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O Senhor das Pocilgas
Tristan Egolf's first novel is an unsparing view of life in a town where inbred Appalachia and Middle America overlap and intermingle. John Kaltenbrunner, an only child, is born on the heels of his father's death. At an unusually early age, the boy shows a flair for farming and a desire to be left alone, two things that make people pick on him in increasingly vicious ways. John's life plan is to drop out of school when he hits 16 and mind his own business. But he loses everything, alienates everyone, and through a series of increasingly outrageous mishaps winds up serving three years work-release felony time on a river barge. When he comes home to Baker, no one recognizes him:
John had expected, maybe even hoped for, a little something more to herald his arrival--some burning crosses or lynch mobs on the lawn, a coven of Methodists to picket his re-entry, a banner-wielding committee from the school board, anything at all. But to his disbelief, he found the streets quiet and empty.The streets don't stay that way for long as the tale truly turns on the garbage strike organized by John and his gang of fellow misfits. As a result, Baker comes apart at the seams and all the citizenry reveal their true natures. In his singular debut, Tristan Egolf demonstrates an unschooled flair for storytelling, which earned him accolades--and even a comparison to Céline--when the novel was published in France. True, his characters are cutouts with few surprises, including dialogue (there isn't any). But there is plenty of room in these pages to admire a wild and imaginative look at a slice of life cut from the underbelly of Middle America. --Schuyler Engle
465 pages, Paperback
First published October 9, 1998
48 people are currently reading
1695 people want to read
About the author
Tristan Egolf
5 books47 followersEgolf was born in San Lorenzo de El Escorial, Spain. His father, Brad Evans, was a National Review journalist and his mother, Paula, a painter. His younger sister is American actress Gretchen Egolf. His parents divorced in Egolf's childhood and he took the surname of his stepfather, Gary Egolf. In his youth, the family moved from Washington to Kentucky. It was life in Philadelphia, however, that inspired Egolf, along with summer visits to his father's new home in Indiana. He graduated from Hempfield High School in Landisville, Pennsylvania, in 1990. Egolf briefly attended Temple University, in Philadelphia.
In Paris, Egolf struck up an acquaintance with the daughter of Patrick Modiano, a prominent French author and screenwriter (Lacombe Lucien). Modiano helped get his first novel published in France in 1998 by Gallimard after it had been rejected by more than 70 U.S. publishers. Lord of the Barnyard was subsequently published in the UK and the US and received moderately favorable reviews - with a few raves worldwide. His second book, Skirt and the Fiddle, was published in 2002 to even better critical response; his third, Kornwolf, was published after his death. He had also been working on a screenplay for Lord of the Barnyard, left unfinished.
In Paris, Egolf struck up an acquaintance with the daughter of Patrick Modiano, a prominent French author and screenwriter (Lacombe Lucien). Modiano helped get his first novel published in France in 1998 by Gallimard after it had been rejected by more than 70 U.S. publishers. Lord of the Barnyard was subsequently published in the UK and the US and received moderately favorable reviews - with a few raves worldwide. His second book, Skirt and the Fiddle, was published in 2002 to even better critical response; his third, Kornwolf, was published after his death. He had also been working on a screenplay for Lord of the Barnyard, left unfinished.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 164 reviews
May 24, 2018
There's a good deal of history here. Back when I wore plaid and carried Nietzsche books everywhere there was a scene here. It was in the Highlands in Louisville. There were hordes of pseuds, but there was a core. There was a group of serious people involved with art, music, literature and activism. Most moved away - the Northwest, NYC, abroad etc. A few died. Recently a number have passed, mostly from cancer. Mostly my age. There was a coffeehouse that hosted readings and concerts. There was going to be a lecture series on Foucault. My best friend Joel and I went. The guy delivering the spiel was our age. He had a firm handle on his Foucault. There were a number of points open to debate. This I did. I am not entirely proud of said behavior. I wasn't heckling. I wasn't drunk (Stephen Malkmus, please forgive me) but I did interupt, politely. A great deal was discussed.
A few years later Harold, who owned Twice-Told Books in Louisville, asked me if I had heard of Lord of the Barnyard. I hadn't. Harold explained that Egolf had lived in the area for a few years doing research on river towns in Southern Indiana. Harold noted that he also spoke about Derrida and Foucault locally. Oh shit. Well apparently Mr. Egolf was busking in Paris, his manuscript had been rejected by every publisher in the US and UK. He wound up involved with a publisher's daughter from one of the French heavies.
Mr Egalf distilled life in Southern Indiana and displayed such with aplomb in his first novel. I loved it. I remember reading it while walking to work, something reckless I have since outgrown. Because of Mr. Egolf's abrupt conclusion in life, I haven't found the nerve to read his other work, which I have collected.
A few years later Harold, who owned Twice-Told Books in Louisville, asked me if I had heard of Lord of the Barnyard. I hadn't. Harold explained that Egolf had lived in the area for a few years doing research on river towns in Southern Indiana. Harold noted that he also spoke about Derrida and Foucault locally. Oh shit. Well apparently Mr. Egolf was busking in Paris, his manuscript had been rejected by every publisher in the US and UK. He wound up involved with a publisher's daughter from one of the French heavies.
Mr Egalf distilled life in Southern Indiana and displayed such with aplomb in his first novel. I loved it. I remember reading it while walking to work, something reckless I have since outgrown. Because of Mr. Egolf's abrupt conclusion in life, I haven't found the nerve to read his other work, which I have collected.
February 4, 2021
One of my favorite books of all time. Inventive, literary; a truly mythic read. Had Mr. Egolf not committed suicide only a few years after Barnyard was written I have no doubt he would be listed with David Foster Wallace (who sadly also committed suicide) as one the of brightest and most accomplished writers of his generation. To my mind Barnyard is one of the great American novels of the past 20 years. It should be on every readers reading list. One of few novels I have re-read several times just for pure enjoyment. RIP Mr. Egolf.
