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Every Third Thought: A Novel in Five Seasons
John Barth stays true to form in Every Third Thought, written from the perspective of a character Barth introduced in his short story collection The Development. George I. Newett and his wife Amanda Todd lived in the gated community of Heron Bay Estates until its destruction by a fluke tornado. This event, Newett notes, occurred on the 77th anniversary of the 1929 stock market crash, a detail that would appear insignificant if it were not for several subsequent events. The stress of the tornado’s devastation prompts the Newett-Todds to depart on a European vacation, during which George suffers a fall on none other than his 77th birthday, the first day of autumn (or more cryptically, Fall). Following this coincidence, George experiences the first of what is to become five serial visions, each appearing to him on the first day of the ensuing seasons, and each corresponding to a pivotal event in that season of his life.
As the novel unfolds, so do these uncanny coincidences, and it is clear that, as ever, Barth possesses an unmatched talent in balancing his characteristic style and wit with vivid, page-turning storytelling.
As the novel unfolds, so do these uncanny coincidences, and it is clear that, as ever, Barth possesses an unmatched talent in balancing his characteristic style and wit with vivid, page-turning storytelling.
208 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2011
24 people are currently reading
265 people want to read
About the author
John Barth
76 books794 followersJohn Barth briefly studied "Elementary Theory and Advanced Orchestration" at Juilliard before attending Johns Hopkins University, received a bachelor of arts in 1951 and composed
The Shirt of Nessus
, a thesis for a Magister Artium in 1952.
He served as a professor at Penn State University from 1953. Barth began his career with short The Floating Opera , which deals with suicide, and The End of the Road on controversial topic of abortion. Barth later remarked that these straightforward tales "didn't know they were novels."
The life of Ebenezer Cooke, an actual poet, based a next eight-hundred-page mock epic of the colonization of Maryland of Barth. Northrop Frye called an anatomy, a large, loosely structured work with digressions, distractions, stories, and lists, such as two prostitutes, who exchange lengthy insulting terms. The disillusioned fictional Ebenezer Cooke, repeatedly described as an innocent "poet and virgin" like Candide, sets out a heroic epic and ends up a biting satire.
He moved in 1965 to State University of New York at Buffalo. He visited as professor at Boston University in 1972. He served as professor from 1973 at Johns Hopkins University. He retired in 1995.
The conceit of the university as universe based Giles Goat-Boy , a next speculative fiction of Barth comparable size. A half-goat discovers his humanity as a savior in a story, presented as a computer tape, given to Barth, who denies his work. In the course, Giles carries out all the tasks that Joseph Campbell prescribed in The Hero with a Thousand Faces . Barth meanwhile in the book kept a list of the tasks, taped to his wall.
The even more metafictional Lost in the Funhouse , the short story collection, and Chimera , the novella collection, than their two predecessors foreground the process and present achievements, such as seven nested quotations. In Letters , Barth and the characters of his first six books interact.
Barth meanwhile also pondered and discussed the theoretical problems of fiction, most notably in an essay, "The Literature of Exhaustion," first printed in the Atlantic in 1967, widely considered a statement of "the death of the novel" (compare with Roland Barthes's "The Death of the Author"). Barth has since insisted that he was merely making clear that a particular stage in history was passing, and pointing to possible directions from there. He later (1979) a follow-up essay, "The Literature of Replenishment," to clarify the point.
Barth's fiction continues to maintain a precarious balance between postmodern self-consciousness and wordplay on the one hand, and the sympathetic characterisation and "page-turning" plotting commonly associated with more traditional genres and subgenres of classic and contemporary storytelling.
He served as a professor at Penn State University from 1953. Barth began his career with short The Floating Opera , which deals with suicide, and The End of the Road on controversial topic of abortion. Barth later remarked that these straightforward tales "didn't know they were novels."
The life of Ebenezer Cooke, an actual poet, based a next eight-hundred-page mock epic of the colonization of Maryland of Barth. Northrop Frye called an anatomy, a large, loosely structured work with digressions, distractions, stories, and lists, such as two prostitutes, who exchange lengthy insulting terms. The disillusioned fictional Ebenezer Cooke, repeatedly described as an innocent "poet and virgin" like Candide, sets out a heroic epic and ends up a biting satire.
He moved in 1965 to State University of New York at Buffalo. He visited as professor at Boston University in 1972. He served as professor from 1973 at Johns Hopkins University. He retired in 1995.
The conceit of the university as universe based Giles Goat-Boy , a next speculative fiction of Barth comparable size. A half-goat discovers his humanity as a savior in a story, presented as a computer tape, given to Barth, who denies his work. In the course, Giles carries out all the tasks that Joseph Campbell prescribed in The Hero with a Thousand Faces . Barth meanwhile in the book kept a list of the tasks, taped to his wall.
The even more metafictional Lost in the Funhouse , the short story collection, and Chimera , the novella collection, than their two predecessors foreground the process and present achievements, such as seven nested quotations. In Letters , Barth and the characters of his first six books interact.
Barth meanwhile also pondered and discussed the theoretical problems of fiction, most notably in an essay, "The Literature of Exhaustion," first printed in the Atlantic in 1967, widely considered a statement of "the death of the novel" (compare with Roland Barthes's "The Death of the Author"). Barth has since insisted that he was merely making clear that a particular stage in history was passing, and pointing to possible directions from there. He later (1979) a follow-up essay, "The Literature of Replenishment," to clarify the point.
Barth's fiction continues to maintain a precarious balance between postmodern self-consciousness and wordplay on the one hand, and the sympathetic characterisation and "page-turning" plotting commonly associated with more traditional genres and subgenres of classic and contemporary storytelling.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 31 reviews
June 2, 2019
A pleasant, meandering read, with excusable but noticeable flaws - Barth's last book, a very conscious, strange swan song. Minor, and more fascinating for what it is than what's in it.
