Grossman's comments stem from a black and white photograph seamed to accompany the article in which the writer is picture with a lazy cigarette and sprightly brows. His tale is further confabulated by the assertion that Barthelme was the '70s hero of literature. His span in media consciousness is as intricate; I would like to later assert that his portrayal in the press went on to influence some realms of musical critique. Summarily, Barthelme stood out in the consciousness of Grossman, other families who used his word play, and served as a sort of literary template. Grossman's prose is littered with ones like, "Reading Barthelme, you'd think he crawled from the steaming wreckage of an asteroid that originated in the outer solar system." Grossman has the same oddball zeal and command of language. This demonstrates something of the echo of the fervor possessed by Barthelme.
In the picture accompanying the Times text, Barthelme is photographed with a cigarette, a Japanese paper lantern, and a typewriter. If these are types of the writer's trade, Barthelme is dismissed as a sort of "novelty act" by Grossman in reflection of the larger social forces alight on the scene. This bit of the narrative did not conceivably fail to remind me of the fate of say, Hart Crane, jumping off a ship along the coast of Mexico or other writers who died alone after critical or self-perceived failure. Crane wrote one of his last novels, The Bridge, with the most nobel intent of countering the ethos in The Wasteland. His personal problems, as well as his foibles with waiters at Cafe Select, undoubtedly influenced this squandering of raw talent. Crane's tombstone recounts that he was "Lost at Sea," almost like a romantic elegy. But, Barthelme's path is somewhat different.
Crane struggled with approval from the very beginning (did James Franco channel the wrong writer's ghost?), but interviews with Barthelme reveal that he was excepted into a writerly melee from the beginning. He, at least, adopted a fluidity into the discursive tendencies of the scene. He has a certain pizazz, or jazz to his own writing.
In The Paris Review interview by J.D. O'Hara, Barthelme remarked that he was pleased with his coverage in the press in, at least, a joking sense. Barthelme said that "'there was an implication... the Times wanted to see gladiatorial combat, or at least a soccer game. I was always placed with the team.'" He seems relatively forthcoming in the interview, even delving into the circumstances in his work where he discusses his what portions of some texts are ficciones and which are not. Both of his parents are revealed to be humanities studies graduates. He read Márquez, even his unpopular texts, saying something about how art begets critique and critique begets art. Barthelme, in fact, is quite skilled and versed in quoting the writing and work of others in his field. He does this at length and comments that he is never not starting a new book.
He clearly fits into that odd segment between the postmodern and the modern, at the time of that article's publication, teaching courses at a graduate school. He mentions that writing cannot be taught, but that perhaps editing can. Many of his friends were actually editors, writers, and critics. Therefore, it seems unsurprising that the dazzling array of critique in Great Days reflects these enclaves. Here, we can see the reflections of an author who adopts dialog and transcribes it with ease. One short story, "The King of Jazz," sounds like the kind of story that kids delivered in lines while languishing on the hoods of cars in any of the old greaser movies. The self-proclaimed "King of Jazz" in this short is a guy called Hokie Mokie who seceded the dead Spicy MacLammermoor. Most of the short, aside from the introductory paragraph, is written in dialog delivered between two people.
As soon as Hokie Mokie's reign within the realm of jazz begins, it is immediately challenged. As soon as the new is distributed between brief blurbs of dialog, Hokie Mokie begins to play his trombone at a gig and remains unchallenged internally (in relation to his own dialog) until an anonymous character starts striking. The anonymous character refuses to play a tune called "Smoke," then, he is forced to introduce himself as a nefarious sort. He becomes Hideo Yamamguchi, the top trombonist in Japan. Following that, we have a regional devolution. In order to test Yamaguchi, they ask him about venues in Japan. However, the taste is always changing and Yamaguchi asserts a different night club is the spot. There is a universal quality to this story in the competitive elements of the musical trade. Immediately, Yamaguchi's ability to challenge Hokie Mokie is cemented further by the technique in which he holds an instrument. Hokie Mokie thinks to himself, "'He's sensational.... Maybe I ought to kill him" (Barthelme 57). Barthelme's initial reaction is an instinctual, animalistic jolt.
Soon, another person named Fat Man Jones enters the narrative. Much like workers in a factory, the musical gents talk shop. Fat Man Jones enters the scene and already knows what chord he is supposed to be playing in. He's known, like applicants with connections, through his previous work with other bands. I could continue to enumerate upon how the authors suggest that Fat Man Jones and they, themselves, want to enhance Hokie Mokie's music, much like adding electronic innovations to music production. Yet, the more questionable facet of Hokie Mokie's prowess comes into question. He's merely concerned with how his "trombone's been makin' [his] neck green for thirty-five years... How come I got to stand up to yet another challenge" (Barthelme 58).
Hokie Mokie, the jazz king, has egregious concerns with his profession and symbolically retires within the enclaves of his internal monologue. Hideo defers to his talent at recommendations and resolves that Mokie becomes king emeritus. Then, there is an extremely long monologue wherein Mokie delves into the construction of the sensation of sound. Barthelme, like Hokie Mokie himself, departs from the depiction of the musicians at play to demonstrate the musicality of his words. He compares a sound abstractly to "prairie dogs kissing," "witch grass tumbling," and "manatee munching seaweed" (Barthelme 59). Though the comparison would be more aptly phrased were the comparisons made using the terms "such as" rather than "like" ("like" indicates a comparison), the splendor of the passage and Barthelme's talent for imaginative comparison sculpts entire passages of text. The text optimistically ends with Hideo announcing that he will leave Hokie Mokie, but that he has learned considerably.
Posts
