Jack but Not John Barth

Abstract

Jack but Not John Barth R. L. Friedman (bio) I’ve never met John Barth. Jack Barth I know, but John Barth remains a stranger. In 1976, two of my high school English teachers invited me to join them at Emory University for a reading by famed novelist, John Barth. My love of literature was fiery at age 17, which inspired their thoughtful invitation. Barth was a renowned author and even a cult figure, winner of the National Book Award in 1973 for Chimera. One of the teachers suggested I read that work before the Emory event. I tried. I tried again. But the allusions to Dunyazad, Perseus, and Bellerophon were so far beyond my base of knowledge, I was intimidated long before we stepped out of the car on the Emory campus. The auditorium was standing room only. Barth was famous at a time, I suspect, when students cared to tackle complex literary works and try to out-read one another (a phenomenon rendered with wry observance in a passage from The Floating Opera). For literate college students, knowing the intricacies of The Sot-Weed Factor or Giles Goat-Boy was essential. Gaps in one’s ultra-literacy mattered. Before the program began, students chatted fervidly about Barth’s works: the allusions behind New Tammany College, the picaresque bawdiness of Ebenezer Cooke’s adventures, and Ambrose, the sperm who narrates his passage towards the creation of a life. Several commented that Barth helmed the Writing Seminars department at his alma mater, Johns Hopkins. When he was introduced and began reading excerpts from Chimera, I marveled at his attributes: ultra-tall and beyond slender, his bald pate seemed to house a supercomputer. His tone was playful, less like an academic and more akin to a jazz artist riffing on exciting themes. The erudite wordplay enthralled the audience but zoomed so far over my head it cracked the ceiling—all of which inspired me to jump into the author’s works, absorbing them in chronological order. And since the first novel, The Floating Opera, concerned the adventures and existential musings of a Johns Hopkins alumnus, this tidbit added to a growing roster of feedback pointing me towards Baltimore. I figured it out: I would attend Johns Hopkins as an English or Writing Seminars major, and study under John Barth himself. I enrolled at Hopkins. [End Page 169] Then came my first Writing Seminars class. I don’t recall my submission or why the grad student teacher held it in such low regard, but the force of her criticism wounded me far out of proportion to her intents. Hypersensitive, I couldn’t take it. Never again did I take a Writing Sems class outside of playwriting (which was taught by a delightful chemistry professor with a love of theater and no expectations for artistry). Barth was quite a presence on campus. Whenever he strolled by, students whispered in awe. Whenever he held readings, the venues rocked with undergraduates, grad students, teachers, and the wider community. One of my favorite college memories occurred when the novelist and essayist John Gardner came to Hopkins to read from his works. The packed audience in Shriver Hall had come to witness an intellectual scrum. Supporters of Gardner adhered to his belief in literature as a necessary moral force. Supporters of Barth decried any boundaries imposed on literary efforts, preferring the self-referential play of metafiction—of stories acknowledging themselves as fictional forms. What I didn’t know was, regardless of their differences, Barth and Gardner were friends with mutual respect for the other’s output. Gardner read from his work, then opened the floor for questions. And who should raise his hand first but Barth, who challenged Gardner’s conceptions. Gardner smiled, knowing he was behind enemy lines, and quietly outlined his disregard for metafiction. Barth queried further. Gardner reiterated his views, citing examples of what he deemed moral literature versus experimental works. The audience understood that the answer to this dispute lay in their own hands: read what grabs, moves, and entertains you. Which made the give and take between these two giants seem like its own metafiction: we were observers but also participants. I...