I wrote about it at length for Public Books, but have never linked to that essay here: https://www.publicbooks.org/the-liter...
I wrote about it at length for Public Books, but have never linked to that essay here: https://www.publicbooks.org/the-liter...
November 6, 2012
John Barth is one of the only writers that always succeeds in bringing about an unabashed feeling of love in me. I love his work for many different reasons, but the primary one is that it makes me love language and storytelling - to see them as magical gifts of the muse, of some divine spirit, of humanity . . . but who really cares where the gift comes from?
Every Third Thought, as in almost every Barth book since the seminal The Sot-Weed Factor, is chock-full of postmodern techniques, deconstructive tendencies - you name it. Now, I know that those of us experimental fiction lovers have always associated this stuff with Barth. But somehow, some people (including some very excellent writers whom I won't name here) have missed the point. Barth's sentences aren't cold tricks; they're not ironic; they're not calculated. They most definitely aren't flashy. Nor are they meant to show off Barth's intellect.
All of the negative criticism thrown at Barth - namely that he's a masturbatory literary experimenter, that his books have nothing to do with social and political reality - are not only completely wrong on a literal level (name a Barth book that doesn't deal with history, in some capacity at least) but on a metaphysical and, even, a spiritual level.
I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that Barth is one of the most spiritual writers of our time. He doesn't write about god in a religious or any other nonsensical context; rather, he locates spirituality in language and storytelling themselves. That's why the realist conventions of plot and character mean jack squat to him (not that there's anything wrong with these conventions). It's just that in showing us how stories get made, Barth highlights the magical and spiritual powers of stories themselves. When you read his books, you're left realizing that all texts participate in the longstanding tradition of humanity trying to make sense of the world. And it's the attempt at understanding that's holy for Barth.
Yes, I did use the word "holy." Barth himself probably wouldn't like my use of this word. But, it seems to me, that instead of simply labeling Barth as a "postmodernist" or "practicer of metafiction," we should stop and think about what he's actually doing, which is foregrounding the amazing continuity in storytelling and linguistic innovations that have bound the human race together since day one.
Furthermore, Barth's texts invite us to remember - that's right, remember - the importance of each and every word that has ever passed through human lips or has been written or typed with human hands. Words are the way we construct our own identities for ourselves and other people. And the stories that they help us construct about other people and the world around us are the only vehicles we have to advance our understanding of anything.
So, to be bawdy like Barth, screw you to all the Barth detractors . . . and those like J. Franzen (okay, I had to drop the name of a hater) . . . who just don't get what Barth is up to! I shouldn't say that they don't "get it"; rather, that they're more than willing to supply dismissive labels to experimental writing. Labeling, after all, is much easier than working.
I know that Barth's masterworks - The Sot-Weed Factor, Giles Goat-Boy, LETTERS, and The Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor - are enormous, but do yourself the challenge of picking one up. Do the work - especially if you want to learn from a master HOW TO WRITE (Barth taught at Hopkins for many years). You'll laugh your ass off, be impressed by the master's "passionate virtuosity," and learn something about the way stories work. The shorter fiction - from Lost in the Funhouse and Chimera to Every Third Thought - is a great way to get an intro to Barth. But the man runs marathons and not sprints, and the mega-novel is his forte.
You're right: I haven't said much directly about Every Third Thought. But I've also said everything.
Read this book. Read Barth. I mean, the man's spent his entire career making Finnegans Wake a lot more fun to read. Those of you who know Barth know just what I mean.
Every Third Thought, as in almost every Barth book since the seminal The Sot-Weed Factor, is chock-full of postmodern techniques, deconstructive tendencies - you name it. Now, I know that those of us experimental fiction lovers have always associated this stuff with Barth. But somehow, some people (including some very excellent writers whom I won't name here) have missed the point. Barth's sentences aren't cold tricks; they're not ironic; they're not calculated. They most definitely aren't flashy. Nor are they meant to show off Barth's intellect.
All of the negative criticism thrown at Barth - namely that he's a masturbatory literary experimenter, that his books have nothing to do with social and political reality - are not only completely wrong on a literal level (name a Barth book that doesn't deal with history, in some capacity at least) but on a metaphysical and, even, a spiritual level.
I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that Barth is one of the most spiritual writers of our time. He doesn't write about god in a religious or any other nonsensical context; rather, he locates spirituality in language and storytelling themselves. That's why the realist conventions of plot and character mean jack squat to him (not that there's anything wrong with these conventions). It's just that in showing us how stories get made, Barth highlights the magical and spiritual powers of stories themselves. When you read his books, you're left realizing that all texts participate in the longstanding tradition of humanity trying to make sense of the world. And it's the attempt at understanding that's holy for Barth.
Yes, I did use the word "holy." Barth himself probably wouldn't like my use of this word. But, it seems to me, that instead of simply labeling Barth as a "postmodernist" or "practicer of metafiction," we should stop and think about what he's actually doing, which is foregrounding the amazing continuity in storytelling and linguistic innovations that have bound the human race together since day one.
Furthermore, Barth's texts invite us to remember - that's right, remember - the importance of each and every word that has ever passed through human lips or has been written or typed with human hands. Words are the way we construct our own identities for ourselves and other people. And the stories that they help us construct about other people and the world around us are the only vehicles we have to advance our understanding of anything.
So, to be bawdy like Barth, screw you to all the Barth detractors . . . and those like J. Franzen (okay, I had to drop the name of a hater) . . . who just don't get what Barth is up to! I shouldn't say that they don't "get it"; rather, that they're more than willing to supply dismissive labels to experimental writing. Labeling, after all, is much easier than working.
