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The Dead Father
The Dead Father is a gargantuan half-dead, half-alive, part mechanical, wise, vain, powerful being who still has hopes for himself--even while he is being dragged by means of a cable toward a mysterious goal. In this extraordinary novel, marked by the imaginative use of language that influenced a generation of fiction writers, Donald Barthelme offered a glimpse into his fictional universe. As Donald Antrim writes in his introduction, "Reading The Dead Father , one has the sense that its author enjoys an almost complete artistic freedom . . . a permission to reshape, misrepresent, or even ignore the world as we find it . . . Laughing along with its author, we escape anxiety and feel alive."
177 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1975
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About the author
Donald Barthelme
158 books765 followers
Unspeakable Practices, Unnatural Acts
(1968) apparently collects sometimes surrealistic stories of modern life of American writer Donald Barthelme.
A student at the University of Pennsylvania bore Donald Barthelme. Two years later, in 1933, the family moved to Texas, where father of Barthelme served as a professor of architecture at the University of Houston, where Barthelme later majored in journalism.
In 1951, this still student composed his first articles for the Houston Post. The Army drafted Barthelme, who arrived in Korea on 27 July 1953, the very day, when parties signed the ceasefire, ending the war. He served briefly as the editor of a newspaper of Army before returning to the United States and his job at the Houston Post. Once back, he continued his studies of philosophy at the University of Houston. He continued to take classes until 1957 but never received a degree. He spent much of his free time in “black” jazz clubs of Houston and listened to musical innovators, such as Lionel Hampton and Peck Kelly; this experience influenced him later.
Barthelme, a rebellious son, struggled in his relationship with his demanding father. In later years, they tremendously argued about the kinds of literature that interested Barthelme. His avant-garde father in art and aesthetics in many ways approved not the postmodern and deconstruction schools. The Dead Father and The King , the novels, delineate attitude of Barthelme toward his father as King Arthur and Lancelot, the characters, picture him. From the Roman Catholicism of his especially devout mother, Barthelme independently moved away, but this separation as the distance with his father troubled Barthelme. He ably agreed to strictures of his seemingly much closer mother.
Barthelme went to teach for brief periods at Boston University and at University at Buffalo, and he at the college of the City of New York served as distinguished visiting professor from 1974-1975. He married four times. Helen Barthelme, his second wife, later entitled a biography Donald Barthelme: The Genesis of a Cool Sound , published in 2001. With Birgit Barthelme, his third wife and a Dane, he fathered Anne Barthelme, his first child, a daughter. He married Marion Barthelme near the end and fathered Kate Barthelme, his second daughter. Marion and Donald wed until his death from throat cancer. People respect fiction of Frederick Barthelme and Steven Barthelme, brothers of Donald Barthelme and also teachers at The University of Southern Mississippi.
A student at the University of Pennsylvania bore Donald Barthelme. Two years later, in 1933, the family moved to Texas, where father of Barthelme served as a professor of architecture at the University of Houston, where Barthelme later majored in journalism.
In 1951, this still student composed his first articles for the Houston Post. The Army drafted Barthelme, who arrived in Korea on 27 July 1953, the very day, when parties signed the ceasefire, ending the war. He served briefly as the editor of a newspaper of Army before returning to the United States and his job at the Houston Post. Once back, he continued his studies of philosophy at the University of Houston. He continued to take classes until 1957 but never received a degree. He spent much of his free time in “black” jazz clubs of Houston and listened to musical innovators, such as Lionel Hampton and Peck Kelly; this experience influenced him later.
Barthelme, a rebellious son, struggled in his relationship with his demanding father. In later years, they tremendously argued about the kinds of literature that interested Barthelme. His avant-garde father in art and aesthetics in many ways approved not the postmodern and deconstruction schools. The Dead Father and The King , the novels, delineate attitude of Barthelme toward his father as King Arthur and Lancelot, the characters, picture him. From the Roman Catholicism of his especially devout mother, Barthelme independently moved away, but this separation as the distance with his father troubled Barthelme. He ably agreed to strictures of his seemingly much closer mother.
Barthelme went to teach for brief periods at Boston University and at University at Buffalo, and he at the college of the City of New York served as distinguished visiting professor from 1974-1975. He married four times. Helen Barthelme, his second wife, later entitled a biography Donald Barthelme: The Genesis of a Cool Sound , published in 2001. With Birgit Barthelme, his third wife and a Dane, he fathered Anne Barthelme, his first child, a daughter. He married Marion Barthelme near the end and fathered Kate Barthelme, his second daughter. Marion and Donald wed until his death from throat cancer. People respect fiction of Frederick Barthelme and Steven Barthelme, brothers of Donald Barthelme and also teachers at The University of Southern Mississippi.
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January 20, 2022
The huge, inert and grumpy Dead Father is being hauled all across the land…
Time passes and humankind keeps hauling a corpse of dead traditions, customs, beliefs, misconceptions and rituals along the trail of history...
Even if some dogmas and tenets are discarded in the process of the constant progress they don't let us go and we keep carrying this burden of the past on our backs.
Time passes and humankind keeps hauling a corpse of dead traditions, customs, beliefs, misconceptions and rituals along the trail of history...
You are killing me. We? Not we. Not in any sense, we. Processes are killing you, not we. Inexorable processes.
Even if some dogmas and tenets are discarded in the process of the constant progress they don't let us go and we keep carrying this burden of the past on our backs.
November 17, 2024
The Dead Reviewer was being hauled along the road to the town dump by a small party of his Goodreads friends and followers. He didn’t like it much.
“What’s the big idea?” he complained bitterly.
“We’ve had enough of you,” said one so-called friend. “You only read dull books and you’ve begun to repeat yourself.”
“Don’t think we don’t appreciate all these terrific reviews over the decades,” said a tall bearded fellow, stifling a yawn. “But it’s time to give us all a rest now. We’ve heard what you have to say. We know all your tricks.”
“That’s nice coming from you” said the dead reviewer. “You’ve been here longer than me. Why aren’t you being hauled to the town dump?”
“Well, how can I put this nicely… you’re a bit monolingual. Parochial. Limited. Narrow, in a word. Whereas everyone knows I read thirtyfive languages and review in 18. Inclusiveness, old friend, diversity. Some of us have it. And some of us don’t.” He refreshed the carrots dangling in front of the donkeys who were dragging the cart with the dead reviewer in it. “I mean, you can check for yourself how long it took you to get round to reading the Russians.”
“He only did that because I made him,” said another one who was wearing a cat suit.
“Well, I had a poor start in life. My parents were illiterate radish growers who thought the moon was fake. Until I was 23 I thought there were only 18 letters in the alphabet.”
“Giddyap you donkeys.”
“I’m not dead anyway.”
“You’re dead to us.”
The Dead Reviewer was trying to turn himself into a donkey whisperer and thus take control of this shambolic procession. The donkeys were turning a blind eye to his blandishments. They weren’t fans either.
“I still get votes you know!”
“Aw shove a sock in it.” This from the cat suit. Most unseemly.
“You haven’t had a hit for years, admit it. You’re so far past your sell by date that when they printed it they were using goose quills.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Anyway what about The Wind-Up---”
“Don’t you dare mention The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle! You’ve been coasting on that fluke for ten years!”
“Not far to the dump now.”
The conversation was rancorous. It had become spiteful, acrimonious. And some other synonyms. All that weary afternoon the wooden wheels bumped over the rough road, and the donkeys cursed audibly.
“What’s the big idea?” he complained bitterly.
“We’ve had enough of you,” said one so-called friend. “You only read dull books and you’ve begun to repeat yourself.”
“Don’t think we don’t appreciate all these terrific reviews over the decades,” said a tall bearded fellow, stifling a yawn. “But it’s time to give us all a rest now. We’ve heard what you have to say. We know all your tricks.”
“That’s nice coming from you” said the dead reviewer. “You’ve been here longer than me. Why aren’t you being hauled to the town dump?”
“Well, how can I put this nicely… you’re a bit monolingual. Parochial. Limited. Narrow, in a word. Whereas everyone knows I read thirtyfive languages and review in 18. Inclusiveness, old friend, diversity. Some of us have it. And some of us don’t.” He refreshed the carrots dangling in front of the donkeys who were dragging the cart with the dead reviewer in it. “I mean, you can check for yourself how long it took you to get round to reading the Russians.”
“He only did that because I made him,” said another one who was wearing a cat suit.
“Well, I had a poor start in life. My parents were illiterate radish growers who thought the moon was fake. Until I was 23 I thought there were only 18 letters in the alphabet.”
“Giddyap you donkeys.”
“I’m not dead anyway.”
“You’re dead to us.”
