satirical intent, delivered in sentences at their most finely honed. Here, in the court house, assumedly, and swearing Shield 333 to answer all questions honestly, the bailiff (again assumedly, because I have no clue who reads the oath in actual court cases) says, "Do you swear to tell the truth, or some of it, or most of it, so long as we both may live?" "Snow White" is built upon his ability to undermine the boilerplate structure of so many of the phrases and idioms that have become ingrained in our cultural discourse and are beginning to feel recognizable a priori of any felt experience.

It's well done, is what I'm saying.

So I think what I'll call the epitaph of "Snow White" (these words appearing on one of its last pages) sums up everything satisfactorily (much better than I am able): Anathemization of the world is not an adequate response to the world

Donald Barthelme's "Not-Knowing" is Half the Battle

I know, "'Not-Knowing' is half the battle" is probably the worst GI Joe pun imaginable. Sorry, and what's done is done. (Stick around, too, because it won't be my last.) But also I say, where there is a horrible GI Joe pun, there is often much in the way of truth. You will have to judge this for yourself, but I'm going to attempt to bring meaning to my bold statement. It's the least I can do for Donald Barthelme, who wrote and spoke as thoughtfully on the subject of postmodernism and the past / present / future role of literature as anyone I've heretofore encountered.

Barthelme's essay "Not-Knowing" is extremely useful to all who are concerned with the very apparent challenges of a writer's craft, and of getting from point A (no story) to point B (a created story). Moreover, the selfsame titled book -- a collection of essays, short works, interviews and reviews compiled posthumously by its editor Kim Herzinger and, ostensibly, the Barthelme Estate -- covers a pretty sprawling range of territory, although considering the author that shouldn't be very surprising. Barthelme cared a great deal about "doing his homework" as one interviewer refers to his noticeable propensity to pore over all sorts of research material.

What I find especially unusual about Donald Barthelme is his willingness in seemingly all his interviews, or at least those made available in "Not-Knowing," to elaborate when answering questions in anything but the somewhat common, boilerplate authorial way you tend to expect. He also answers questions with a modest candor that seems strikingly absent from most others I've read, which is not a criticism I reserve strictly for the authorial realm. With Barthelme there is no evasion, it seems. Here for example is a question and answer that I think succinctly covers both of the aspects of what I admire about his answering style (the question is put forth by J.D. O'Hara):

You keep up in philosophy and psychology, do you not?

Not really. I have a very mercantile approach, I read whatever I think might be useful, might start something. I read other writers to discover what they do well; that helps me, reminds me why I got into this peculiar business in the first place. It's most unsystematic.

Ok, so fine he uses the phrase "It's most unsystematic" and you could say that's a smidgen pretentious sounding, but other than a smidgen of pretentiousness, which I think might be unavoidable to the whole artistic endeavor and so forth, Barthelme is pretty well-reasoned and open. I would think that could be difficult for a writer of his renown. Maybe it's not. Maybe it's easier to be modest when you've achieved something significant with your writing. I don't know. Not for me to speculate on. I like the exchange, the above exchange and the others to be found in his various interviews, which I will no doubt quote more of them before this post is done.

Take for example Barthelme's answer to the question of the moral responsibility of the artist. This is tricky territory, which I think is something most people who read for stuff like subtext will agree. And I think Barthelme replies with a very non-copout opinion, which is:

I believe that my every sentence trembles with morality in that each attempts to engage the problematic rather than to present a proposition to which all reasonable men must agree.

It's frustrating to read authors dither or flat-out deny that their work should be interpreted as making a statement -- pro or con -- with regard to a given moral issue. Of course Barthelme doesn't come right out and admit he's inclined to make a pro or con moral statement, either, but what he does do is say that I am not the objective eye in the sky, watching but not acting. In effect, by the very nature of my presenting this morality in my work I'm acknowledging it as being problematic, as a condition worth addressing and perhaps declaratively condemning or failing that, then allowing for the possibility that it could be condemned (as you who read may see fit to react). The word is probably "engagement." In the same interview, prior to the above cited quote, Barthelme invoked the words of Karl Klaus, who said, "a writer is someone who can make a riddle out of an answer." I can't decide to what degree I believe that comment is accurate but I do like where Barthelme goes with it, which I think fits his attitude regarding the role of morality in an author's work. He says:

There's also an element of reportage, the description of new situations or conditions, but that's pretty much a matter of identifying them rather than talking about solutions. Baudelaire noticing that the boulevards of Paris were no longer a means of getting from here to there but had become more like theater lobbies, places to be, and writing about that. The search is for a question that will generate light and heat.

That last part about what will "generate light and heat" strikes me as most profound and insightful. Where is there substance in the life of a given society at any moment in its existence? The writer must determine this, draw it out to the best of his or her ability. I think that is true. You're free to disagree, as always.