I know that Barth's masterworks - The Sot-Weed Factor, Giles Goat-Boy, LETTERS, and The Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor - are enormous, but do yourself the challenge of picking one up. Do the work - especially if you want to learn from a master HOW TO WRITE (Barth taught at Hopkins for many years). You'll laugh your ass off, be impressed by the master's "passionate virtuosity," and learn something about the way stories work. The shorter fiction - from Lost in the Funhouse and Chimera to Every Third Thought - is a great way to get an intro to Barth. But the man runs marathons and not sprints, and the mega-novel is his forte.
You're right: I haven't said much directly about Every Third Thought. But I've also said everything.
Read this book. Read Barth. I mean, the man's spent his entire career making Finnegans Wake a lot more fun to read. Those of you who know Barth know just what I mean.
Read
May 20, 2017Every godsdamn Barth Book.
I've read them all. Beginning back in 1996 with On With the Story followed ten years later by the discovery of The Sot-Weed Factor and the rest is now History.
Pending Completionism in 2013 :: Alexander Theroux (2 remaining); William Gaddis (one); David Foster Wallace (really only the rap book outstanding). 2014 will doubtless see more Completionism.
Meanwhile, about the magic of story telling with Barth der Erzähler, I highly recommend Friend Paul's review of the present volume, found HERE. And for the Twin Census of Barthiana, see my review of The Tidewater Tales HERE.
I've read them all. Beginning back in 1996 with On With the Story followed ten years later by the discovery of The Sot-Weed Factor and the rest is now History.
Pending Completionism in 2013 :: Alexander Theroux (2 remaining); William Gaddis (one); David Foster Wallace (really only the rap book outstanding). 2014 will doubtless see more Completionism.
Meanwhile, about the magic of story telling with Barth der Erzähler, I highly recommend Friend Paul's review of the present volume, found HERE. And for the Twin Census of Barthiana, see my review of The Tidewater Tales HERE.
December 16, 2015
I loved this. Loved, loved, loved it. This may be, I realize, more a reaction to my 30-year love affair with John Barth’s work than to the objective merits of this particular book. But I had a blast reading it, and it’s my rating, so I’m giving it 5 out of 5.
This is my 14th Barth book, so clearly I appreciate what it is he does. Every Third Thought is not up there with the great mid-career/mid-century masterpieces such as The Sot-Weed Factor and Chimera, which would not be 5’s, but would blow past that signpost like a Cheasapeake Bay hurricane and head straight for the 11-range without slowing down. But this, although much shorter than most of his books at 182 pages, has most of the elements that make me love him so: the lyrical language and wordplay, puns, authorial ambiguity in true post-mod style, the weaving in of references to literary works of the past, all employed with great density while telling a story about the act of telling stories. In addition to all the fun with language, I have also always loved the mathematical symmetry of his narratives and plot components, another element of his genius that blows my analytical nature into realms of delight. (Too complex to explain here; besides, I am not smart enough. Please read The Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor or Chimera for good examples, although the seasons motif here mirroring the acts of a play works too, helping to tie in the Shakespeare references on a number of levels.)
G.I. Newitt, who refers to himself as an O.F.F. (“Old Fart Fictionist”), tries in his final “season” to write something worthy as he reminisces about a friend who shared Seasons 1 and 2. (Yes, you’re supposed to groan at the name, but it’s a set-up for later puns and references to Barth’s touchstone 1001 Arabian Nights, when George meets his muse in the 5th act of the book). “Every Third Thought” is a reference to the last act of The Tempest wherein Prospero says “Every third thought shall be my grave,” as well as to the narrator’s remembered friend’s habit of using this as an afterthought to “on second thought.” But even dealing with topics as serious as those of advancing age and impending death, Barth’s rambunctious whirlwind of wordplay turns this into a comedic entertainment that I was sorry to see end. But then, everything does, fictions and fictionists and everything else.
This is my 14th Barth book, so clearly I appreciate what it is he does. Every Third Thought is not up there with the great mid-career/mid-century masterpieces such as The Sot-Weed Factor and Chimera, which would not be 5’s, but would blow past that signpost like a Cheasapeake Bay hurricane and head straight for the 11-range without slowing down. But this, although much shorter than most of his books at 182 pages, has most of the elements that make me love him so: the lyrical language and wordplay, puns, authorial ambiguity in true post-mod style, the weaving in of references to literary works of the past, all employed with great density while telling a story about the act of telling stories. In addition to all the fun with language, I have also always loved the mathematical symmetry of his narratives and plot components, another element of his genius that blows my analytical nature into realms of delight. (Too complex to explain here; besides, I am not smart enough. Please read The Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor or Chimera for good examples, although the seasons motif here mirroring the acts of a play works too, helping to tie in the Shakespeare references on a number of levels.)
G.I. Newitt, who refers to himself as an O.F.F. (“Old Fart Fictionist”), tries in his final “season” to write something worthy as he reminisces about a friend who shared Seasons 1 and 2. (Yes, you’re supposed to groan at the name, but it’s a set-up for later puns and references to Barth’s touchstone 1001 Arabian Nights, when George meets his muse in the 5th act of the book). “Every Third Thought” is a reference to the last act of The Tempest wherein Prospero says “Every third thought shall be my grave,” as well as to the narrator’s remembered friend’s habit of using this as an afterthought to “on second thought.” But even dealing with topics as serious as those of advancing age and impending death, Barth’s rambunctious whirlwind of wordplay turns this into a comedic entertainment that I was sorry to see end. But then, everything does, fictions and fictionists and everything else.