————
Re-read #3 Review. My first read of Barnyard was shortly after publication in 2000. I read it a second time ca. 2007 when I (belatedly) heard of his suicide in May 2005. And now in 2021. It remains a favorite, but reading it at a diffrent ages has altered my perspective. When I first read it I loved its riotous over the top almost biblical tall tale, energetic pacing, and Egolf's expansive use of language. A tour de force for an author only twenty-seven with little to no formal training. The second time I was again dazzled, but also saw hints of Egolf's internal demons. In this read the demons are more clear. For all its dizzying energy, Lord of the Barnyard is a dark and mean send up of rural America- an America that Egolf lived in for a time and appears to have had little respect for. Baker and the Baker Lay are a spiteful and vengeful lot. Most of the cast are described as witches, trolls and goblins, racist, frequently drunk and violent. The lead, John Kaltenbrunner, has clear ties to Egolf himself - both raised by a single mother, fiercely intelligent, self-taught, angry, with an absent mysterious father who is at first idolized and later found to be toxic. With this context one begins to wonder if Kaltenbrunner's attempts to rise above his humble beginnings and the constant (literal) beating back of his ambitions was a mirror for Egolf’s struggles to be heard. Was Barnyard Egolf's attempt to exorcise an unhappy past? We'll never know. What’s clear is that with Egolf's death the world lost an exceeding talented young author just as he was finding his voice. Reviews of Barnyard compare Egolf to Twain, Steinbeck, and John Kennedy O'Toole. To these I would add David Foster Wallace who like Egolf also tragically killed himself. RIP Mr. Egolf.
An interesting article on Egolf for the curious. His life was a bit like a tall tale.
————
Re-read #3 Review. My first read of Barnyard was shortly after publication in 2000. I read it a second time ca. 2007 when I (belatedly) heard of his suicide in May 2005. And now in 2021. It remains a favorite, but reading it at a diffrent ages has altered my perspective. When I first read it I loved its riotous over the top almost biblical tall tale, energetic pacing, and Egolf's expansive use of language. A tour de force for an author only twenty-seven with little to no formal training. The second time I was again dazzled, but also saw hints of Egolf's internal demons. In this read the demons are more clear. For all its dizzying energy, Lord of the Barnyard is a dark and mean send up of rural America- an America that Egolf lived in for a time and appears to have had little respect for. Baker and the Baker Lay are a spiteful and vengeful lot. Most of the cast are described as witches, trolls and goblins, racist, frequently drunk and violent. The lead, John Kaltenbrunner, has clear ties to Egolf himself - both raised by a single mother, fiercely intelligent, self-taught, angry, with an absent mysterious father who is at first idolized and later found to be toxic. With this context one begins to wonder if Kaltenbrunner's attempts to rise above his humble beginnings and the constant (literal) beating back of his ambitions was a mirror for Egolf’s struggles to be heard. Was Barnyard Egolf's attempt to exorcise an unhappy past? We'll never know. What’s clear is that with Egolf's death the world lost an exceeding talented young author just as he was finding his voice. Reviews of Barnyard compare Egolf to Twain, Steinbeck, and John Kennedy O'Toole. To these I would add David Foster Wallace who like Egolf also tragically killed himself. RIP Mr. Egolf.
An interesting article on Egolf for the curious. His life was a bit like a tall tale.
June 23, 2021
“Tutta la sua vita fu per definizione una serie inconcepibile di disfatte totali.
E andò avanti così per anni e anni, oltre la soglia del ridicolo, sull’orlo dell’impossibile, finché tutta la frutta guasta, la povertà e lo squallore, l’interminabile carosello — ogni combustibile ad alta percentuale di ottani in mezzo a tanta abbondanza — finalmente trovarono sfogo e invasero tutta la campagna.
Allora fu la volta dello scalpore.
Allora fu la volta del caos.”
Romanzo ignorato negli Stati Uniti, arrivò in Europa grazie a Patrick Modiano.
Pubblicato da Gallimard nel 1998, rimbalzò di nuovo negli Stati Uniti e questa volta fu un successo
.
Grottesco fin dal titolo, racconta con rabbia la storia di un ragazzo arrabbiato:
vittima di ingiustizie quasi surreali non tace ma scalcia, sbotta e alla violenza risponde con violenza.
John Kaltenbrunner è il suo nome.
Baker il nome di una cittadina assurdamente reazionaria che sforna cittadini su cittadini fatti nello stesso stampo.
Una curiosa voce narrante ci racconta i fatti riferendosi ad un noi di cui scopriamo l’identità nella seconda parte del libro.
Gli episodi partono dalla nascita di John segnato fin dalla nascita dal pregiudizio che lo etichetta prima come “strano”, “anormale” per poi diffondere dalla scuola in poi una sua immagine sempre più distorta.
La mentalità provinciale ne fa un capro espiatorio ma John rappresenta tutti coloro che non ci stanno ad essere calpestati dalla folla.
La lotta di John si erge sulla barricata generazionale a piantare la propria bandiera.
Romanzo assolutamente originale e con un ritmo serrato.
Consigliato ai lettori che sanno guardare oltre la superficie del paradosso.
Un assaggio:
” Ci saremmo scoperti a ricorrere a lui nel momento del bisogno, al suo esile ululato nella foresta come nuovo antidoto contro l’ordinaria follia. Ogni volta che il trantran quotidiano avesse preteso un tributo troppo alto, quando si fosse fermato un compattatore, il governo avesse battuto cassa, si fosse spezzata una stringa delle scarpe, perso un modulo delle tasse, presentato un ispettore, ingorgato il lavandino, i troll si fossero messi a urlare, il padrone di casa a telefonare per l’affitto scaduto — tutto l’abc del tirare a campare, sufficiente a far perdere la bussola a qualsiasi persona ragionevolmente sensibile — allora sarebbe stato il momento di ricorrere a John: di ricordare come era riuscito a farsi strada a calci e pugni fra una tragedia e l’altra con tutta la confusione di una vita andata storta fin dal primo giorno e che si era messa a ribollire all’improvviso. Si era messa a ribollire per noi; per spronarci a sfogare la nostra bile e ricominciare da capo come uomini nuovi. Riportati a terra dal mondo delle nuvole con una pagina pulita da imbrattare sempre a spese di un ragazzo morto.”