The Dead Reviewer was trying to turn himself into a donkey whisperer and thus take control of this shambolic procession. The donkeys were turning a blind eye to his blandishments. They weren’t fans either.
“I still get votes you know!”
“Aw shove a sock in it.” This from the cat suit. Most unseemly.
“You haven’t had a hit for years, admit it. You’re so far past your sell by date that when they printed it they were using goose quills.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Anyway what about The Wind-Up---”
“Don’t you dare mention The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle! You’ve been coasting on that fluke for ten years!”
“Not far to the dump now.”
The conversation was rancorous. It had become spiteful, acrimonious. And some other synonyms. All that weary afternoon the wooden wheels bumped over the rough road, and the donkeys cursed audibly.
March 7, 2010
Imagine an alien from a remote, little planet in a galaxy so far, far away. It is a literary genius, and a Nobel Prize for Literature winner in his planet. He hurls into space aboard a spaceship and lands in England where people speak and write English. A few days after hearing and reading English the alien says (in his own language, of course): "I can also write a great novel in English."
This book could be the novel such an alien could have written.
I have never read anything like it before.
It tells a story. In English. But in an out-of-this-world English.
If you're a literature professor, you can assign this book to your students as their reading assignment. Then you ask them to retell the story in this book and I am sure the third world war will start right there in your classroom.
You wouldn't know what I mean unless you read this book yourself. Or, perhaps, until I give you an example.
The scene (as I understood it): two lovers, Thomas and Julie conversing. Thomas starts criticizing Julie. Julie criticizes back, says Thomas is too self-absorbed. Then she betrays her jealousy about another pretty girl Thomas knew, Emma. Says she had seen him eyeing Emma. Thomas defends himself by saying Emma is goodlooking and, anyway, he and Julie are not married. That nothing lasts forever. Julie, angry, nevertheless takes off her clothes. Thomas is aroused, accepts Julie's invitation to make love, but nonetheless says it doesn't change the way he thinks. Julie says he is a fool, but a lucky one because despite everything, she loves him. Then they make love, missionary style, with Julie's legs up in the air, held by Thomas. With him in the throes of ecstasy, Julie asks Thomas if Emma is as good in bed as her. Thomas gives a non-committal answer. Julie then flicks his balls with her finger and Thomas cries in pain. Julie sneers and tells Thomas not to worry because the pain won't last forever.
Nice. But how did the "alien" tell this story? Here:
"There are some times when you are not too bright, said Thomas.
"Times when I am not too what?
"Bright, said Thomas, there are some times when you are not too bright.
"Well fuck you, she said.
"Well fuck YOU, Thomas said, there are some times when I forget and tell the truth.
"Sloppy, sloppy, she said. Self-pity monstrously unattractive.
"Oh well damn well yes. I'm sorry. But I am taking action, am I not? I could as well have sat at home, worn the cap-and-bells and bought lottery tickets hoping for the twist-of-fate that would change my life.
"Me, she said. Me, me.
"There is that.
"You and I, she said, reaching into her knapsack for a bit of bhang. Have a chew?
"Not now, thanks.
"You and I, she said, the two of us.
"Thomas began counting on his fingers.
"Yes, he said.
"And Emma, she said. I've seen you looking at her.
"I look at everything, Thomas said. Everything that is in front of me. Emma is in front of me. Therefore I look at Emma.
"And she at you, Julie said, I've seen some gazes.
"She's not bad-looking, Thomas said.
"But we, you and I, care for each other, Julie said. It is a fact.
"A temporary fact, said Thomas.
"Temporary!
"Expectoration of bhang juice (emphatic).
"My God, I'm simply telling the truth, said Thomas.
"Viper, she said.
"I know no better soul, he said, and the body is also attractive.
"Measuring, are you? A measuring man.
"Julie cramming more hemp into her mouth.
"You forget the decay of time, Thomas said, I never forget it.
"I don't like it.
"Who likes it?
"I put out of mind that which is injurious to mind. You revel in it.
"The two of us, she said, damn it, can't you get this simple idea into your head? The two of us against the is.
"Temporarily, said Thomas.
"Oh you are a viper.
"A student of decay, is all.
"Julie began to unbutton her shirt.
"Yes, that's a way, said Thomas. Fifteen minutes or in the best case, thirty-five.
"Come crawl behind a bush with me.
"With all my heart, said Thomas, but I cannot abandon what I know. One doesn't find an absolute every day.
"You are an apprentice fool, she said, not even a full fool, nevertheless I will give you a little taste, because I like you. You are a lucky dog.
"Thomas spoke a long paragraph to the effect that this was true.
"Julie pulling at Thomas's sleeve.
"Thomas and Julie underneath the bush. Thomas holding Julie's feet in his hands.
"Wash feet, he said.
"Yes now that you mentioned it, she said.
"I will wash them for you if you wish.
"Not necessary, I know the drill.
"Washcloth, he said. That's the little blue square one.
"Right.
"Rough-textured.
"I've seen it.
"Usually damp.
"I remember.
"I could just put some bags on them I suppose, heavy canvas bags with locks like the Mail Department uses.
"Oh misery me.
"The backs of the knees are on the other hand positively lustrous.
"Not too bad are they?
"Nine lines and a freckle, all immaculate. Nothing to be desired. The height of.
"Could an Emma do as well?
"I don't know, said Thomas. I'll have to think about it.
Julie made a circle of thumb and forefinger and popped him smartly on the ball.
"Anguish of Thomas.
"It will pass, she said, dearly beloved, it is only temporary."
Have you read anything like this before?
This book could be the novel such an alien could have written.
I have never read anything like it before.
It tells a story. In English. But in an out-of-this-world English.
If you're a literature professor, you can assign this book to your students as their reading assignment. Then you ask them to retell the story in this book and I am sure the third world war will start right there in your classroom.
You wouldn't know what I mean unless you read this book yourself. Or, perhaps, until I give you an example.
The scene (as I understood it): two lovers, Thomas and Julie conversing. Thomas starts criticizing Julie. Julie criticizes back, says Thomas is too self-absorbed. Then she betrays her jealousy about another pretty girl Thomas knew, Emma. Says she had seen him eyeing Emma. Thomas defends himself by saying Emma is goodlooking and, anyway, he and Julie are not married. That nothing lasts forever. Julie, angry, nevertheless takes off her clothes. Thomas is aroused, accepts Julie's invitation to make love, but nonetheless says it doesn't change the way he thinks. Julie says he is a fool, but a lucky one because despite everything, she loves him. Then they make love, missionary style, with Julie's legs up in the air, held by Thomas. With him in the throes of ecstasy, Julie asks Thomas if Emma is as good in bed as her. Thomas gives a non-committal answer. Julie then flicks his balls with her finger and Thomas cries in pain. Julie sneers and tells Thomas not to worry because the pain won't last forever.
Nice. But how did the "alien" tell this story? Here:
"There are some times when you are not too bright, said Thomas.
"Times when I am not too what?
"Bright, said Thomas, there are some times when you are not too bright.
"Well fuck you, she said.
"Well fuck YOU, Thomas said, there are some times when I forget and tell the truth.
"Sloppy, sloppy, she said. Self-pity monstrously unattractive.
"Oh well damn well yes. I'm sorry. But I am taking action, am I not? I could as well have sat at home, worn the cap-and-bells and bought lottery tickets hoping for the twist-of-fate that would change my life.
"Me, she said. Me, me.
"There is that.
"You and I, she said, reaching into her knapsack for a bit of bhang. Have a chew?
"Not now, thanks.
"You and I, she said, the two of us.
"Thomas began counting on his fingers.
"Yes, he said.
"And Emma, she said. I've seen you looking at her.
"I look at everything, Thomas said. Everything that is in front of me. Emma is in front of me. Therefore I look at Emma.
"And she at you, Julie said, I've seen some gazes.
"She's not bad-looking, Thomas said.
"But we, you and I, care for each other, Julie said. It is a fact.
"A temporary fact, said Thomas.
"Temporary!
"Expectoration of bhang juice (emphatic).
"My God, I'm simply telling the truth, said Thomas.
"Viper, she said.
"I know no better soul, he said, and the body is also attractive.
"Measuring, are you? A measuring man.
"Julie cramming more hemp into her mouth.
"You forget the decay of time, Thomas said, I never forget it.
"I don't like it.
"Who likes it?
"I put out of mind that which is injurious to mind. You revel in it.
"The two of us, she said, damn it, can't you get this simple idea into your head? The two of us against the is.
"Temporarily, said Thomas.
"Oh you are a viper.
"A student of decay, is all.
"Julie began to unbutton her shirt.