In another interview Barthelme remarks about the TV news (a far different thing in the '80s from what it is today, but his thought is still relevant and probably will continue to be for the foreseeable future) and what is most troublesome about the way in which it is culled and delivered, saying, "I think there the problem is because of time. Both in gathering the news and in presenting it, you get a very thin, rather than rich, version of events." According to Barthelme, concerning the trend of the 1980's Reagan administration to release information to the media that was ambiguous in its meaning -- which is a trend that continues to be true today, even post-George W. Bush, though Obama's administration is more forthcoming -- the question that must be asked in any situation where our government fails to be transparent is the same, if for no other reason than its directness:

'What do you mean?' is a question that can be repeated indefinitely, until you finally locate the meaning -- if there is a meaning to be located.

It's a shame we lost Barthelme at the early age of 58. That's all I've got left to say. For now, anyway.

Inherent Vice a Vision of All That is Good of Thomas Pynchon

I like the recondite, fragmentary style that has always been a staple of Pynchonian fiction and done to epic effect in novels like "V." and "Gravity's Rainbow." Sure, yes they are difficult to follow at times, a narrative is broken up and a new narrative is introduced, regularly without the slightest hint of warning and so keeping you, reader, on your toes. It's reading that can be very rewarding and stimulating, but it's reading I'll concede is taxing and requires some patience, as well.

Most of the reviews I read of "Inherent Vice" -- Thomas Pynchon's latest literary effort -- said that it was something of a departure for one of the great antecedents of contemporary fiction, a lion postmodern literature style. He wrote a novel that tells the same story, follows the same main character faithfully, from beginning to end? (Has Pynchon gone soft on us?) No, though certain elements of Pynchon are lost in this not-as-sprawling text of about 370 pages, the story is as interesting and enjoyable as any of his I've read, also as Pynchon-ey in just some of the best ways.

"Inherent Vice" is a uniquely Pynchonian take on the noir genre -- something akin to a novelization of "The Big Lebowski" but also simultaneously a story going by its own unique drumbeat, to be sure. Doc Sportello is thrust into a typically paranoid Pynchonian narrative, which begins innocently enough, as most detective novels do, with the arrival of his ex-girlfriend Shasta Fay Hepworth who informs him of a plot being hatched by the wife of a wealthy real-estate developer, Mickey Wolfmann, and her lover. The plot they've thought up is to take control of Wolfmann's assets by having him committed to a mental institution. Hepworth had meanwhile become Wolfmann's lover and is asked by his wife, Sloane, and Riggs Warbling, her lover, to assist them in carrying out their plans. Things devolve rapidly and chaotically from there.

I've always wanted to read a Pynchon novel that tells the story of characters like "V.'s" Benny Profane and The Whole Sick Crew and "Gravity's Rainbow's" Tyrone Slothrop et al without interruption. What some people don't know or won't admit is that Thomas Pynchon is actually extremely funny, although this is hard sometimes to pick up on when reading through dense tracts regarding the mechanics of a World War II era V-2 Rocket and its parabolic arcs and achieving "Brennschluss," or the strange nature of espionage and deceit and drunken elephants in early 20th century North Africa, plus conceptualization of the mid-20th century phenomenon dubbed "Non-humanity" by Fausto Maijstral.

Doc Sportello affords Pynchon with an ideal mark on which to spring various unfortunate and hilarious gags. To name some: pornographic neckties, confrontation with a motley assortment of strange musicians and bikers, a cryptic and sub rosa organization known only as "The Golden Fang" dangling precipitously on the tongues of everyone Doc meets. Then of course there is the pervading sense that America has failed to be a shining "City on a Hill," and perhaps there is a new undiscovered continent forming even further west, which it's supposed or implied will somehow reach fruition in a way that the United States has failed to, deliver on the promise that was once our own.

Is that a negative interpretation? Maybe it could be construed more positively. It probably could, but these are negative times, times that try souls. And thankfully we have still got Thomas Pynchon and Don DeLillo around to proffer their literary opinions, nebulous as they sometimes are -- and I hope it's not too much of a stretch to attach that kind of meaning to their writing (been reading a lot of Donald Barthelme lately and his opinion of literature and what effect it can produce has emboldened me to make this interpretive leap. More to come on Barthelme, though). DeLillo didn't publish a new novel this year, but he did make an appearance in the New Yorker last month with his short story, "Midnight in Dostoevsky." It describes two young students of a college town, walking around it and debating each other. I'll end with a quote from the narrator that I found particularly poignant:

At times, abandon meaning to impulse. Let the words be the facts. This was the nature of our walks -- to register what was out there, all scattered rhythms of circumstance and occurrence, and to reconstruct it as human noise.