E andò avanti così per anni e anni, oltre la soglia del ridicolo, sull’orlo dell’impossibile, finché tutta la frutta guasta, la povertà e lo squallore, l’interminabile carosello — ogni combustibile ad alta percentuale di ottani in mezzo a tanta abbondanza — finalmente trovarono sfogo e invasero tutta la campagna.
Allora fu la volta dello scalpore.
Allora fu la volta del caos.”
Romanzo ignorato negli Stati Uniti, arrivò in Europa grazie a Patrick Modiano.
Pubblicato da Gallimard nel 1998, rimbalzò di nuovo negli Stati Uniti e questa volta fu un successo
.
Grottesco fin dal titolo, racconta con rabbia la storia di un ragazzo arrabbiato:
vittima di ingiustizie quasi surreali non tace ma scalcia, sbotta e alla violenza risponde con violenza.
John Kaltenbrunner è il suo nome.
Baker il nome di una cittadina assurdamente reazionaria che sforna cittadini su cittadini fatti nello stesso stampo.
Una curiosa voce narrante ci racconta i fatti riferendosi ad un noi di cui scopriamo l’identità nella seconda parte del libro.
Gli episodi partono dalla nascita di John segnato fin dalla nascita dal pregiudizio che lo etichetta prima come “strano”, “anormale” per poi diffondere dalla scuola in poi una sua immagine sempre più distorta.
La mentalità provinciale ne fa un capro espiatorio ma John rappresenta tutti coloro che non ci stanno ad essere calpestati dalla folla.
La lotta di John si erge sulla barricata generazionale a piantare la propria bandiera.
Romanzo assolutamente originale e con un ritmo serrato.
Consigliato ai lettori che sanno guardare oltre la superficie del paradosso.
Un assaggio:
” Ci saremmo scoperti a ricorrere a lui nel momento del bisogno, al suo esile ululato nella foresta come nuovo antidoto contro l’ordinaria follia. Ogni volta che il trantran quotidiano avesse preteso un tributo troppo alto, quando si fosse fermato un compattatore, il governo avesse battuto cassa, si fosse spezzata una stringa delle scarpe, perso un modulo delle tasse, presentato un ispettore, ingorgato il lavandino, i troll si fossero messi a urlare, il padrone di casa a telefonare per l’affitto scaduto — tutto l’abc del tirare a campare, sufficiente a far perdere la bussola a qualsiasi persona ragionevolmente sensibile — allora sarebbe stato il momento di ricorrere a John: di ricordare come era riuscito a farsi strada a calci e pugni fra una tragedia e l’altra con tutta la confusione di una vita andata storta fin dal primo giorno e che si era messa a ribollire all’improvviso. Si era messa a ribollire per noi; per spronarci a sfogare la nostra bile e ricominciare da capo come uomini nuovi. Riportati a terra dal mondo delle nuvole con una pagina pulita da imbrattare sempre a spese di un ragazzo morto.”
January 31, 2021
This is an easier book to admire than to love. When I search for comparisons, the only book that comes to mind is John Barth's Giles Goat-Boy, and I'm now smacking myself on the forehead for not realizing this connection sooner -- the hero of this book was indeed called (among other names) goat-boy. By rights, this fellow (called John Kaltenbrunner) should be as well-known as Paul Bunyon, though his story is decidedly less uplifting.
Both books are what can only be described as completely over-the-top tall tales. Barthes' book (which I read in my teens and recall only in the barest outlines) was a sendup of academia and Egolf's of smug Midwestern towns. Both involve messianic characters who start off just trying to live their lives in peace before events overtake them. Of the two, Giles was funnier, and Barnyard scarier, because the events in Barnyard, while brewed into a thick, lethal concentrate, were any one them plausible....The only implausibility was their accumulation into a single town in a single period of time.
That this book exists at all is somewhat miraculous, given its length, the quality of the writing, and the bravery of its conception. The author was all of 27 years old when it was published. My main complaint in the book is that it seems to have been written by somebody who is not lacking in experience, but lacking in exposure to alternate worldviews. Many of the ghastly details of life in small Midwestern towns are far too keenly observed to be wholly figments of his imagination, but I was left wishing he'd spent more time listening to other people with a more balanced sensibility. This book was a long revenge fantasy, the first half of which was the heaping of injustice upon injustice on young John Kaltenbrunner, and the latter half was the utter destruction of the town that had treated him so brutally. (This is not a spoiler, having been laid out in the opening paragraphs.)
It's a shame Egolf didn't live longer. His talents for storytelling, compelling prose and clarity of vision would have served him well in life if only he had more exposure to those things that make life worth living, rather than things he felt were worth dying for.
Thanks to Stephen for the suggestion and buddy read.
Both books are what can only be described as completely over-the-top tall tales. Barthes' book (which I read in my teens and recall only in the barest outlines) was a sendup of academia and Egolf's of smug Midwestern towns. Both involve messianic characters who start off just trying to live their lives in peace before events overtake them. Of the two, Giles was funnier, and Barnyard scarier, because the events in Barnyard, while brewed into a thick, lethal concentrate, were any one them plausible....The only implausibility was their accumulation into a single town in a single period of time.
That this book exists at all is somewhat miraculous, given its length, the quality of the writing, and the bravery of its conception. The author was all of 27 years old when it was published. My main complaint in the book is that it seems to have been written by somebody who is not lacking in experience, but lacking in exposure to alternate worldviews. Many of the ghastly details of life in small Midwestern towns are far too keenly observed to be wholly figments of his imagination, but I was left wishing he'd spent more time listening to other people with a more balanced sensibility. This book was a long revenge fantasy, the first half of which was the heaping of injustice upon injustice on young John Kaltenbrunner, and the latter half was the utter destruction of the town that had treated him so brutally. (This is not a spoiler, having been laid out in the opening paragraphs.)
It's a shame Egolf didn't live longer. His talents for storytelling, compelling prose and clarity of vision would have served him well in life if only he had more exposure to those things that make life worth living, rather than things he felt were worth dying for.
Thanks to Stephen for the suggestion and buddy read.