December 22, 2011
I'm no Barth scholar, but ten years ago, I was charmed and touched by his rambling postmodern The Floating Opera, a book he wrote in the mid-twentieth century. Like Pynchon and Kafka, he was ahead of his time. His meta-fiction wasn't just for show and self-indulgence; the wink-wink and digressing were salient to the themes, and showcased the sophistry of righteous absolutes (and its contradictions). It was an intellectual frolic into the act of writing itself, with a tender touch of comic genius.
His latest and slim novel is also a linguistic romp, and resurrects some familiar subjects/settings, such as a love triangle, prostate troubles, and his beloved Eastern Shore of Maryland, specifically Stratford. Retired professor G.I. Newitt experiences some strange catastrophic flukes associated with a series of visions. He is subsequently inspired to chronicle these seasonal occurrences and phenomena, such as a "post-equinoctial vision" and a "solstitial illumination." The latest casualties include a tornado that wiped out the retirement community that he lived in with his wife (and muse), Amanda, and a fall on his 77th birthday in another Stratford--the one particular to the Bard. Newitt's efforts to pen his memoir is the central event, and he shares every daily outburst of desultory thought with Amanda.
I am surprised that this is the same author who wrote The Floating Opera. There was nothing here to tantalize beyond some lexical stretching. The narrative was self-conscious and obvious, like the protagonist's name. (G.I. Newitt is as blunt and prosaic as Seymour Butts.) The events, and the telling of them, were repetitive and dull, the narrative style antiquated and stilted. The most inspired was the title's allusion to Prospero's lines in The Tempest.
It read like Barth just showed up for practice, much like the gasbag Newitt, and was compelled to cough up all the topical issues of the day--the war, the Bush administration, the government's failure during natural disasters. But it was arid and lusterless; notions stuck to the page like Teflon, a reiteration of the mundane. It managed to be both capricious and monotonous. It was ostensibly about aging and mortality, but it was derivative, uninspired. Pithy scribbles and warm-ups weren't enough to support a gimmicky, stale story.
His latest and slim novel is also a linguistic romp, and resurrects some familiar subjects/settings, such as a love triangle, prostate troubles, and his beloved Eastern Shore of Maryland, specifically Stratford. Retired professor G.I. Newitt experiences some strange catastrophic flukes associated with a series of visions. He is subsequently inspired to chronicle these seasonal occurrences and phenomena, such as a "post-equinoctial vision" and a "solstitial illumination." The latest casualties include a tornado that wiped out the retirement community that he lived in with his wife (and muse), Amanda, and a fall on his 77th birthday in another Stratford--the one particular to the Bard. Newitt's efforts to pen his memoir is the central event, and he shares every daily outburst of desultory thought with Amanda.
I am surprised that this is the same author who wrote The Floating Opera. There was nothing here to tantalize beyond some lexical stretching. The narrative was self-conscious and obvious, like the protagonist's name. (G.I. Newitt is as blunt and prosaic as Seymour Butts.) The events, and the telling of them, were repetitive and dull, the narrative style antiquated and stilted. The most inspired was the title's allusion to Prospero's lines in The Tempest.
It read like Barth just showed up for practice, much like the gasbag Newitt, and was compelled to cough up all the topical issues of the day--the war, the Bush administration, the government's failure during natural disasters. But it was arid and lusterless; notions stuck to the page like Teflon, a reiteration of the mundane. It managed to be both capricious and monotonous. It was ostensibly about aging and mortality, but it was derivative, uninspired. Pithy scribbles and warm-ups weren't enough to support a gimmicky, stale story.
November 26, 2011
John Barth is masterful with language. Even if you do not care for the plot or the characters, you continue to read because his sentences are filled with wordplay, puns, innuendos, and witticisms. Each of his sentences feels like I am unrolling a poster that had been rolled in storage for years. I open the poster and as soon as I see what the poster is, it rolls back in on itself. There are sometimes, you get enough in just the one glance, but many times, you end up unrolling the poster again, to really take a good look, to really enjoy the craftmanship of the words.
Barth is great at crafting words. He is great at putting ideas and symbols together. He is great about being impressive. Having said this, there is not much else but the silly enjoyment of reading this novel.
The novel itself, the story of 77-year-old G.I. Newett trying to push out one novel in the twilight of his years, is not too exciting. It actually can be shelved with all of the other "My years are quickly running ou so let's write a novel before it runs out completely." It's kind of death-defying fictions, trying to get that last squeeze out before the end, mostly novels that are reminicent in content. Updike did it. Philip Roth has been doing this for about 5 years now. Joyce Carol Oates has been doing it pretty much her entire career. The end of life, in G.I.N's perspective, deserves to have a final burst of creativity, even if the story is about how it used to be vs. how it is.
I did enjoy this novel, but it wasn't for the plot or the characters as much as the technique used to put it together. This is typical Barth, which makes even his not-so-good books entertaining to read.
Barth is great at crafting words. He is great at putting ideas and symbols together. He is great about being impressive. Having said this, there is not much else but the silly enjoyment of reading this novel.
The novel itself, the story of 77-year-old G.I. Newett trying to push out one novel in the twilight of his years, is not too exciting. It actually can be shelved with all of the other "My years are quickly running ou so let's write a novel before it runs out completely." It's kind of death-defying fictions, trying to get that last squeeze out before the end, mostly novels that are reminicent in content. Updike did it. Philip Roth has been doing this for about 5 years now. Joyce Carol Oates has been doing it pretty much her entire career. The end of life, in G.I.N's perspective, deserves to have a final burst of creativity, even if the story is about how it used to be vs. how it is.
I did enjoy this novel, but it wasn't for the plot or the characters as much as the technique used to put it together. This is typical Barth, which makes even his not-so-good books entertaining to read.