"Yes, that's a way, said Thomas. Fifteen minutes or in the best case, thirty-five.
"Come crawl behind a bush with me.
"With all my heart, said Thomas, but I cannot abandon what I know. One doesn't find an absolute every day.
"You are an apprentice fool, she said, not even a full fool, nevertheless I will give you a little taste, because I like you. You are a lucky dog.
"Thomas spoke a long paragraph to the effect that this was true.
"Julie pulling at Thomas's sleeve.
"Thomas and Julie underneath the bush. Thomas holding Julie's feet in his hands.
"Wash feet, he said.
"Yes now that you mentioned it, she said.
"I will wash them for you if you wish.
"Not necessary, I know the drill.
"Washcloth, he said. That's the little blue square one.
"Right.
"Rough-textured.
"I've seen it.
"Usually damp.
"I remember.
"I could just put some bags on them I suppose, heavy canvas bags with locks like the Mail Department uses.
"Oh misery me.
"The backs of the knees are on the other hand positively lustrous.
"Not too bad are they?
"Nine lines and a freckle, all immaculate. Nothing to be desired. The height of.
"Could an Emma do as well?
"I don't know, said Thomas. I'll have to think about it.
Julie made a circle of thumb and forefinger and popped him smartly on the ball.
"Anguish of Thomas.
"It will pass, she said, dearly beloved, it is only temporary."
Have you read anything like this before?
April 4, 2016
A live wire of PoMo bliss, The Dead Father reads very much like the source for so many books in the genre that have come after. I understand Marcus' The Age of Wire and String much better and now want to re-read it.
Having just finished the memoir Double Down written by Don Barthelme's younger brothers, I was able to clearly divine the influence of the troubled relationship Don had with his father in this work. The Dead Father is a monstrous hilarious ribald construct of a thing, and the characters of the novel orbit the titular protagonist with occasional collision producing sparks and carnage.
The author died of cancer before his own father perished. As in all things father/son, the inverse is not an equal equation. I wonder if his father read this work before Don's death? After? Ever?
Having just finished the memoir Double Down written by Don Barthelme's younger brothers, I was able to clearly divine the influence of the troubled relationship Don had with his father in this work. The Dead Father is a monstrous hilarious ribald construct of a thing, and the characters of the novel orbit the titular protagonist with occasional collision producing sparks and carnage.
The author died of cancer before his own father perished. As in all things father/son, the inverse is not an equal equation. I wonder if his father read this work before Don's death? After? Ever?
July 30, 2009
To understand my rating, you need to do some basic math.
Most of the book, I thought was a 3-star deal, mainly because I found some of the sections (particularly the long moments when Emma and Julie talked to each other) to be borderline incomprehensible, and while I'm sure Barthelme knew exactly what he was doing, it was one of those situations where I was holding a book in my hands and processing words and then feeling stupid. And maybe I was too dense to understand what was going on, but regardless of reasons or my level of denseness, point is there were about 15-20 pages in here that I didn't understand at all. But that which I understood was funny and smart and interesting and well-done. So, 3 stars.
But, the 30 (ish) page Manual for Sons inset about 3/4 of the way through was so awesome, I give that 7 stars.
So-- 7 +3 = 10, 10/2 = 5. 5 stars. Totally useful and objective review.
Most of the book, I thought was a 3-star deal, mainly because I found some of the sections (particularly the long moments when Emma and Julie talked to each other) to be borderline incomprehensible, and while I'm sure Barthelme knew exactly what he was doing, it was one of those situations where I was holding a book in my hands and processing words and then feeling stupid. And maybe I was too dense to understand what was going on, but regardless of reasons or my level of denseness, point is there were about 15-20 pages in here that I didn't understand at all. But that which I understood was funny and smart and interesting and well-done. So, 3 stars.
But, the 30 (ish) page Manual for Sons inset about 3/4 of the way through was so awesome, I give that 7 stars.
So-- 7 +3 = 10, 10/2 = 5. 5 stars. Totally useful and objective review.
January 4, 2020
Some of the conflicting thoughts that ran through my mind as I read this . . .
My, Barthelme is funny.
And smart.
Sometimes he's also obnoxious.
His bag of tricks is clever and sophisticated.
If I'm being honest, though, I like a novel better than I like a bag of tricks.
I'm probably not very sophisticated.
Was there a male writer from the 2nd half of the 20th Century whose writing about sex wasn't a total embarrassment? It's like they all went to the same school of sex for schoolboys.
This Dead Father thing is a good image. It means lots of things at once. Broadly allegorical. Like Kafka. I approve.
And if the Dead Father is, among other things, capital-L literature then what a winning example of post-modernism this book is.
It's very fun to laugh at the Dead Father and to be very French and deconstruct-y and take the Dead Father out at the knees.
At the end of the day, though, I'm not sophisticated or heartless enough and I go running back and say I'm sorry Dead Father I love you I love you. Capital-L literature doesn't seem deserving of being taken out at the knees.
Sometimes I'm very confused and Barthelme doesn't try very hard to help me understand what's going on. Is this the desired effect or did he just expect I'd be as smart as he is?
Lighten up. He's just playing. Playing is very important, you say so all the time. It's not very playful to say what's important all the time, Nathanimal. (Sorry.)
Yes, play is important, but I think I've lately been lured towards other qualities, like eccentricity, like vulnerability, like quiet.
. . . Now I've just started Emmanuel Bove's My Friends, which, after this, is like crawling into warm pajamas after coming home from a loud party.
My, Barthelme is funny.
And smart.
Sometimes he's also obnoxious.
His bag of tricks is clever and sophisticated.
If I'm being honest, though, I like a novel better than I like a bag of tricks.
I'm probably not very sophisticated.
Was there a male writer from the 2nd half of the 20th Century whose writing about sex wasn't a total embarrassment? It's like they all went to the same school of sex for schoolboys.
This Dead Father thing is a good image. It means lots of things at once. Broadly allegorical. Like Kafka. I approve.
And if the Dead Father is, among other things, capital-L literature then what a winning example of post-modernism this book is.
It's very fun to laugh at the Dead Father and to be very French and deconstruct-y and take the Dead Father out at the knees.
At the end of the day, though, I'm not sophisticated or heartless enough and I go running back and say I'm sorry Dead Father I love you I love you. Capital-L literature doesn't seem deserving of being taken out at the knees.
Sometimes I'm very confused and Barthelme doesn't try very hard to help me understand what's going on. Is this the desired effect or did he just expect I'd be as smart as he is?
Lighten up. He's just playing. Playing is very important, you say so all the time. It's not very playful to say what's important all the time, Nathanimal. (Sorry.)
Yes, play is important, but I think I've lately been lured towards other qualities, like eccentricity, like vulnerability, like quiet.
. . . Now I've just started Emmanuel Bove's My Friends, which, after this, is like crawling into warm pajamas after coming home from a loud party.
October 1, 2014
Hasta hace poco, nunca hubiese pensado que me iba a convertir en un aficionado a la literatura posmoderna. Hasta hace poco, huía de autores como Thomas Pynchon, Don DeLillo, David Foster Wallace o Donald Barthelme. Requerían de una atención desmedida a la hora de leerlos, y esto no era precisamente lo que buscaba, me interesaban textos más asequibles y de fácil lectura, libros con argumentos e historias, si no lineales o con el clásico planteamiento-nudo-desenlace, sí con una estructura objetiva y clara. Pero llegó un momento en que necesitaba de historias más potentes, de esas que desarman el cerebro y le dan un revolcón a tu manera de pensar y ver la vida. Y son escritores como los anteriores los que han logrado alumbrarme.
Con ‘El Padre Muerto’, Barthelme crea todo un galimatías que le sirve como plataforma para experimentar con el lenguaje (aquí hago un inciso para alabar la labor de la traductora a la hora de hacer frente a esta novela, ya que seguro que no lo ha debido tener fácil). La historia es totalmente surrealista. Haciendo un sucinto resumen, la historia trata sobre el arduo viaje que realizan Thomas y su mujer Julie, junto con una serie de hombres, para acarrear el cuerpo del Padre Muerto, de tamaño gigantesco, en la búsqueda del Vellocino de Oro y la consecución de la vida eterna, o eso piensa el Padre Muerto. Durante este absurdo viaje se tropezarán con los Wend, que son padres de sí mismos, y darán con el libro Manual para hijos, un libro que trata de explicar cómo enfrentarse a esos seres llamados padres.