December 16, 2007
I think this is one of the finest stories written by a young American in the past ten years. I've had it around for a while, maybe even read it back in Colorado. An absurd story. But new, and I dare anyone to try and forget this one. The local outcast brings the town down by organizing the garbage men to quit working. The town starts to disappear under trash. A mean story kind of, but so funny. It is a shame this guy is gone. He was really good. Highly recommended.
August 13, 2016
I loved this book. Amazing story, and Egolf had such style as a writer.
This is not humor. There is an occasional witty or sarcastic sentence from time to time that will leave the reader with a cocky grin on their face, but for the most part, this was a very sad book. Or at least, it was to me. A man loses the woman loves, are you laughing? A man is brutally hurt and losing his very grasp on reality, is it humorous to you now? A story about someone as misunderstood as John Kaltenbauer is not a funny one, not to me. It's sad and terrible.
There is dialogue. I define dialogue in a book by two characters speaking. I don't need quotation marks for there to be dialogue. People do talk to each other in this book. If you missed it, you were probably skimming. It is a common literary trait for writers not to use quotation marks.
This is not an easy read. The paragraphs are long and detailed. It was a book that I could not read if there was a mess of noise or commotion surrounding me. I read this book in long spurts of silence in my room, focused with a cup of my coffee, and my dog Bandit.
I almost cried when the main character, John, contemplated suicide. I couldn't help but wonder during those few pages if these were the character's thoughts, or Egolf's.
I liked the way Egolf tackled the topic of how much trash people produce each day/year. It is something that has been on my mind a lot in the past year. Every time I pay for something at the grocery store or at a gas station, I can't help but wonder how much of the money I just spent is going to the packaging alone and then later on to rot in a landfill.
This is not humor. There is an occasional witty or sarcastic sentence from time to time that will leave the reader with a cocky grin on their face, but for the most part, this was a very sad book. Or at least, it was to me. A man loses the woman loves, are you laughing? A man is brutally hurt and losing his very grasp on reality, is it humorous to you now? A story about someone as misunderstood as John Kaltenbauer is not a funny one, not to me. It's sad and terrible.
There is dialogue. I define dialogue in a book by two characters speaking. I don't need quotation marks for there to be dialogue. People do talk to each other in this book. If you missed it, you were probably skimming. It is a common literary trait for writers not to use quotation marks.
This is not an easy read. The paragraphs are long and detailed. It was a book that I could not read if there was a mess of noise or commotion surrounding me. I read this book in long spurts of silence in my room, focused with a cup of my coffee, and my dog Bandit.
I almost cried when the main character, John, contemplated suicide. I couldn't help but wonder during those few pages if these were the character's thoughts, or Egolf's.
I liked the way Egolf tackled the topic of how much trash people produce each day/year. It is something that has been on my mind a lot in the past year. Every time I pay for something at the grocery store or at a gas station, I can't help but wonder how much of the money I just spent is going to the packaging alone and then later on to rot in a landfill.
December 15, 2024
Quelle incroyable épopée que celle de #johnkaltenbrunner : on est déstabilisé au début, et puis soudain on se fait happer par cet individu, dans le tourbillon de son incroyable vie. C’est incontestablement une aventure américaine, qui nous fait toucher tout ce que l’Amérique profonde a de plus authentique (mais aussi de plus opposé à la fable du rêve américain). Dans cette vallée, le rêve américain s’est fait consanguin pour produire une version sale, bête et méchante de la société. Le roman est excellemment écrit et traduit. Pendant toute ma lecture, je n’ai pas cessé de me dire que l’auteur avait réussi avec John ce qui était raté avec Ignatius. Oui, je suis passée totalement à côté de la Conjuration des Imbéciles, que je promets à ses fans de relire un jour sans a priori. Pour autant, j’aurais vraiment tendance à les comparer (d’ailleurs la fin tragique de leurs auteurs est similaire). Bref, si vous voulez du grand roman américain comme vous n’en avez sans doute jamais lu, prenez une grande respiration, mettez vous en apnée et démarrez.
February 23, 2011
If you're like me, reading the very first acrobatic sentence of this book will let you know that you're in for a serious treat.
Though Barnyard has some flaws--things seem to slow down when the action is ostensibly rising to an impossible apex--the many moments of perfection in language and style certainly make up for any weaknesses. Divided into three major sections, part one of this book is absolutely packed with plot, myth, language and bravado. It could conceivably stand on its own as an excellent tale. As the myth of John Kaltenbrunner continues to expand in parts two and three, there are moments where the third-person narrative style may contribute to a loss of momentum, but even then it's a great book--just maybe not as tightly wound as its beginning.
Though Barnyard has some flaws--things seem to slow down when the action is ostensibly rising to an impossible apex--the many moments of perfection in language and style certainly make up for any weaknesses. Divided into three major sections, part one of this book is absolutely packed with plot, myth, language and bravado. It could conceivably stand on its own as an excellent tale. As the myth of John Kaltenbrunner continues to expand in parts two and three, there are moments where the third-person narrative style may contribute to a loss of momentum, but even then it's a great book--just maybe not as tightly wound as its beginning.
December 28, 2012
I've owned this book since June of 2006 and have never seen fit to crack the spine.
It was given to me as a birthday gift by my best friend Stephen. He was a playwright as well, and a big fan of this writer. Stephen seemed to think that I would enjoy him, too. I put the book on a shelf with every intention of getting to it. But then. . .the October after I received this book. . .Stephen died in a horrific car accident. This novel, among others, went untouched. Perhaps I was too afraid of the nostalgia it would evoke.
Recently, my wife and I moved into a larger house. We haven’t unpacked the books yet, but I needed something new to read, so I opened the first box at random and just grabbed something out. This novel won the lottery. I held it in my hand for a long moment, contemplating if I really wanted to do this to myself, but, in the end, I decided that I was ready.
Yes, it made me nostalgic. Not just for my departed friend, though. It made me nostalgic for another writer whose work I greatly admire, but who left us far too soon. I’m talking about David Foster Wallace, the author of Infinite Jest and The Girl With The Curious Hair. Lord of the Barnyard, in its phrasing and plotting and all-out absurd goofiness, could have been written by my old pal DFW.