May 28, 2013
When I look back over the Barth bibliography, I find that there have been a lot of hits and misses. There was often always a charm to his writing, it's witticisms and historical perspective, but the weaker works, like most of the more recent books and even his gigantic tome (yes, that's saying a lot) LETTERS, Just make for a lot of redundancy and spotlighting of some of Barth's personal obsessions. But even in the great books, where these things still abound, there was at least a sense of reading a new way of telling stories. If you still think the same way about storytelling after Lost in the Funhouse or Chimera or Tidewater Tales, then you just haven't read that closely. Even Where Three Roads meet holds some esteem for admitting that stories can't be told as real life.
But this book just goes back over many of the same obsessions and feels empty in the process. High respect and kudos to Barth for his endless productivity, but when the stories all smack the same keywords and motifs, one wonders just how new the new book is. Kind of started leafing forward feeling Been There, Done That, impressed only by the protagonist's name, not much to hang a novel on.
But this book just goes back over many of the same obsessions and feels empty in the process. High respect and kudos to Barth for his endless productivity, but when the stories all smack the same keywords and motifs, one wonders just how new the new book is. Kind of started leafing forward feeling Been There, Done That, impressed only by the protagonist's name, not much to hang a novel on.
January 15, 2014
John Barth, I used to love you but I think it's time to end our relationship and I'm sorry. Maybe it's me, and not you, but it's really difficult to read your navel-gazing writing style (self-indulgent, self-reflective, too many inside jokes, too much "OFF" language, and frankly sex scenes that aren't that sexy) especially after having a head injury. Thus is the irony, as Every Third Thought's pivotal moment is the author's knock to the head when missing a step in Stratford upon Avon, which theoretically causes three hallucinations or visions.
But reading this really made my head hurt, and I am glad that it was only about 180 pages. Again, I'm sorry. It's me, not you. Maybe we can still be friends? Remember all the good times we had together?
But reading this really made my head hurt, and I am glad that it was only about 180 pages. Again, I'm sorry. It's me, not you. Maybe we can still be friends? Remember all the good times we had together?
August 19, 2019
well written...one of Barth's most 'postmortem' of his 'postmodern' novels. Easily read but not easily comprehended. Barth is one of my favorites but this isn't his best example.
July 3, 2012
Hated it! As one who always perseveres and finishes a book, I put this one down after only a few pages. The writing was so herky-jerky and full of deliberate puns and word-play I just could not see how I could read it through, so I didn't!
Read
December 27, 2020The last (?) John Barth book ...
I have re-read the entire Barth oeuvre during 2020, occasionally feeling more frustrated than amused or intrigued by it. I discovered Barth circa 1993, and for a time he was one of my absolute favourite writers. In these rereadings, I grew tired of some of his favourite repetitions—both content and technique—and lost a sizeable portion of that initial uncritical enthusiasm. In Every Third Thought, Barth (approaching 80) seems to acknowledge with humour that it’s been a while since the old dog has demonstrated any new tricks, and consequently (to me, anyway—it’s all personal and subjective), like many an old canine, though slower, less playful, a little more drooly, and needing more veterinary care, an old dog for whom one feels great affection anyway. He only uses faute de mieux once (that I noticed) and even then in a passage in which the ostensible narrator of the novel—the subtly-named G.I. Newett, from The Development—has conflated voices with Newett’s Narrator (who is not as much Barth as is the Narrator of Once Upon a Time, no matter how much G.I.N. and J.S.B. may resemble each other) thus can be ‘forgiven’ for slipping into a usage much more characteristic of J.S.B. than of G.I.N. [self-awareness note: And I complained about Proust!]. Late in the sequence, Newett’s better half comments “One suspects . . . that your Dear Reader has heard that already. Maybe more than once?” (151). An admission like that lifts a lot of weight off my earlier complaints [and I’m still not sure that Proust’s ‘Marcel’ actually reaches such a level of self-recognition]. In short, better than I expected it to be and a good way to end.
I have re-read the entire Barth oeuvre during 2020, occasionally feeling more frustrated than amused or intrigued by it. I discovered Barth circa 1993, and for a time he was one of my absolute favourite writers. In these rereadings, I grew tired of some of his favourite repetitions—both content and technique—and lost a sizeable portion of that initial uncritical enthusiasm. In Every Third Thought, Barth (approaching 80) seems to acknowledge with humour that it’s been a while since the old dog has demonstrated any new tricks, and consequently (to me, anyway—it’s all personal and subjective), like many an old canine, though slower, less playful, a little more drooly, and needing more veterinary care, an old dog for whom one feels great affection anyway. He only uses faute de mieux once (that I noticed) and even then in a passage in which the ostensible narrator of the novel—the subtly-named G.I. Newett, from The Development—has conflated voices with Newett’s Narrator (who is not as much Barth as is the Narrator of Once Upon a Time, no matter how much G.I.N. and J.S.B. may resemble each other) thus can be ‘forgiven’ for slipping into a usage much more characteristic of J.S.B. than of G.I.N. [self-awareness note: And I complained about Proust!]. Late in the sequence, Newett’s better half comments “One suspects . . . that your Dear Reader has heard that already. Maybe more than once?” (151). An admission like that lifts a lot of weight off my earlier complaints [and I’m still not sure that Proust’s ‘Marcel’ actually reaches such a level of self-recognition]. In short, better than I expected it to be and a good way to end.
December 18, 2012
I haven't sat down and taken my time to write a full review in while,usally because I dive right into reading the next book, but damn can Barth craft some nice sentences, he does with an effortless ease of a true master, words that last, there's a seen in which two inspiring writers watch divers and comment that the divers act of diving is life, some do flips and stunts, some just dive feet first, some make big splashes while others barley splash at all.