La lectura de esta novela no es fácil. Hay momentos en que hay una voz narradora clara, pero que en ciertas partes se pierde, mezclándose los diálogos, algo intencionado por parte de Barthelme, y que te obliga a leer con atención para hacerte una idea de lo que están hablando. También hay algunas historias dentro de historias, y algún discurso del Padre Muerto sin pies ni cabeza, algo intencionado. La novela está escrita en los años 70 del pasado siglo, y Barthelme no se corta a la hora de dar voz a sus personajes con un lenguaje sacado de esta década; su prosa es actual, con frases cortas, a ratos pasando por la escatología, y utilizando todos aquellos elementos característicos de su época.
Dentro de la incongruencia de todo esto, puede parecer que la historia carezca de sentido absolutamente. Pero no es así. Barthelme se aprovecha del simbolismo del Padre Muerto para hablarnos de una sociedad lideraba por varones, donde el Padre Muerto representa a todos ellos, al gran varón. Mención aparte para Manual para hijos, un libro dentro del libro, una parte muy inteligente e irónica por parte del autor.
‘El Padre Muerto’ es una novela difícil, delirante, desenfrenada, brillante, recomendada únicamente para aquellos que deseen probar experiencias literarias nuevas.
Con ‘El Padre Muerto’, Barthelme crea todo un galimatías que le sirve como plataforma para experimentar con el lenguaje (aquí hago un inciso para alabar la labor de la traductora a la hora de hacer frente a esta novela, ya que seguro que no lo ha debido tener fácil). La historia es totalmente surrealista. Haciendo un sucinto resumen, la historia trata sobre el arduo viaje que realizan Thomas y su mujer Julie, junto con una serie de hombres, para acarrear el cuerpo del Padre Muerto, de tamaño gigantesco, en la búsqueda del Vellocino de Oro y la consecución de la vida eterna, o eso piensa el Padre Muerto. Durante este absurdo viaje se tropezarán con los Wend, que son padres de sí mismos, y darán con el libro Manual para hijos, un libro que trata de explicar cómo enfrentarse a esos seres llamados padres.
La lectura de esta novela no es fácil. Hay momentos en que hay una voz narradora clara, pero que en ciertas partes se pierde, mezclándose los diálogos, algo intencionado por parte de Barthelme, y que te obliga a leer con atención para hacerte una idea de lo que están hablando. También hay algunas historias dentro de historias, y algún discurso del Padre Muerto sin pies ni cabeza, algo intencionado. La novela está escrita en los años 70 del pasado siglo, y Barthelme no se corta a la hora de dar voz a sus personajes con un lenguaje sacado de esta década; su prosa es actual, con frases cortas, a ratos pasando por la escatología, y utilizando todos aquellos elementos característicos de su época.
Dentro de la incongruencia de todo esto, puede parecer que la historia carezca de sentido absolutamente. Pero no es así. Barthelme se aprovecha del simbolismo del Padre Muerto para hablarnos de una sociedad lideraba por varones, donde el Padre Muerto representa a todos ellos, al gran varón. Mención aparte para Manual para hijos, un libro dentro del libro, una parte muy inteligente e irónica por parte del autor.
‘El Padre Muerto’ es una novela difícil, delirante, desenfrenada, brillante, recomendada únicamente para aquellos que deseen probar experiencias literarias nuevas.
November 24, 2017
3.5
De lo más absurdo y delirante que he leído en mi vida. Diálogos como soliloquios mutilados, oraciones cortas, vacías, y personajes difusos. Barthelme no deja de sorprenderme, aunque prefiero sus relatos.
De lo más absurdo y delirante que he leído en mi vida. Diálogos como soliloquios mutilados, oraciones cortas, vacías, y personajes difusos. Barthelme no deja de sorprenderme, aunque prefiero sus relatos.
December 1, 2008
My favorite work of Barthelme's, and one of my favorite books ever. I'd give it 8 out of 5 stars, but Goodreads has no HTML code for this. A book for anyone who has a father, who had a father, who had an absent father, who had a father who loved too much or not enough or the right amount; a father who beat them or taught them to ride a bike or both. A book perhaps not for fathers, but a book for fathers who had fathers themselves (and so, a book for fathers).
This is the story of a son & his lover, and how the son (and daughter as well, though admittedly this is more about fathers and sons than fathers and daughters) -- with a small army of laborers -- is dragging his father across the desert, presumably towards burial. The father -- as fathers tend to be -- is larger than life (figuratively & literally: his measurement is listed at 3200 cubits, and even this absurd & archaic measurement speaks to the character of the Father -- a thing vast and yet past its prime; mythic and absurd). The father (as fathers are wont to do) orates, and the book is filled with his fabulous, illuminating, and hilarious speeches. One of my favorites is the father listing things he has "fathered" in his long reign as father, which include the poker chip, the cash register, the kazoo, the cuckoo clock, and the bubble pipe.
Occasionally, the father -- as fathers sometimes do -- rampages (at one point slaughtering scores of musicians & woodland creatures before his son reigns him in). The title of the book is a proleptic statement -- the father is not yet dead, but all fathers die, and the march of dragging him across the desert is the effort to meet the prolepsis of the title.
That the book is a metaphor of fathers and sons and the process of moving from one to another (this is why it is more concerned with sons than daughters, I think, because sons are the ones who must become fathers) is somewhat implicit. It is a procession to bury the father, or more accurately, to remove him from the son's life. The father rails against his removal as a figure of authority, and yet is arrogant enough to believe he could never truly be removed. The father -- as father's so often are -- is incalculably wise, ridiculously foolish; is learned in the way a father aught to be, and his confidence & arrogance also make him into a fool. His son is, of course, arrogant in the way that the young who plot their ascension are arrogant. It is a beautiful book in that way.
Barthelme isn't usually interested in the emotional nuances of his characters, who are scarcely characters so much as they are figments of some dream being woven (he treats his characters very much the way Italo Calvino does -- more as products of our collective unconscious than as 'characters'). Barthelme also writes with all the tics of the ardent post-modernists from which he sprang in the 60s (look no further than the 'quiz' in the middle of his book Snow White, asking the reader how they like the book & if the metaphors are 'working' for them), and their concern is appropriately with deconstruction & not romanticism. Let's not bind Barthelme into that though, and if any literary term raises the hackles it's 'post-modernism'. But despite the eerie detachment and all the absurdity, this book is extraordinarily devastating and deeply affecting. The last line of the book -- a single word, which I will not spoil here -- was a deep & heavy punch to my solar plexus. It still takes the wind out of me to think of.
This novel has in its middle an inexplicable and brief treatise, a kind of mini-book, entitled "A Manual For Sons". This is the heart of the matter -- The Dead Father is as much about sons as fathers, and the absurdity that the two are so different when there can be no fathers who were not once sons. The humor and insight here is trenchant and beautiful. Consider this excerpt:
"The penises of fathers are traditionally hidden from the inspection of those who are not 'clubbable' as the expression runs. These penises are magical, but not most of the time . . . Occasionally a child, usually a bold six-year-old daughter, will request permission to see it. This request should be granted, once. But only in the early morning, when you are in bed, and only when an early-morning erection is not present. Yes, let her touch it (lightly, of course), but briefly. Do not permit her to linger or get to interested. Be matter-of-fact, kind, and undramatic. Pretend, for the moment, that it is as mundane as a big toe . . . About sons you must use your own judgement. It is injudicious (as well as unnecessary) to terrify them; you have many other ways of accomplishing that."
For all the book's absurdity and mythic humor, Barthelme is clearly speaking to some very deep fears and humbling human problems. I love this book. The father as a figure of dailiness and the father as a mythic figure are both on display here, and they are both treated with equal measures of cruelty and reverence.
This is the story of a son & his lover, and how the son (and daughter as well, though admittedly this is more about fathers and sons than fathers and daughters) -- with a small army of laborers -- is dragging his father across the desert, presumably towards burial. The father -- as fathers tend to be -- is larger than life (figuratively & literally: his measurement is listed at 3200 cubits, and even this absurd & archaic measurement speaks to the character of the Father -- a thing vast and yet past its prime; mythic and absurd). The father (as fathers are wont to do) orates, and the book is filled with his fabulous, illuminating, and hilarious speeches. One of my favorites is the father listing things he has "fathered" in his long reign as father, which include the poker chip, the cash register, the kazoo, the cuckoo clock, and the bubble pipe.
Occasionally, the father -- as fathers sometimes do -- rampages (at one point slaughtering scores of musicians & woodland creatures before his son reigns him in). The title of the book is a proleptic statement -- the father is not yet dead, but all fathers die, and the march of dragging him across the desert is the effort to meet the prolepsis of the title.