Of course, once I finished the novel, and did some research on other works by this writer, I learned that Egolf himself departed the world too soon.
So. . .I’m now stuck with the feelings evoked by my experience with one novel that had an immense impact on me because of its connection, for me, to three dead writers. With that said, if I am able to separate the melancholy of reading it and absorbing it from my experience of just, you know, reading it and enjoying it without all that other bullshit crowding in, I would still recommend this novel very highly. I can say, without, regret that I really enjoyed it. I actually wish I had read it when it was given to me. I would have enjoyed the conversation Stephen and I might have had.
If I have a complaint about this novel, it would be the numerous book reviewer’s jacket blurb insistence that this novel is a brilliant work of comedy. Brilliant, yes. Comedy, no. It’s sarcastic, to be sure. But not exceptionally funny. So be warned if this is why you’ve picked this novel up.
No other complaints, though. It’s an otherwise fun and fast-paced bildungsroman that will remain on my shelf despite the feelings it evokes. It will share a spot next to DFW and Thomas Pynchon and William Gaddis and all those other writers who have made me think about a novel’s form more than its content.
It was given to me as a birthday gift by my best friend Stephen. He was a playwright as well, and a big fan of this writer. Stephen seemed to think that I would enjoy him, too. I put the book on a shelf with every intention of getting to it. But then. . .the October after I received this book. . .Stephen died in a horrific car accident. This novel, among others, went untouched. Perhaps I was too afraid of the nostalgia it would evoke.
Recently, my wife and I moved into a larger house. We haven’t unpacked the books yet, but I needed something new to read, so I opened the first box at random and just grabbed something out. This novel won the lottery. I held it in my hand for a long moment, contemplating if I really wanted to do this to myself, but, in the end, I decided that I was ready.
Yes, it made me nostalgic. Not just for my departed friend, though. It made me nostalgic for another writer whose work I greatly admire, but who left us far too soon. I’m talking about David Foster Wallace, the author of Infinite Jest and The Girl With The Curious Hair. Lord of the Barnyard, in its phrasing and plotting and all-out absurd goofiness, could have been written by my old pal DFW.
Of course, once I finished the novel, and did some research on other works by this writer, I learned that Egolf himself departed the world too soon.
So. . .I’m now stuck with the feelings evoked by my experience with one novel that had an immense impact on me because of its connection, for me, to three dead writers. With that said, if I am able to separate the melancholy of reading it and absorbing it from my experience of just, you know, reading it and enjoying it without all that other bullshit crowding in, I would still recommend this novel very highly. I can say, without, regret that I really enjoyed it. I actually wish I had read it when it was given to me. I would have enjoyed the conversation Stephen and I might have had.
If I have a complaint about this novel, it would be the numerous book reviewer’s jacket blurb insistence that this novel is a brilliant work of comedy. Brilliant, yes. Comedy, no. It’s sarcastic, to be sure. But not exceptionally funny. So be warned if this is why you’ve picked this novel up.
No other complaints, though. It’s an otherwise fun and fast-paced bildungsroman that will remain on my shelf despite the feelings it evokes. It will share a spot next to DFW and Thomas Pynchon and William Gaddis and all those other writers who have made me think about a novel’s form more than its content.
March 13, 2015
Il s'agit de rétablir la vérité sur l'homme qui devint une légende dans la ville fictive de Baker - pas une légende glorieuse, non, mais plutôt celle d'un criminel, d'un fou, d'un diable apparu de nulle part pour semer le malheur et le chaos au sein d'une bourgade jusque là (presque) sans histoires. Il s'agit d'expliquer comment, en l'espace de si peu de temps, tout a pu tourner à la catastrophe, et quels hideux secrets ont rendu John Kaltenbrunner prêt à tout pour obtenir sa revanche.
Ce roman fut une lecture étonnamment agréable (la première phrase ne le laisse pas présager). Le style est riche, le drôle se mêle sans cesse au tragique et on se laisser transporter dans ce trou du fin fond des États-Unis jusqu'à en avoir les narines remplies de l'odeur du crotin. Au bout de l'aventure, pourtant, mon ressenti est un tantinet mitigé.
Toute la première partie du livre se dévore avec le plaisir exaltant et légèrement masochiste qu'on a à descendre en luge une piste cabossée (oui, je suis allée à la montagne récemment). Mais tandis que les malheurs pleuvent sur John en continu, le récit, qui ne fait pas économie des effets d'annonce apocalytpiques, adopte un point de vue de plus en plus extérieur, qui me le rend de moins en moins touchant. Cet anti-héros n'est déjà plus qu'une créature lointaine (car mythique ?) lorsqu'on en arrive au final, sans doute épique, mais surtout interminable, la dépiction du bordel général étant dressée jusqu'au moindre de ses détails saugrenus. Si j'ai apprécié l'effet recherché, j'ai trouvé son exécution poussive et j'ai fini par lire en diagonale un certain nombre des cent dernières pages.
Au bout du compte, si j'aime les histoires de vengeance pour la satisfaction jouissive qu'elles peuvent apporter, celle-ci m'a surtout laissé du dépit. Il m'a manqué, au fil du récit, deux ou trois notes d'espoir qui m'auraient rendu la désespérance plus poignante, le renoncement moins rapide, la fin moins vaine. C'est un livre que j'ai réellement aimé lire, mais dont l'arrière-goût m'est trop amer pour que je ne reste pas sur des regrets.
Ce roman fut une lecture étonnamment agréable (la première phrase ne le laisse pas présager). Le style est riche, le drôle se mêle sans cesse au tragique et on se laisser transporter dans ce trou du fin fond des États-Unis jusqu'à en avoir les narines remplies de l'odeur du crotin. Au bout de l'aventure, pourtant, mon ressenti est un tantinet mitigé.