April 12, 2015
Unintentionally arrived at three nonegenarians on my readlist (Saramago, Garcia-Marquez, & Barth) and this was the only book I'd recommend. It's Barth's usual schtick in a maybe-memoir about a lost friend and found love. It reminded me of David Markson's 'Last Novel' in its power to tickle and move simultaneously.
August 2, 2021
Рассказанная история непросто.
Знаете в чем порой бывает радость, когда читаешь вот такие книжки, то есть жанра заковыристого постмодерниского ( описывает характерные черты литературы второй половины XX века (фрагментарность, ирония, чёрный юмор и т. д.), а также реакцию на идеи Просвещения (одна из ключевых эпох в истории европейской культуры, связанная с развитием научной, философской и общественной мысли. В основе этого интеллектуального движения лежали рационализм и свободомыслие), присущие модернистской литературе), то что все о чем писал автор мне понятно и знакомо, и все что он упоминал (книги, фильмы, песни, события) мне тоже знакомы и тем объемнее и шире смотрится и понимается, все что он увидел, подметил и вывел.
Так что первое правило для чтения такой литературы - это много знать! Если вы знаете мало, то все, вам крышка, вы не продересь сквозь этот славный ворох цитат, отсылок и историй.
Второе правило, не ломаться и развиваться. Не отступайте перед незнанием. Не читали "Белые зубы", особенно в оригинале, не читали "Бурю" Шекспира (это прям особенно в оригинале) - отложили "Всяко третье размышление" и читаете. Не просто так, для галки, а вдумчиво. Для галки, можно любовный романчик прочитать. Не знаете что такое карибский кризис, сели, хотелось бы сказать, за книжки, да кто ж так сделает, хоть за википедию и по всем отсылкам пошли все узнавать. Не знаете кто такой Рейган, вперед и гугл вам в помощь. Это все надо знать, как и про Афган и про Вьетнам. Не просто понаслышали, а чистые исторические факты и вот тогда, книга распахнется перед вами.
Третье правило, любите историю. Опять же не упавайте, на то, что вам донесли родители или в школе, особенно сейчас. Я вообще боюсь представить, что там сейчас доносят. А сами, все сами, отовсюду. Потому что это важно знать и понимать. Не упираться рогом в ворота, а понимать, о чем речь. Не пытаться выгородить кого-то, а понимать почему это произошло. Не закрывать глаза на войны, а смотреть открытыми глазами, а потом тыкать своих детей в это же. Потому что все это не прекращается, только потому что забывается и "наша хата с краю".
И четвертое правило, когда читаете, не кривитесь, а вникайте. Все кажется, то слишком сложным, то слишком простым. Да на самом деле, все что о жизни, такое и есть, сложное и простое. Сложное, потому что мы же жить не умеем, мы же обязательно вот с завтрашнего дня жить-то начнем. Просто, потому что каждая проблема решаема, потому что жить хорошо можно. И можно хорошо жить глядя на реальность, а не в мечту, а потом ударяться о реальность и реветь.
Размышления у автора простые, просто они о том, что рядом с нами, просто он умеет видеть, умеет говорить, умеет рассказать. Иногда так важно уметь рассказать просто о сложном, в таком непростом, но и не сильно сложном жанре, как постмодернизм.
Что наша жизнь чаще всего? Всяко третье размышление.
Знаете в чем порой бывает радость, когда читаешь вот такие книжки, то есть жанра заковыристого постмодерниского ( описывает характерные черты литературы второй половины XX века (фрагментарность, ирония, чёрный юмор и т. д.), а также реакцию на идеи Просвещения (одна из ключевых эпох в истории европейской культуры, связанная с развитием научной, философской и общественной мысли. В основе этого интеллектуального движения лежали рационализм и свободомыслие), присущие модернистской литературе), то что все о чем писал автор мне понятно и знакомо, и все что он упоминал (книги, фильмы, песни, события) мне тоже знакомы и тем объемнее и шире смотрится и понимается, все что он увидел, подметил и вывел.
Так что первое правило для чтения такой литературы - это много знать! Если вы знаете мало, то все, вам крышка, вы не продересь сквозь этот славный ворох цитат, отсылок и историй.
Второе правило, не ломаться и развиваться. Не отступайте перед незнанием. Не читали "Белые зубы", особенно в оригинале, не читали "Бурю" Шекспира (это прям особенно в оригинале) - отложили "Всяко третье размышление" и читаете. Не просто так, для галки, а вдумчиво. Для галки, можно любовный романчик прочитать. Не знаете что такое карибский кризис, сели, хотелось бы сказать, за книжки, да кто ж так сделает, хоть за википедию и по всем отсылкам пошли все узнавать. Не знаете кто такой Рейган, вперед и гугл вам в помощь. Это все надо знать, как и про Афган и про Вьетнам. Не просто понаслышали, а чистые исторические факты и вот тогда, книга распахнется перед вами.
Третье правило, любите историю. Опять же не упавайте, на то, что вам донесли родители или в школе, особенно сейчас. Я вообще боюсь представить, что там сейчас доносят. А сами, все сами, отовсюду. Потому что это важно знать и понимать. Не упираться рогом в ворота, а понимать, о чем речь. Не пытаться выгородить кого-то, а понимать почему это произошло. Не закрывать глаза на войны, а смотреть открытыми глазами, а потом тыкать своих детей в это же. Потому что все это не прекращается, только потому что забывается и "наша хата с краю".