That the book is a metaphor of fathers and sons and the process of moving from one to another (this is why it is more concerned with sons than daughters, I think, because sons are the ones who must become fathers) is somewhat implicit. It is a procession to bury the father, or more accurately, to remove him from the son's life. The father rails against his removal as a figure of authority, and yet is arrogant enough to believe he could never truly be removed. The father -- as father's so often are -- is incalculably wise, ridiculously foolish; is learned in the way a father aught to be, and his confidence & arrogance also make him into a fool. His son is, of course, arrogant in the way that the young who plot their ascension are arrogant. It is a beautiful book in that way.
Barthelme isn't usually interested in the emotional nuances of his characters, who are scarcely characters so much as they are figments of some dream being woven (he treats his characters very much the way Italo Calvino does -- more as products of our collective unconscious than as 'characters'). Barthelme also writes with all the tics of the ardent post-modernists from which he sprang in the 60s (look no further than the 'quiz' in the middle of his book Snow White, asking the reader how they like the book & if the metaphors are 'working' for them), and their concern is appropriately with deconstruction & not romanticism. Let's not bind Barthelme into that though, and if any literary term raises the hackles it's 'post-modernism'. But despite the eerie detachment and all the absurdity, this book is extraordinarily devastating and deeply affecting. The last line of the book -- a single word, which I will not spoil here -- was a deep & heavy punch to my solar plexus. It still takes the wind out of me to think of.
This novel has in its middle an inexplicable and brief treatise, a kind of mini-book, entitled "A Manual For Sons". This is the heart of the matter -- The Dead Father is as much about sons as fathers, and the absurdity that the two are so different when there can be no fathers who were not once sons. The humor and insight here is trenchant and beautiful. Consider this excerpt:
"The penises of fathers are traditionally hidden from the inspection of those who are not 'clubbable' as the expression runs. These penises are magical, but not most of the time . . . Occasionally a child, usually a bold six-year-old daughter, will request permission to see it. This request should be granted, once. But only in the early morning, when you are in bed, and only when an early-morning erection is not present. Yes, let her touch it (lightly, of course), but briefly. Do not permit her to linger or get to interested. Be matter-of-fact, kind, and undramatic. Pretend, for the moment, that it is as mundane as a big toe . . . About sons you must use your own judgement. It is injudicious (as well as unnecessary) to terrify them; you have many other ways of accomplishing that."
For all the book's absurdity and mythic humor, Barthelme is clearly speaking to some very deep fears and humbling human problems. I love this book. The father as a figure of dailiness and the father as a mythic figure are both on display here, and they are both treated with equal measures of cruelty and reverence.
August 28, 2008
I don't yet understand how he was able to make this so emotional at the end, how so silly got so serious so fast without ruining the experience. I don't yet understand, but I will bygod. I will.
March 2, 2014
Imagine if you will a plate. A rather large plate. In the middle of the large plate a small morsel of postmodern food. More negative space of plate than actual food. You scoff at the food. With a shrug and a roll of the eyes, you take a bite. A hundred flavors, some you recognize, others you do not, some you miss. You eat away, the food disappearing, wondering as you are eating what food is this, what are its textures. When you are finished, you are full but you are not sure why or how it happened. The plate is empty. The food is gone. You fill full. It is unlike any you have experienced or will experience again.
July 30, 2016
Espécie de irmão menos bem humorado de Hilda Hilst e onde ambos são filhos de Samuel Beckett, Barthelme nos traz uma história arquetípica cheia de experimentalismo de linguagem, mas que infelizmente não chega à excelência de seus pares.
September 30, 2010
I remember reading this twice in the '70s, but I didn't remember much about it. I remember thinking I got it pretty well. Now I'm unsure if my understanding is complete. Because Roland Barthes said the reader is creator of the text I wonder if we're being encouraged here to create because it's so shotgun-patterned that it seems to suggest rather than to mean or define. It's a novel about myth and the hero. The dead father serves as all myth as well as all the cultural weight we've accumulated and lug around with us as we live our lives. Barthelme probably meant it to be Oedipal and Freudian, the sons wanting to kill the father representing tradition and the daughters striving to change the world and give it direction. The novel's distinctive in its page after page of dialogue. The fall of these short statements down the page fashions a look which creates (or the reader creates) both a sterile landscape through which the hero journeys and the line of cable and men pulling him through that landscape. Ultimately Barthelme's text references all the touchstones of western tradition and houses them in the father where they're overthrown. Actually, overthrown implies confrontation. Tradition is weakened by the surversive dialogue of daughters, wives, and sons and in the end, rather than being tumbled, traditional culture, literature, and history willingly lies down and is buried. And is replaced by the postmodernism of Barthelme and others. But reading it I thought mostly of Samuel Beckett.
Read
March 11, 2016Plotless postmodern novels, if you believe the hype, aren't supposed to be fun, they're supposed to be think pieces that make you reconsider your epistemological premises, through chilly techniques cribbed from scientific and technical writing, through unconventional word choice, through use of archaisms, slang, high culture, low culture, etc. etc. and you're supposed to come out of the whole thing not necessarily happier, not necessarily entertained, but more aware.
Then, why was The Dead Father one of the funniest, most poignant things I've read in ages? Why did this book about a giant being dragged along make me snort with laughter? Why did I nearly cry at the end? Donald Barthelme, your stories -- for which you are far more famous -- are mostly notable for their sense of ennui, of blague, and they're good, but they're the sort of things you admire from a distance. Ditto Snow White. The Dead Father, on the other hand, tugged on my heartstrings like how David Foster Wallace did, even when it was smashing the English language to pieces.
Then, why was The Dead Father one of the funniest, most poignant things I've read in ages? Why did this book about a giant being dragged along make me snort with laughter? Why did I nearly cry at the end? Donald Barthelme, your stories -- for which you are far more famous -- are mostly notable for their sense of ennui, of blague, and they're good, but they're the sort of things you admire from a distance. Ditto Snow White. The Dead Father, on the other hand, tugged on my heartstrings like how David Foster Wallace did, even when it was smashing the English language to pieces.
March 28, 2009
The Dead Father is the story of your everyday, average funeral procession for a 200 foot tall father figure who's bloodlust and libido have not been quelled by death. Barthelme comically relates the influence that Greco-Roman and Judao-Christian traditions have had on literature and life in the occidental world.. The more the narrative tries to free itself of these cosmologies the harder they pull them back into the fold.
The protagonists and their entourage painstakingly drag the "dead" father to his grave. Though dead this statuesque authority mad patriarch is still commenting and complaining, trying to run his own funeral from his own bier. It's the riddle of the sphinx writ large as his doddering old age has caused him to resort to childishly begging to vent his frustrations by killing, maiming, and raping. Dragging this giant carcass through strange countries presents logistical problems and elicits questions from the locals.
This absurdist post modern novel is in conversation with other comic works. Neo-Classicism and High Modernism are lampooned partly for their role as torch bearer for the Greco-Roman and Judeo-Christian values embodied in the dead father. Swift's Gulliver's Travels and Joyce's Finnegans Wake seem particularly present, and by this move Barthelme has inserted himself into the canon he desperately wants to burry. Neither the novel's humor nor its poignant message suffer for this fact, however, and The Dead Father is both an entertaining and important work.
January 10, 2014
Re-read after a 3-year interval while grabbing something quickly on the way out the door - updated review.
Mid-70s Barthelme had just the right contemporary counterculture approach to faintly Dada-ist allegory to impress my teenage self mightily. On a subsequent reading in adulthood, it seemed a bit facile, but on what I expect to be the final go-round (ars longa, vita brevis and all that), it returns to 80% satisfactory.
The Father in question is mainly He of the Judeo-Christian tradition but with a strong admixture of Freud, particularly in the book within a book called "A Manual For Sons". The figuratively Dead Father is being hauled across a sequence of small countries by a few dozen lackeys, in pursuit of the Golden Fleece (which turns out to be female pubic hair), under the direction of a 40-ish man who gradually strips the Father of his authority.
The writing is quite reminiscent of Beckett (telegraphic dialog exchanges with lots of repetition and non sequiturs, with a healthy dollop of Joyce, and a splash of Jarry. Mock-epic passages evoking the Old Testament, the Iliad, the Epic of Gilgamesh et al. alternate with lots of lists, entire chapters built around all the words for the color of horse's hide and so on.
November 2010:
Not surprising that a book I thought was the coolest thing ever when I was teenager doesn't quite have the same effect decades later. Barthelme more or less fits in stylistically with Tom Robbins and Kurt Vonnegut and other such mid-70s counterculture writers and can seem a bit facile in retrospect. This one combines some cynical humor, scattershot philosophy, a dollop of surrealism, lots of clever parodies and homages to many different literary forms - everything from Gaddis-styled party chatter to Finnegans Wake.