Toute la première partie du livre se dévore avec le plaisir exaltant et légèrement masochiste qu'on a à descendre en luge une piste cabossée (oui, je suis allée à la montagne récemment). Mais tandis que les malheurs pleuvent sur John en continu, le récit, qui ne fait pas économie des effets d'annonce apocalytpiques, adopte un point de vue de plus en plus extérieur, qui me le rend de moins en moins touchant. Cet anti-héros n'est déjà plus qu'une créature lointaine (car mythique ?) lorsqu'on en arrive au final, sans doute épique, mais surtout interminable, la dépiction du bordel général étant dressée jusqu'au moindre de ses détails saugrenus. Si j'ai apprécié l'effet recherché, j'ai trouvé son exécution poussive et j'ai fini par lire en diagonale un certain nombre des cent dernières pages.
Au bout du compte, si j'aime les histoires de vengeance pour la satisfaction jouissive qu'elles peuvent apporter, celle-ci m'a surtout laissé du dépit. Il m'a manqué, au fil du récit, deux ou trois notes d'espoir qui m'auraient rendu la désespérance plus poignante, le renoncement moins rapide, la fin moins vaine. C'est un livre que j'ai réellement aimé lire, mais dont l'arrière-goût m'est trop amer pour que je ne reste pas sur des regrets.
November 28, 2011
Stunned. In my opinion, a meteoric work that captures the futility of the cogs in the American Dream better than maybe anything I've read. Egolf very likely wrote my generation's version of the great American novel.
January 24, 2008
Tristan Egolf, Lord of the Barnyard: Killing the Fatted Calf and Arming the Aware in the Corn Belt (Grove, 1998)
Few books published in the last decade have garnered as much attention and as many favorable reviews as tristan Egolf's epic debut novel. It has achieved endless comparisons to John Kennedy Toole and William Faulkner, made ten-best lists the world over, and been lauded as the book most overlooked by all the major literary awards. Needless to say, after all that, it's roughly the literary equivalent of the 1963 shock film The Tingler (no pun intended); with all that buildup, someone's bound to get let down.
First, to address the Toole comparisons: putting Lord of the Barnyard side-by-side with the unreadable piece of dreck that is A Confederacy of Dunces is to compare a Mozart sonata to a six-year-old plinking out Chopsticks on a toy piano for the first time. Everything Toole tried to do, Egolf succeeded in doing. That said, Lord of the Barnyard confirms what I have been saying for years; even if Toole's godawful tripe had succeeded in its lamebrained effort, it still would have sucked. Lord of the Barnyard doesn't, but that's less a factor of the personages and situations therein than it is indicative of Egolf's narrative style (hence the Faulkner comparisons).
The difference between Egolf and Faulkner is much more subtle, and the comparisons therein are more understandable. Where Egolf fails and Faulkner succeeded is in the subtleties of character development. Egolf falls into the same trap many modern authors do where his characters are concerned; he mistakes event + event + event + event = accurate picture of character's psychological profile, and then goes on to point out the dysfunctionality of the events in question, assuming that those events will go on to fully explain the character's adult (to use the term loosely) behavior. This sort of thing is acceptable, even to be encouraged, in genre writing, where the plot is usually far more important than the characters within it anyway (and which is what makes someone like Stephen King so refreshing). But if you're going to write capital-L literature, where characters are equal in importance to (or greater in importance than) the plot, the author needs to understand that the whole is more than the sum of its parts; character development is as much in what you don't say as in what you do. Faulkner was a master at figuring out the art of putting together the whole. Egolf has a bit more work to do in that regard. He could also take a few pages from Faulkner's abilities with spare writing; what might have barely cleared a hundred fifty pages as a Faulkner piece soars to over four hundred in Egolf's hands.
And that is the book's main failing. While there are certainly a number of chuckle-inducing scenes in the book, they're tied together with seemingly endless streams of explicatory prose that exist for little reason. Egolf doesn't seem to want the reader to work for anything here, and the result is almost unbearable logorrhea. Nothing would have been lost, and much gained, by editing this manuscript down another hundred or so pages.
In short, there's nothing about this novel that doesn't correspond to the majority of first-novel failings; one just expects to see them less with such a universally-lauded book. It's entirely possible that Egolf's next work will live up to the standards the press set him for this one. We'll have to wait and see. ** ½
Few books published in the last decade have garnered as much attention and as many favorable reviews as tristan Egolf's epic debut novel. It has achieved endless comparisons to John Kennedy Toole and William Faulkner, made ten-best lists the world over, and been lauded as the book most overlooked by all the major literary awards. Needless to say, after all that, it's roughly the literary equivalent of the 1963 shock film The Tingler (no pun intended); with all that buildup, someone's bound to get let down.
First, to address the Toole comparisons: putting Lord of the Barnyard side-by-side with the unreadable piece of dreck that is A Confederacy of Dunces is to compare a Mozart sonata to a six-year-old plinking out Chopsticks on a toy piano for the first time. Everything Toole tried to do, Egolf succeeded in doing. That said, Lord of the Barnyard confirms what I have been saying for years; even if Toole's godawful tripe had succeeded in its lamebrained effort, it still would have sucked. Lord of the Barnyard doesn't, but that's less a factor of the personages and situations therein than it is indicative of Egolf's narrative style (hence the Faulkner comparisons).
The difference between Egolf and Faulkner is much more subtle, and the comparisons therein are more understandable. Where Egolf fails and Faulkner succeeded is in the subtleties of character development. Egolf falls into the same trap many modern authors do where his characters are concerned; he mistakes event + event + event + event = accurate picture of character's psychological profile, and then goes on to point out the dysfunctionality of the events in question, assuming that those events will go on to fully explain the character's adult (to use the term loosely) behavior. This sort of thing is acceptable, even to be encouraged, in genre writing, where the plot is usually far more important than the characters within it anyway (and which is what makes someone like Stephen King so refreshing). But if you're going to write capital-L literature, where characters are equal in importance to (or greater in importance than) the plot, the author needs to understand that the whole is more than the sum of its parts; character development is as much in what you don't say as in what you do. Faulkner was a master at figuring out the art of putting together the whole. Egolf has a bit more work to do in that regard. He could also take a few pages from Faulkner's abilities with spare writing; what might have barely cleared a hundred fifty pages as a Faulkner piece soars to over four hundred in Egolf's hands.
