The dearth of parental love instigates defensive intellectualism, 26 Oct 2008
Donald Barthelme was of course actually a consortium of 13 American academics. The books were produced using postal correspondence, and would in all honesty be rather 'dry and dusty' (full of rare words, tergiversatious narratives, and a cussed determination to make each next sentence unpredictable) - if you didn't know about the curiously named Bela Bluebeard. She was the Appalachian woman who first discovered the 'con' being perpetrated on the reading public (because, it is said, she slept with one of the academics' wives). Bela audaciously pretended to be both a man, AND the 'real' Barthelme - and then, when the embarrassed academics came clean, not only refused to concede that they were telling the truth, but went on to write a novel ('Snow White') that was every bit the equal of the academics' work. Even more interesting than all of this is that while none of the above is remotely true - it still might be. Barthelme's stories use urban American furniture, but they are essentially a 'Literary Achievement'. They invite comparison with pantheon-class writers. He can be witty in a phrase, but repetitiously tedious (or, as he might say, 'battologically boring') in a page. The result is impressively clever but substantially unmemorable. It's like that Tibetan saying used by the Dali Lama (no, really!) : 'The man of great intelligence is like a burning field: the fire passes quickly away'. Eclectic, indulgent, absurdist and decidedly not plot driven: reading a book of 60 such short stories is akin to eating a bowl of peas with a set of tweezers - you think you are NEVER going to reach the end. Barthelme himself once said, "Fragments are the only forms I..." but, thenagain, it would be contradicting him to complete the whole quote.

unique and brilliant, 27 Jul 2006
What is wrong with us? Why does this book languish unloved on Amazon, with no customer reviews? Why are we so suspicious of short stories?

I haven't got time right now to write the considered and persuasive review that Barthelme's books deserve, but nor can i pass on by without at least saying hey! Buy this book! and the companion volume, '40 Stories'. Barthelme was a genius. There is more intelligence, humanity, wit, linguistic dexterity, mischief, invention, bravura, and downright thumping good reading in any single one of these stories than in the entire careers of many writers.

The dearth of parental love instigates defensive intellectualism, 26 Oct 2008
Donald Barthelme was of course actually a consortium of 13 American academics. The books were produced using postal correspondence, and would in all honesty be rather 'dry and dusty' (full of rare words, tergiversatious narratives, and a cussed determination to make each next sentence unpredictable) - if you didn't know about the curiously named Bela Bluebeard. She was the Appalachian woman who first discovered the 'con' being perpetrated on the reading public (because, it is said, she slept with one of the academics' wives). Bela audaciously pretended to be both a man, AND the 'real' Barthelme - and then, when the embarrassed academics came clean, not only refused to concede that they were telling the truth, but went on to write a novel ('Snow White') that was every bit the equal of the academics' work. Even more interesting than all of this is that while none of the above is remotely true - it still might be. Barthelme's stories use urban American furniture, but they are essentially a 'Literary Achievement'. They invite comparison with pantheon-class writers. He can be witty in a phrase, but repetitiously tedious (or, as he might say, 'battologically boring') in a page. The result is impressively clever but substantially unmemorable. It's like that Tibetan saying used by the Dali Lama (no, really!) : 'The man of great intelligence is like a burning field: the fire passes quickly away'. Eclectic, indulgent, absurdist and decidedly not plot driven: reading a book of 60 such short stories is akin to eating a bowl of peas with a set of tweezers - you think you are NEVER going to reach the end. Barthelme himself once said, "Fragments are the only forms I..." but, thenagain, it would be contradicting him to complete the whole quote.

unique and brilliant, 27 Jul 2006
What is wrong with us? Why does this book languish unloved on Amazon, with no customer reviews? Why are we so suspicious of short stories?

I haven't got time right now to write the considered and persuasive review that Barthelme's books deserve, but nor can i pass on by without at least saying hey! Buy this book! and the companion volume, '40 Stories'. Barthelme was a genius. There is more intelligence, humanity, wit, linguistic dexterity, mischief, invention, bravura, and downright thumping good reading in any single one of these stories than in the entire careers of many writers.

Is it really paradise?, 14 Aug 2008
Simon, a 53 year old (or young) architect, living happily separated from his wife has, by luck of fortune (?) and happy coincidence 3 young women living in his home. These 3 beautiful young women do not only live in his appartment, in return they take (in all aspects) "loving care" of Simon. Now ain't this a man's dream come true? Donald Barthelme, who is a wonderful and original writer (40 Stories and 60 Stories are among the best of 20th century literature) has with "Paradise" delivered a partially funny, partially sad book, which is a good read all the way, which has great thoughts on love, sex and the convenience of solitude. "Paradise" is the lightest and least original (in comparison- but I guess, the orginality of 40 and 60 Stories is probably impossible to top or even call in the larger form of the novel) of what I have read of Donald Barthelme so far. Which makes this a splendid entry to Donald Barthelme's works.