Mid-70s Barthelme had just the right contemporary counterculture approach to faintly Dada-ist allegory to impress my teenage self mightily. On a subsequent reading in adulthood, it seemed a bit facile, but on what I expect to be the final go-round (ars longa, vita brevis and all that), it returns to 80% satisfactory.
The Father in question is mainly He of the Judeo-Christian tradition but with a strong admixture of Freud, particularly in the book within a book called "A Manual For Sons". The figuratively Dead Father is being hauled across a sequence of small countries by a few dozen lackeys, in pursuit of the Golden Fleece (which turns out to be female pubic hair), under the direction of a 40-ish man who gradually strips the Father of his authority.
The writing is quite reminiscent of Beckett (telegraphic dialog exchanges with lots of repetition and non sequiturs, with a healthy dollop of Joyce, and a splash of Jarry. Mock-epic passages evoking the Old Testament, the Iliad, the Epic of Gilgamesh et al. alternate with lots of lists, entire chapters built around all the words for the color of horse's hide and so on.
November 2010:
Not surprising that a book I thought was the coolest thing ever when I was teenager doesn't quite have the same effect decades later. Barthelme more or less fits in stylistically with Tom Robbins and Kurt Vonnegut and other such mid-70s counterculture writers and can seem a bit facile in retrospect. This one combines some cynical humor, scattershot philosophy, a dollop of surrealism, lots of clever parodies and homages to many different literary forms - everything from Gaddis-styled party chatter to Finnegans Wake.
April 2, 2009
I've never encountered a prose style that reads so much like poetry. There's a tightness, a smooth imbrication of dialogue and narration. I read it in three or four gulps; the flow carries you on, and one would just as soon stop randomly in this novel as leave a bookmark between the stanzas of a short lyric. And that is what struck me as the stylistic eminence of it all: his idiom and sense of humor, while incredibly elegant and effective, are nothing unfamiliar to readers of Joyce, Beckett and Flann O'brien...it's the verse-like tautness that feels original, though admittedly I'm not a big reader of actual prose poems, Baudelaire's might have accomplished this already.
I think Barthelme picked a subject (fatherhood, fathers and children) that was a little too big for his method. I'm not saying that surrealistic antics can't cohere into profound symbolic depictions of human conditions--Barthelme achieves that at more than a handful of points--I'm just saying the novel didn't seem up to the enormity of the subject's suggestions. There's a reason why 'King Lear' holds the field here. I wasn't let down, but I probably won't get to the "60 Stories" as rapidly as I had thought.
I think Barthelme picked a subject (fatherhood, fathers and children) that was a little too big for his method. I'm not saying that surrealistic antics can't cohere into profound symbolic depictions of human conditions--Barthelme achieves that at more than a handful of points--I'm just saying the novel didn't seem up to the enormity of the subject's suggestions. There's a reason why 'King Lear' holds the field here. I wasn't let down, but I probably won't get to the "60 Stories" as rapidly as I had thought.
July 24, 2015
Surreal, hilarious, weird and what Barthelme says about the different types of fathers and sons is very very true!
Barthelme successfully weaves up a style redolent of the best moments in Beckett, Joyce and even Borges (with many many lists). He even wrote one chapter in a spin-off style of Finnegans Wake. Very cool. One of the hippest writers who ever lived. Check dis out.
Barthelme successfully weaves up a style redolent of the best moments in Beckett, Joyce and even Borges (with many many lists). He even wrote one chapter in a spin-off style of Finnegans Wake. Very cool. One of the hippest writers who ever lived. Check dis out.
February 9, 2016
Donald Barthelme's The Dead Father is a masterpiece of postmodern fiction. A rumination on fathers, life, love, and of course language. Barthelme can make you laugh out loud with his wit and then stop you in your tracks with a turn of phrase. Not to be missed.
September 15, 2017
He puesto 3 he pensado he puesto cuatro
Es una propuesta interesante y arriesgada, pero esperaba más
Para mi gusto lector, tiene cosas grandes este libro, muchas, pero pierde parte de su grandeza al intentar condesar demasiado las ideas y sobrepasar el límite de la originalidad
A ratos imprescindible, a ratos prescindible. Aun así, recomiendo leerlo porque me encantan las páginas que rompen las normas y estas lo hacen.
PD: reconozco que talvez me falta algo de formación en filosofía para acabar de comprender el texto.
Es una propuesta interesante y arriesgada, pero esperaba más
Para mi gusto lector, tiene cosas grandes este libro, muchas, pero pierde parte de su grandeza al intentar condesar demasiado las ideas y sobrepasar el límite de la originalidad
A ratos imprescindible, a ratos prescindible. Aun así, recomiendo leerlo porque me encantan las páginas que rompen las normas y estas lo hacen.
PD: reconozco que talvez me falta algo de formación en filosofía para acabar de comprender el texto.
June 28, 2024
sometimes brilliant, occasionally exhausting, a fun, very funny, strange one just outside whatever my "usual fare" is.
September 2, 2024
Surreal, kind of clawing at times but also moving. Umm happy that I persisted even if I struggled to read it for an extended period at a time.
July 10, 2024
Could not finish. Dated (the breast groping, suckling), more smart-alecky than post-modern. This novel is about the construction of imagination, how one experiences a novel, but after awhile, I started to think that David Foster Wallace does this better. The manual for sons was basically unreadable, so dull. Still, I love Barthleme's short stories.
July 12, 2025
Maybe this gets better but I could only make it to p. 22.
This is definitely the only novel I've ever read that references Thom McAn, the American shoe store that went defunct in 1996. So thumbs up for that childhood memory.
July 30, 2025
This does not make you loved.
Loved! Not a matter of love. A matter of Organization. (7)
All this age fills up your heads, Hilda said. So you cannot remember what it was like, being a child. Probably you don't even remember the fear. So much of the it. So little of you. The lunge under the blanket. (15)
The embarrassment of sending away those I didn't want, the pain of sending away those I did want, out into the lifestream of the city. (17)
A son can never, in the fullest sense, become a father. Some amount of amateur effort is possible. A son may after honest endeavor produce what some might call, technically, children. But he remains a son. In the fullest sense. (33)
And what did philosophy teach you? asked the Dead Father.
It taught me that I had no talent for philosophy, bbbbbbbbut-
But what?
But I think everyone should have a little philosophy, Thomas said. It helps, a little. It is good. It is about half as good as music. (58)
Remembering, leaving, returning, staying. (62)
I like telling everybody what to do, Thomas said. It is a great pleasure, being boss. One of the greatest. Wouldn't you agree? he said to the Dead Father.
It is one of the best pleasures, the Dead Father said. No doubt about it. It is bang-up, but mostly we don't let people know. Mostly we downplay the pleasure. Mostly we stress the anguish. We keep the pleasure to ourselves, in our hearts. Occasionally we may show a bit of it to someone- lift a corner of the veil, as it were. But we only do that inn order to certify the pleasure to ourselves. Full disclosure is almost unheard of. (66)
Measuring, are you? A measuring man.
Julie cramming more hemp into her mouth.
You forget the decay of time, Thomas said, I never forget it.
I don't like it.
Who likes it?
I put out of mind that which is injurious to mind. You revel in it.
I do not revel in it.
The two of us, she said, damn it, can't you get this simple idea into your head? The two of us against the is.
Temporarily, said Thomas.
Oh you are a viper.
A student of decay, is all. (68)
Those that are the fathers of themselves miss something, said the Dead Father. Fathers to be precise.
Fatherhood is a substructure of the water of all against all, said Thomas, we could discuss that. (76)
I woke up angry one morning and stayed angry for years- that was my adolescence. Anger and scheming. How to get out. How to get Lucius. How to get Mark. How to get away from Fred. How to seize power. That sort of thing. And a great deal of care-of-the-body. It was young. It was beautiful. It deserved care.
Is beautiful, Thomas said. Is beautiful, beloved.
Thank you, she said. There were many men. I don't deny it, it was moths to the flame. I tried to love them. Damned difficult. Kept a harpoon gun in my tall window. Tracked them as they moved down the street, in their ridiculous dignity. I never fired although I could have, it was operable. Having them in my sights was enough. My finger on the trigger, always about to go off but never quite. Tension of the most exquisite sort. (81)
It's the urge to confess.
I've heard about it.
It's sunset across the bay.
It's pencil shavings in the wind.
Tried to get a handle on it.
Give you a shot in the kisser.
I can take care of myself.
No you can't.
There'll always be another chance tomorrow.
No there won't.
Want to get better but seem to be getting worse.
That's your opinion.
Constant memory in the making.
That's one way of looking at it.
The whole thing hinges.