And that is the book's main failing. While there are certainly a number of chuckle-inducing scenes in the book, they're tied together with seemingly endless streams of explicatory prose that exist for little reason. Egolf doesn't seem to want the reader to work for anything here, and the result is almost unbearable logorrhea. Nothing would have been lost, and much gained, by editing this manuscript down another hundred or so pages.
In short, there's nothing about this novel that doesn't correspond to the majority of first-novel failings; one just expects to see them less with such a universally-lauded book. It's entirely possible that Egolf's next work will live up to the standards the press set him for this one. We'll have to wait and see. ** ½
September 21, 2010
So I wrote the review below in 2007 or something, after reading the book in 1999 and again in, I don't know, 2003 or something. Then I picked up a used copy for a dollar last week (2010) and read it again. I don't like it
nearly
as much as I used to. The story and the writing style are both deeply problematic. Several plot points are just completely implausible--for instance, crowds of people in a hospital waiting room viciously attack our hero for no particular reason; also, all the faculty of all levels of the public school fear and loathe him as if he's a horror movie villain, just because he's an unkempt misfit, basically. Also, the language (of the omniscient narrator, not dialogue--there isn't any direct dialogue) is almost constantly overwrought. This manifests itself in a few different ways, and I'm surprised it didn't bother me more in the first place.
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A confounding book---I love and dislike it all at once.
The story is tremendous fun, but I have some real issues with the way it's written.
The writing style is weird and troubling. The dialog is all indirect quotes, not direct. It seems throughout most of the story as though it's a kind of third-person omniscient narrator, or rather someone from the town but unidentified and with an omniscient view and literary voice. It ultimately becomes apparent, though, that it's being recounted from the perspective of someone from within a specific character set.
It seems impossible to account for such a narrator within that group of characters. He plainly places himself among them and yet accounts for all of them in such a way that the group can't actually include him. I suspect it's an oversight by the author, though I can't be sure. It pisses me off.
The language often used, in the narration and the dialog, is completely implausible coming from either this narrator or from the hero. Implausibility hurts the cause.
On the other hand, as irritating as that implausibility is, the language itself is frequently mighty fun to read. Also, I love the story. Love it. In some ways, it rings of truth, and in other ways, it's totally ridiculous, but it's consistently full of unconventional and interesting adventures of a peculiar protagonist, who suffers, endures, excels, and stirs some shit up.
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A confounding book---I love and dislike it all at once.
The story is tremendous fun, but I have some real issues with the way it's written.
The writing style is weird and troubling. The dialog is all indirect quotes, not direct. It seems throughout most of the story as though it's a kind of third-person omniscient narrator, or rather someone from the town but unidentified and with an omniscient view and literary voice. It ultimately becomes apparent, though, that it's being recounted from the perspective of someone from within a specific character set.
It seems impossible to account for such a narrator within that group of characters. He plainly places himself among them and yet accounts for all of them in such a way that the group can't actually include him. I suspect it's an oversight by the author, though I can't be sure. It pisses me off.
The language often used, in the narration and the dialog, is completely implausible coming from either this narrator or from the hero. Implausibility hurts the cause.
On the other hand, as irritating as that implausibility is, the language itself is frequently mighty fun to read. Also, I love the story. Love it. In some ways, it rings of truth, and in other ways, it's totally ridiculous, but it's consistently full of unconventional and interesting adventures of a peculiar protagonist, who suffers, endures, excels, and stirs some shit up.
Read
August 4, 2008This shit was fantastic. The literary touchstones are myriad, with John Kennedy Toole being a particularly obvious one. But in its humor, there is something far, far darker and filthier. Unlike the good-natured farce of A Confederacy of Dunces, Egolf opts to show the sheer disgusting, almost Harmony Korine scuzz of postindustrial Middle American existence. Almost like a white trash Dostoyevsky. John Kaltenbrunner isn't a comic hero-- he's much too charmless and laconic for that (a redneck Raskolnikov)-- and the only constants of life seem to be the monotonous rhythms of industrial production and an alcoholic haze. If you like John Kennedy Toole, Dostoyevsky, Celine, or maybe Richard Brautigan, than this is a book for you.
February 12, 2010
Think you've had a bad day, week, or even life? Then you haven't met John Kaltenbrunner. Sure he could walk around grousing "I hate my life" like the rest of us or he could put his nose to the proverbial grindstone with singular determination to do what he knows to be right and to exact perhaps the most outrageous vengeance you'll ever read about. The writing style takes some getting used to (there's no direct dialogue in the entire book) but don't let that deter you. Shame Tristan Egolf is no longer around- RIP (he had such a cool name too).
September 27, 2016
Recommended by a collègue this was a complete discovery, both the book and the author and it will take time for me to digest this story, universe and characters. There is high quality writing style here, detailed background that makes the whole city feel like a creature itself and not a single feel like it is useless. I liked most of all the sense of disappointment in humanity, the mysanthropic tone but now that I learned that the author took his life away because of depression, it makes even more sad. I loved that book even though it was painful to read.
June 15, 2007
RIP Tristan Egolf
Thanks for the stories
Thanks for the stories
April 6, 2021
My favourite book of all time, hands down.
February 29, 2020
Je ne sais pas à quoi je m'attendais, mais pas à ça.
C'est crade, c'est violent, c'est injuste, c'est vachement bien.
Pourtant c'est un peu trop violent, crade et injuste, parfois. J'aurais même pu arrêter, mais je ne regrette pas de m'être accrochée, parce que c'est quand même une bien belle fresque.
Ça joue un poil trop sur cet espèce de suspens où l'auteur par sous-entendus pas très subtils te laisse comprendre que oulala il va se passer plein de choses. Mais comme, au final, il se passe en effet plein de choses, ça se complète assez bien. Faut juste être patiente.
Bref, un début assez long, assez lourdingue, mais une suite assez palpitante et qui rattrape bien le début.
Quand on y pense, même le fait que le début est anxiogène est assez révélateur de la qualité du récit: l'auteur fait passer tout un panel de sentiments et de ressentis, no problem.
C'est crade, c'est violent, c'est injuste, c'est vachement bien.