И четвертое правило, когда читаете, не кривитесь, а вникайте. Все кажется, то слишком сложным, то слишком простым. Да на самом деле, все что о жизни, такое и есть, сложное и простое. Сложное, потому что мы же жить не умеем, мы же обязательно вот с завтрашнего дня жить-то начнем. Просто, потому что каждая проблема решаема, потому что жить хорошо можно. И можно хорошо жить глядя на реальность, а не в мечту, а потом ударяться о реальность и реветь.
Размышления у автора простые, просто они о том, что рядом с нами, просто он умеет видеть, умеет говорить, умеет рассказать. Иногда так важно уметь рассказать просто о сложном, в таком непростом, но и не сильно сложном жанре, как постмодернизм.
Что наша жизнь чаще всего? Всяко третье размышление.
April 9, 2018
can't remember who it was who described Barth's writing as "self-consuming meta-fiction", but it definitely fits. But in a good way. This book, like some others before it (e.g., Once Upon a Time), narrates the fictional story of the writing of the book itself. The narrator, George I. Newett, is writing the book to complete the work of his lost friend, Ned Prosper, who may or may not have existed (within the story). You can't tell whether the story is being drawn from real life or real life is being drawn from the story. At one point in the book, Newett's wife and fellow writer, Amanda, jabs the theme in deep, saying, "So, then: Are we fictitious too . . . ?"
It's not all postmodern styling. There's a very good story here, and it grows on you. "Every Third Thought" refers to the reconsiderations after "on second thought", and the subtitle, "A Novel in Five Seasons", refers to the seasons of George Newett's (and Barth's) life, and his marriage with Amanda. He is in his second "Fall" (the first centered on an actual fall on a vacation -- hence a "trip and fall" -- with Amanda, visiting Stratford, home of Shakespeare).
Newett's second Fall parallels Barth's own, both author and character approaching their eightieth years as Barth was writing the book. I won't spoil the ending. The one thing I'll say about it is that it is sadly honest.
Barth has always played at this disappearing boundary between living a life and writing a story. I know it can be tedious at times, especially to un-indoctrinated readers, and it's coupled with a lot of alliterative stylings, puns, and the like. In the end though, Barth is living and telling a compelling story.
It's not all postmodern styling. There's a very good story here, and it grows on you. "Every Third Thought" refers to the reconsiderations after "on second thought", and the subtitle, "A Novel in Five Seasons", refers to the seasons of George Newett's (and Barth's) life, and his marriage with Amanda. He is in his second "Fall" (the first centered on an actual fall on a vacation -- hence a "trip and fall" -- with Amanda, visiting Stratford, home of Shakespeare).
Newett's second Fall parallels Barth's own, both author and character approaching their eightieth years as Barth was writing the book. I won't spoil the ending. The one thing I'll say about it is that it is sadly honest.
Barth has always played at this disappearing boundary between living a life and writing a story. I know it can be tedious at times, especially to un-indoctrinated readers, and it's coupled with a lot of alliterative stylings, puns, and the like. In the end though, Barth is living and telling a compelling story.
February 7, 2019
Not one of my favorite books but I did seem to keep coming back for more. John is obviously a very intelligent man as is shown in his writing. But I found that his sometimes page long sentences, though extremely descriptive, at times just seemed as though he was rambling on. They were full of thoughts and sub thoughts as though he was trying to get a point across, which he did. At times I wondered, "When Wil this sentence just end?" That being said, I did enjoy this book, recommended by Neil Peart at Bubbas Book club, and I’m thinking of reading another John Barth book.
April 4, 2024
barth is like the guy who's got some self-absorbed narcissism like some characters out of Goodbye Columbus, but the characters are worse and there's 740 pages about a guy's fascination with corndogs and imaginary television programs
if you like words, don't like the plot, don't like the characters, don't like the humor, then this book and most of barth's other books might work for you...
otherwise you stick to his top three books, and save the rest of your time for joining the Church of Carrot Top
December 26, 2022
An interesting narrative experiment that mostly pans out.
August 4, 2024
A tedious, not very interesting book. It is written in a first person and third person style with a constantly changing perspective and littered with abbreviations and nicknames.
Not his best book.
Not his best book.
September 4, 2024
Barth's final fiction. I found it anticlimatic after his marvelous story collection, "The Development," but for those of us who love Barth, this is just a lovely sendoff.
November 20, 2015
Distilled Barth; Barth in essence. Every Third Thought tells a familiar story, shot through the familiar lens of Barth-concerns old and new. There's nothing here that's new to Barth-followers - the academic writer, his younger wife and soulmate, the Maryland tidewater, the concerns of ageing, the nature of fiction, the referencing of Scheherazade and Shakespeare, the Barth style, all twisted logic and curlicued sentences.
And yet.
And yet, everything's new here. The characters - rescued from their predicament in The Development - enter a kind of twlilight world, and reflect on the closure of life, not from the foothills of old age, as in the past, but from somewhere near the summit. The narration is as unreliable as you'd expect, and the layers of structure as satisfyingly complex as ever, but there's something more here, something we haven't really seen before.
We're in a world of dreams and forgetfulness, of curious concerns and seen-it-all-before world-weariness, leavened by Barth's usual metafictional caprices, here taken to a startlingly emotional climax, which leaves the reader trepidatious of turning the last page, and still satisfied by the payoff, which tells us everything and nothing, all at once.
It's not full-length Barth; I doubt there's another of those in the pipeline, but as a summary of the man's wit and wisdom, and a reminder of what he's still capable of, it beats just about anything out there.
Aging has its rewards, it seems, and if it can't go on forever, surely there's time for just one more story...
.
And yet.
And yet, everything's new here. The characters - rescued from their predicament in The Development - enter a kind of twlilight world, and reflect on the closure of life, not from the foothills of old age, as in the past, but from somewhere near the summit. The narration is as unreliable as you'd expect, and the layers of structure as satisfyingly complex as ever, but there's something more here, something we haven't really seen before.