I've heard that. (88)
Some fathers strut but most do not, except inside; some fathers post on horseback but most do not, except in the eighteenth century; some fathers fall off the horses they mount but most do not; some fathers, after falling off the horse, shoot the horse, but most do not; some fathers fear horses, but most fear, instead, women; some fathers masturbate because they fear women; some fathers sleep with hired women because they fear women who are free; some fathers never sleep at all, but are endlessly awake, staring at their futures, which are behind them. (118)
If a father has fathered twelve or twenty-seven times, it is well to give him a curious look- this father does not loathe himself enough. (122)
Fathers are like blocks of marble, giant cubes, highly polished, with veins and seams, places squarely in your path. They block your path. They cannot be climbed over, neither can they be slithered past. They are the "past", and very likely the slither, if the slither is thought of as that accommodating maneuver you make to escape notice, or get by unscathed. If you attempt to go around one, you will find that another (winking at the first) has mysteriously disappeared athwart the trail. Or maybe it is exactly the same one, moving with the speed of paternity. Look closely at color and texture. Is this giant square block of marble similar in color and texture to a slice of rare roast beef? Your very father's complexion? Do not try to draw too many conclusions from this; the obvious ones are sufficient and correct. (130)
To find a lost father: The first problem in finding a lost father is to lose him, decisively. Often he will wander away from home and lose himself. Often he will remain in at home but still be "lost" in every true sense, locked away in an upper room, or in a workshop, or in the contemplation of a secret life. He may, every evening, pick up his gold-headed cane, wrap himself in his cloak, and depart, leaving behind, on the coffee table, a sealed laundry bag in which there is an address at which he may be reached, in case of war. War, as is well known, is a place at which many fathers are lost, sometimes temporarily, sometimes forever. Fathers are frequently lost on expeditions of various kinds (the journey to the interior). (137)
When you have rescued a father from whatever terrible threat menaces him, then you feel, for a moment, that you are the father and he is not. For a moment. This is the only moment in your life you will feel this way. (139)
But have you noticed the slight curl at the end of Sam II's mouth when he looks at you? It means that he didn't want you to name him Sam II, for one thing, and for two other things it means that he has a sawed-off in his left pant leg, and a baling hook in his right pant leg, and is ready to kill you with either one of them, given the opportunity. The father is taken aback. What he usually says, in such a confrontation, is "I changed your diapers for you, you little snot." This is not the right thing to say. First, it is not true (mothers change nine diapers out of ten), and second, it instantly reminds Sam II of what he is mad about. He is mad about being small when you were big, but no, that's not it, he is mad about being helpless when you were powerful, but no, not that wither, he is mad about being contingent when you were necessary, not quite it, he is insane because when he loved you, you didn't notice. (143)
Patricide: patricide is a bad idea, first because it is contrary to law and second because it proves, without a doubt, that the father's every fluted accusation against you was correct: you are a thoroughly bad individual, a patricide! - member of a class of persons universally ill-regarded. It is all right to feel this hot emotion, but not to act upon it. And it is not necessary. It is not necessary to slay your father, time will slay him, that is a virtual certainty. Your true task lies elsewhere. (145)
Teeth in dreams flaking away like mica. (150)
Loved! Not a matter of love. A matter of Organization. (7)
All this age fills up your heads, Hilda said. So you cannot remember what it was like, being a child. Probably you don't even remember the fear. So much of the it. So little of you. The lunge under the blanket. (15)
The embarrassment of sending away those I didn't want, the pain of sending away those I did want, out into the lifestream of the city. (17)
A son can never, in the fullest sense, become a father. Some amount of amateur effort is possible. A son may after honest endeavor produce what some might call, technically, children. But he remains a son. In the fullest sense. (33)
And what did philosophy teach you? asked the Dead Father.
It taught me that I had no talent for philosophy, bbbbbbbbut-
But what?
But I think everyone should have a little philosophy, Thomas said. It helps, a little. It is good. It is about half as good as music. (58)
Remembering, leaving, returning, staying. (62)
I like telling everybody what to do, Thomas said. It is a great pleasure, being boss. One of the greatest. Wouldn't you agree? he said to the Dead Father.
It is one of the best pleasures, the Dead Father said. No doubt about it. It is bang-up, but mostly we don't let people know. Mostly we downplay the pleasure. Mostly we stress the anguish. We keep the pleasure to ourselves, in our hearts. Occasionally we may show a bit of it to someone- lift a corner of the veil, as it were. But we only do that inn order to certify the pleasure to ourselves. Full disclosure is almost unheard of. (66)
Measuring, are you? A measuring man.
Julie cramming more hemp into her mouth.
You forget the decay of time, Thomas said, I never forget it.
I don't like it.
Who likes it?
I put out of mind that which is injurious to mind. You revel in it.
I do not revel in it.
The two of us, she said, damn it, can't you get this simple idea into your head? The two of us against the is.
Temporarily, said Thomas.
Oh you are a viper.
A student of decay, is all. (68)
Those that are the fathers of themselves miss something, said the Dead Father. Fathers to be precise.
Fatherhood is a substructure of the water of all against all, said Thomas, we could discuss that. (76)
I woke up angry one morning and stayed angry for years- that was my adolescence. Anger and scheming. How to get out. How to get Lucius. How to get Mark. How to get away from Fred. How to seize power. That sort of thing. And a great deal of care-of-the-body. It was young. It was beautiful. It deserved care.
Is beautiful, Thomas said. Is beautiful, beloved.
Thank you, she said. There were many men. I don't deny it, it was moths to the flame. I tried to love them. Damned difficult. Kept a harpoon gun in my tall window. Tracked them as they moved down the street, in their ridiculous dignity. I never fired although I could have, it was operable. Having them in my sights was enough. My finger on the trigger, always about to go off but never quite. Tension of the most exquisite sort. (81)
It's the urge to confess.
I've heard about it.
It's sunset across the bay.
It's pencil shavings in the wind.
Tried to get a handle on it.
Give you a shot in the kisser.
I can take care of myself.
No you can't.
There'll always be another chance tomorrow.
No there won't.
Want to get better but seem to be getting worse.
That's your opinion.
Constant memory in the making.
That's one way of looking at it.
The whole thing hinges.
I've heard that. (88)
Some fathers strut but most do not, except inside; some fathers post on horseback but most do not, except in the eighteenth century; some fathers fall off the horses they mount but most do not; some fathers, after falling off the horse, shoot the horse, but most do not; some fathers fear horses, but most fear, instead, women; some fathers masturbate because they fear women; some fathers sleep with hired women because they fear women who are free; some fathers never sleep at all, but are endlessly awake, staring at their futures, which are behind them. (118)
If a father has fathered twelve or twenty-seven times, it is well to give him a curious look- this father does not loathe himself enough. (122)
Fathers are like blocks of marble, giant cubes, highly polished, with veins and seams, places squarely in your path. They block your path. They cannot be climbed over, neither can they be slithered past. They are the "past", and very likely the slither, if the slither is thought of as that accommodating maneuver you make to escape notice, or get by unscathed. If you attempt to go around one, you will find that another (winking at the first) has mysteriously disappeared athwart the trail. Or maybe it is exactly the same one, moving with the speed of paternity. Look closely at color and texture. Is this giant square block of marble similar in color and texture to a slice of rare roast beef? Your very father's complexion? Do not try to draw too many conclusions from this; the obvious ones are sufficient and correct. (130)
To find a lost father: The first problem in finding a lost father is to lose him, decisively. Often he will wander away from home and lose himself. Often he will remain in at home but still be "lost" in every true sense, locked away in an upper room, or in a workshop, or in the contemplation of a secret life. He may, every evening, pick up his gold-headed cane, wrap himself in his cloak, and depart, leaving behind, on the coffee table, a sealed laundry bag in which there is an address at which he may be reached, in case of war. War, as is well known, is a place at which many fathers are lost, sometimes temporarily, sometimes forever. Fathers are frequently lost on expeditions of various kinds (the journey to the interior). (137)
When you have rescued a father from whatever terrible threat menaces him, then you feel, for a moment, that you are the father and he is not. For a moment. This is the only moment in your life you will feel this way. (139)
But have you noticed the slight curl at the end of Sam II's mouth when he looks at you? It means that he didn't want you to name him Sam II, for one thing, and for two other things it means that he has a sawed-off in his left pant leg, and a baling hook in his right pant leg, and is ready to kill you with either one of them, given the opportunity. The father is taken aback. What he usually says, in such a confrontation, is "I changed your diapers for you, you little snot." This is not the right thing to say. First, it is not true (mothers change nine diapers out of ten), and second, it instantly reminds Sam II of what he is mad about. He is mad about being small when you were big, but no, that's not it, he is mad about being helpless when you were powerful, but no, not that wither, he is mad about being contingent when you were necessary, not quite it, he is insane because when he loved you, you didn't notice. (143)
Patricide: patricide is a bad idea, first because it is contrary to law and second because it proves, without a doubt, that the father's every fluted accusation against you was correct: you are a thoroughly bad individual, a patricide! - member of a class of persons universally ill-regarded. It is all right to feel this hot emotion, but not to act upon it. And it is not necessary. It is not necessary to slay your father, time will slay him, that is a virtual certainty. Your true task lies elsewhere. (145)
Teeth in dreams flaking away like mica. (150)
May 1, 2021
I first came across Donald Barthelme in an English textbook at my high school, his short story about Paul Klee losing an airplane belonging to the German Imperial Air Force during WWI was not assigned reading but I read it anyway and a fandom was born. Barthelme's short fiction is often times bizarre but funny, brief enough to not take up too much of your time but odd enough to make a lasting impact long after you turn the page. Of his longer material, though, my previous experience had been with his novel that deconstructs the Snow White myth ("Snow White," from 1967 or 68 if I'm remembering it correctly). That one left me underwhelmed, though after finishing this, I may revisit it.