Pourtant c'est un peu trop violent, crade et injuste, parfois. J'aurais même pu arrêter, mais je ne regrette pas de m'être accrochée, parce que c'est quand même une bien belle fresque.
Ça joue un poil trop sur cet espèce de suspens où l'auteur par sous-entendus pas très subtils te laisse comprendre que oulala il va se passer plein de choses. Mais comme, au final, il se passe en effet plein de choses, ça se complète assez bien. Faut juste être patiente.
Bref, un début assez long, assez lourdingue, mais une suite assez palpitante et qui rattrape bien le début.
Quand on y pense, même le fait que le début est anxiogène est assez révélateur de la qualité du récit: l'auteur fait passer tout un panel de sentiments et de ressentis, no problem.
December 3, 2018
This is a shattering book. Despair is increasing throughout the plot, without hope, without a ray of light — a story of Les Miserables, which presents American reality from its darkest angle. Writing is a burst of literary talent, with remarkable ability to illustrate even if the descriptions are sometimes tricky. I think this is a literary gem that is a pity to miss, also if there are parts that are too dated in the book.
November 23, 2012
It's not as awesome as those who totally gush over it say it is, but it's really, really something. The prose is at times mind-blowingly awesome, the story is epic and engaging. Where it falls short of 5-star status is the hyperbole- Egolf goes well over the top way too often, creating characters and situations that are too extreme to be plausible. Definitely makes me want to read more Egolf though.
August 26, 2019
I haven’t read a piece of fiction in a while. Lord of the Barnyard, hands down, is the weirdest and most wonderful book I’ve read in a long, long time. I don’t really know what more to say than give it a shot. It is delightful and disgusting and it will be worth your while.
January 11, 2022
Adoré jusqu'à la moitié. Ensuite grosse baisse d'attention...
February 1, 2018
Leer esta crónica fue como embarcarme en un frenesí de cafeína y ejercicio excesivo durante dos semanas.
Rápida, directa, parca y muy entretenida al mismo tiempo que extensa, barroca, elocuente y frustrante. Las virtudes de su prosa sobreviven incluso a la traducción; nadie insulta, nadie lanza peroratas, nadie se remuerde en una espiral inmanente de resentimiento y asco como este narrador y –casi– nadie puede dar un cariz tan objetivo e imperturbable.
La historia es el lado oscuro del coming-of-age, la perfecta narración de la caída vertiginosa que puede ser crecer. Tres lecciones:
1· Lo del karma no es cierto. No todos reciben lo que merecen. Hay gente que posee «el don infalible de estar en el mal sitio a la mala hora».
2· «No se puede matar lo que se niega a morir».
3· «Un objeto en movimiento tiende a permanecer en movimiento».
Ganas de volver a empezarlo es lo que me quedó al terminar este libro.
Rápida, directa, parca y muy entretenida al mismo tiempo que extensa, barroca, elocuente y frustrante. Las virtudes de su prosa sobreviven incluso a la traducción; nadie insulta, nadie lanza peroratas, nadie se remuerde en una espiral inmanente de resentimiento y asco como este narrador y –casi– nadie puede dar un cariz tan objetivo e imperturbable.
La historia es el lado oscuro del coming-of-age, la perfecta narración de la caída vertiginosa que puede ser crecer. Tres lecciones:
1· Lo del karma no es cierto. No todos reciben lo que merecen. Hay gente que posee «el don infalible de estar en el mal sitio a la mala hora».
2· «No se puede matar lo que se niega a morir».
3· «Un objeto en movimiento tiende a permanecer en movimiento».
Ganas de volver a empezarlo es lo que me quedó al terminar este libro.
February 26, 2025
Quelle claque, superbe trouvaille !
Une frénésie vengeresse, pleine de rancœur, conduite par John Kaltenbrunner dirigée contre les péquenauds et l'ordre établi de la bourgade de Baker, où inceste, alcoolisme, racisme, bigoterie et pauvreté règnent en maîtres.
Enfant surdoué, il voit son monde, dans lequel il avait investi toute son énergie, se désagréer devant lui. Prenant conscience de son impuissance, il subit un exil forcé à travers lequel il tente de fuir son destin. Pourtant, il finit par revenir à Baker. Nous suivons son ascension chaotique à la tête d'un groupe de marginaux et sa lutte contre un système qui broie les individus atypiques.
Une frénésie vengeresse, pleine de rancœur, conduite par John Kaltenbrunner dirigée contre les péquenauds et l'ordre établi de la bourgade de Baker, où inceste, alcoolisme, racisme, bigoterie et pauvreté règnent en maîtres.
Enfant surdoué, il voit son monde, dans lequel il avait investi toute son énergie, se désagréer devant lui. Prenant conscience de son impuissance, il subit un exil forcé à travers lequel il tente de fuir son destin. Pourtant, il finit par revenir à Baker. Nous suivons son ascension chaotique à la tête d'un groupe de marginaux et sa lutte contre un système qui broie les individus atypiques.
February 3, 2025
Een van de meest intrigerende verhalen die ik las. Opgebouwd vanuit een soms wat vaag en fictief niets brengt de auteur je meeslepend naar het iets. Naar de vraag: hoe zou het zijn als dit echt zou gebeuren. En kan dat dan? Apocalyptisch maar soms ook calyptisch. Moet-lees, wat mij betreft.
October 3, 2025
même si les personnages d’anti heros me gonflent un peu, j’ai bien aimé celui ci, magnifique et malchanceux à la fois. l’écriture est géniale, c’est parfois vraiment très drôle.
December 24, 2025
Un des plus beaux livres que j’ai lus. Écriture qui nous transporte. Foisonne. Explosive. Des personnes à vif. Et malgré cela une modestie dans le style global
Une hagiographie inégalée sur un type hors du commun
Une lecture que l’on ne peut pas oublier. .
Une hagiographie inégalée sur un type hors du commun
Une lecture que l’on ne peut pas oublier. .
January 1, 2022
Décapant et superbement bien écrit. Du glauque et une langue acerbe et riche qui râpe sur la langue et un John Kaltenbrunner inoubliable.
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