We're in a world of dreams and forgetfulness, of curious concerns and seen-it-all-before world-weariness, leavened by Barth's usual metafictional caprices, here taken to a startlingly emotional climax, which leaves the reader trepidatious of turning the last page, and still satisfied by the payoff, which tells us everything and nothing, all at once.
It's not full-length Barth; I doubt there's another of those in the pipeline, but as a summary of the man's wit and wisdom, and a reminder of what he's still capable of, it beats just about anything out there.
Aging has its rewards, it seems, and if it can't go on forever, surely there's time for just one more story...
.
February 12, 2015
I was a Barth virgin; now ... well I think I still am, even if not technically. Wow, this book... as challenging as Pynchon, but without the sneer, Every Third Thought was unlike anything I've ever read, even though it's plot (was there a plot?) was just about an old guy writing a book. But at the same time, it was about living and dying and marriage and LAST things. That sentiment of "last" things (last day of school, last summer before X, etc), I don't know, at 27 I sometimes feel like I'm already twice that age or that I'm wasting valuable time and, wow, Every Third Thought did me no favors. It was confrontational in that I felt compelled, throughout, to think about my own life. And it was poignant in the kind of subtle way where you don't even feel yourself getting emotional until you're underneath it already. I loved the description of the narrator's marriage, and I don't think I've ever said that about a story marriage (okay maybe the Weasleys). To be honest, I feel like I just glimpsed the tail end of a meteor or something and didn't quite catch it. I'm canceling all my other reading plans for 2015 and trying one of his "mega-novels" ASAP.
February 25, 2015
Not gonna spend too much time on this little treasure. I began reading Barth earlier last year with Lost in the Funhouse (which I still haven't completely finished but am so dumbfounded by the tricks that I had to give it a break.
This novel, Every Third Thought: A Novel in Five Seasons is John Barth's latest. It's a postmodern book with a few stories within the stories, within the stories. And, it's kind of cool the way he morphs the stories that his protagonist is writing about to join with the story his protagonist is a character in. And, if that wasn't enough, it gives a personal autobiographical feel to it; but, of course, this could just be Barth's amazing prose making me want to believe it comes from a real source.
All in all, it's a "good" story. Very clever. I'm trying to eventually get enough courage to read some of his masterpieces, such as The Sot-Weed Factor. I'm sure I'll get to it soon enough, I just needed a little Barth to wet my postmodern whistle (sounds kinky).
Recommended? Yep Good start to anybody looking to venture into Postmodernism.
3 Stars-inside stars-inside stars!
This novel, Every Third Thought: A Novel in Five Seasons is John Barth's latest. It's a postmodern book with a few stories within the stories, within the stories. And, it's kind of cool the way he morphs the stories that his protagonist is writing about to join with the story his protagonist is a character in. And, if that wasn't enough, it gives a personal autobiographical feel to it; but, of course, this could just be Barth's amazing prose making me want to believe it comes from a real source.
All in all, it's a "good" story. Very clever. I'm trying to eventually get enough courage to read some of his masterpieces, such as The Sot-Weed Factor. I'm sure I'll get to it soon enough, I just needed a little Barth to wet my postmodern whistle (sounds kinky).
Recommended? Yep Good start to anybody looking to venture into Postmodernism.
3 Stars-inside stars-inside stars!
September 26, 2016
For past two or three years it's the second author (after Jay Rayner's "Apologist") whose books i'd say dance anymore.
First of all, 'course, terrible stair-step translation into russian by Sergey Ilyin. But to hell with him)
Second is uselessness of memoir-phormed (memoirmorphic) presentation with Post-romantic (author used this term, so don't blame me) officially infantile exhibition.
Third - it is too long and affectionate to truly touch subconsciousness, and too short and ragged to pick a thought or two for review.
First of all, 'course, terrible stair-step translation into russian by Sergey Ilyin. But to hell with him)
Second is uselessness of memoir-phormed (memoirmorphic) presentation with Post-romantic (author used this term, so don't blame me) officially infantile exhibition.
Third - it is too long and affectionate to truly touch subconsciousness, and too short and ragged to pick a thought or two for review.
February 9, 2012
Even his weaker fiction is still worth reading, and this is not one of his top efforts (the fellow is eighty-something after all), but I still enjoyed it. The best part by far is the last thirty or so pages. Very interesting ending indeed. And since this is a sort-of sequel to his previous book _The Development_, it is also interesting too see what happened to one couple after the devastating tornado/hurricane/whatever it was that knocked out that titular gated community.
June 5, 2014
Shakespeare. Puns. Age-old and old-age wisdom. Sex. True Love (there it is again, what a roll!). Current events. Life and death. Did someone say meta-fiction? Or, as Barth calls it, post-mortem fiction. In 182 pages. That's what I call Creative Rotting. Delightful. For those seeking details, google James Greer's LA review of books piece from may 24, 2012.
What he said. And Barth wrote.
What he said. And Barth wrote.
April 25, 2012
It was a struggle, but worth it. In the end, I was pleased to have read the difficult prose. I was challenged throughout the book, both in style and content. '
On the last page the tears fell freely from my cheeks. Cheeky bastard Barth for catching me unaware of how many heartstrings he had gathered up before leaping out the beyond the back cover of the book.
On the last page the tears fell freely from my cheeks. Cheeky bastard Barth for catching me unaware of how many heartstrings he had gathered up before leaping out the beyond the back cover of the book.
April 20, 2012
Wry and pun-filled fun.
November 20, 2012
Not Barth's best, not even best-recent (The Development was much better), but pretty good.
May 4, 2016
John Barth keeps writing, I keep reading.
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