"The Dead Father" is hard to classify (like a lot of postmodern lit). It's ostensibly about a group of people hauling a massive almost-dead "father" who acts like a petulant child when his every whim is not obeyed. If you're inclined to wonder if this description resembles any prominent figures in presidential politics over the last five years, you and I should really be friends. But the novel, written in 1975, is just so odd and bizarre that it's hard to describe without giving away what plot there is. There's the joy in the unfolding narrative, conveyed often through quotation-mark-free dialogue and able to express things that might otherwise be lost in a conventional narrative. Barthelme, as one of the blurbs attest, is free to let his imagination roam here, and the result is something that is delightfully oddball and endearing. The theme of fatherhood, naturally, reoccurs during the novel, as the Dead Father turns out to be something of a spoiled child. But then again, a lot of real-life fathers fit that description, I think.
This book won't be for everybody, but if you enjoy postmodern craziness and bizarre, fairy-tale-like stories that subvert your expectations, this might be right up your alley. I know it was right up mine.
"The Dead Father" is hard to classify (like a lot of postmodern lit). It's ostensibly about a group of people hauling a massive almost-dead "father" who acts like a petulant child when his every whim is not obeyed. If you're inclined to wonder if this description resembles any prominent figures in presidential politics over the last five years, you and I should really be friends. But the novel, written in 1975, is just so odd and bizarre that it's hard to describe without giving away what plot there is. There's the joy in the unfolding narrative, conveyed often through quotation-mark-free dialogue and able to express things that might otherwise be lost in a conventional narrative. Barthelme, as one of the blurbs attest, is free to let his imagination roam here, and the result is something that is delightfully oddball and endearing. The theme of fatherhood, naturally, reoccurs during the novel, as the Dead Father turns out to be something of a spoiled child. But then again, a lot of real-life fathers fit that description, I think.
This book won't be for everybody, but if you enjoy postmodern craziness and bizarre, fairy-tale-like stories that subvert your expectations, this might be right up your alley. I know it was right up mine.
July 7, 2021
"Fathers have voices, and each voice has a terribilita of its own. The sound of a father's voice is various: like film burning, like marble being pulled screaming from the face of a quarry, like the clash of paper clips by night, lime seething in a lime pit, or batsong. The voice of a father can shatter your glasses, some fathers have tetchy voices, others tetched-in-the-head voices... The father's voice is an instrument of the most terrible pertinacousness." (P. 151-152)
This book is put together like a surrealistic collage of Cornell or Schwitters, or a box of miscallenae magically transfixed. Except not because its transfixed in a way that you hear from TV. At the same time, it reminds me of Foucault's The Order of Things, specifically when he quotes Borges on a compedium that contains everything. The horrible thing about it is that it doesn't. The compedium falls to the claimant who doesn't even carry it far enough to put their anxiety into it.
A surrealistic dream that comes to rags. I found the most striking part of this, the part where it mentions the fathers voices. I found that it actually had a lot to say on father child relationships that sound like something from R.D. Laing.
Nonetheless the whole thing is strung together, really who can say anything about it. Except that it hurts. Barthelme is very aware of a lot of impasses. It's cool. Post it on your blog and have fun. The quirkiness of dadaism or whatever you want (NEED) to find a way up and out.
This book is put together like a surrealistic collage of Cornell or Schwitters, or a box of miscallenae magically transfixed. Except not because its transfixed in a way that you hear from TV. At the same time, it reminds me of Foucault's The Order of Things, specifically when he quotes Borges on a compedium that contains everything. The horrible thing about it is that it doesn't. The compedium falls to the claimant who doesn't even carry it far enough to put their anxiety into it.
A surrealistic dream that comes to rags. I found the most striking part of this, the part where it mentions the fathers voices. I found that it actually had a lot to say on father child relationships that sound like something from R.D. Laing.
Nonetheless the whole thing is strung together, really who can say anything about it. Except that it hurts. Barthelme is very aware of a lot of impasses. It's cool. Post it on your blog and have fun. The quirkiness of dadaism or whatever you want (NEED) to find a way up and out.
April 19, 2016
Crazy shit goes on in this book. But it's hilarious crazy shit. I think Barthelme rambles on like Henry Miller but with more humor and wit and containment. Though there are many intellectual indulgences in this book, you begin to identify emotionally with The Dead Father and his traveling circus of a family.
In one case, to enter a land that does not allow "fathers," dead or alive, they allow the Dead Father's leg to be cut off and barbecued. Hey it's either kill the Dead Father or barbecue his leg. What would you chose?
The Dead Father's son does his "will," though The Dead Father is dead but seemingly conscious of all that is going on around him.
The Dead Father and entourage of sons and their girlfriends are constantly followed by a being on a horse who is actually the former wife of the Dead Father.
The Dead Father is bold and brass as a character. You will laugh out loud.
Eventually, and I'm sorry to spoil it for you, The Dead Father must be buried under the dirt, though he's already dead.
This is the enjoyable and uproarious humor of "The Dead Father." It's the kind of book you want to listen to or read again because it's undeniably hilarious.
In one case, to enter a land that does not allow "fathers," dead or alive, they allow the Dead Father's leg to be cut off and barbecued. Hey it's either kill the Dead Father or barbecue his leg. What would you chose?
The Dead Father's son does his "will," though The Dead Father is dead but seemingly conscious of all that is going on around him.
The Dead Father and entourage of sons and their girlfriends are constantly followed by a being on a horse who is actually the former wife of the Dead Father.
The Dead Father is bold and brass as a character. You will laugh out loud.
Eventually, and I'm sorry to spoil it for you, The Dead Father must be buried under the dirt, though he's already dead.
This is the enjoyable and uproarious humor of "The Dead Father." It's the kind of book you want to listen to or read again because it's undeniably hilarious.
August 25, 2024
The Dead Father is a short post-modern novel that was published in 1975. The Dead Father measures 3,200 cubits long and is being hauled by a group of 19 people. The Dead Father is only dead “in a sense” and converses throughout the novel. Other characters are Thomas, Julie, Emma and Edmund.
The novel is fairly short and readable. The main action is the journey of hauling the father to some distant destination. Some of the chapters are made of short fragments in a kind of back-and-forth conversation. The text feels a bit random, disjointed and fragmentary at times. I guess that is the point of this post-modern text. At the end, the group arrives at the cemetery. The Dead Father seems to have forgotten that he is dead and has to be reassured before burying him.
This book is on Boxall’s “1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die” list.
The novel is fairly short and readable. The main action is the journey of hauling the father to some distant destination. Some of the chapters are made of short fragments in a kind of back-and-forth conversation. The text feels a bit random, disjointed and fragmentary at times. I guess that is the point of this post-modern text. At the end, the group arrives at the cemetery. The Dead Father seems to have forgotten that he is dead and has to be reassured before burying him.
This book is on Boxall’s “1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die” list.
August 26, 2023
Never have I read a book so quirky and incomprehensible, yet so amusing and touching.
It's a miracle, really.
Barthelme has written a novel, short and dense, that seems absolutely crammed with symbolism, metaphor and every figure of speech one can think of, and I felt most of it went way over my head, and still I found the story fascinating, funny and highly original.
How does this work? Why does this work?
It's a miracle, really.
Barthelme has written a novel, short and dense, that seems absolutely crammed with symbolism, metaphor and every figure of speech one can think of, and I felt most of it went way over my head, and still I found the story fascinating, funny and highly original.
How does this work? Why does this work?
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