Hiding Man_ A Biography Of Donald Barthelme Part 23

When the book finally appeared in Germany, with the subt.i.tle "Modern Cla.s.sic," Don just grinned, said Marianne.

As their mutual fascination deepened, they began to meet at the Trattoria da Alfredo on the corner of Bank and Hudson streets. The place was dark inside, painted in cool greens and yellows, with rows of wine bottles on shelves around the walls.

They were genuinely anguished by the intensity of their connection. Don had enormous regard for Frisch. In "Departures," he wrote, with only slight exaggeration, of a man in similar circ.u.mstances, phoning a couple's apartment hoping to reach the woman but getting her husband instead: " 'Well...' I ask cordially, 'what amazing triumphs have you accomplished today?' "

In another story, "Three," Don writes fancifully of a struggle between an old man and a younger one over the older man's wife. Here, as in "Departures," the young lover is presented as miserable and ineffectual in the shadow of the brilliant elder statesman.

In 1975, Frisch published a short autobiographical novel ent.i.tled Montauk. Montauk. Although Don is never named in the book, Frisch wrote candidly of the suspicions he had of his wife's relationship with an American writer, describing in detail the Trattoria da Alfredo and the interior of Don's apartment (with its "INGRES poster"). He quoted a pa.s.sage from "Departures" ("But where are you today? Probably out with your husband for a walk.... Do you think he has noticed?...What foolishness! It is as obvious as a b.u.mper sticker....") Although Don is never named in the book, Frisch wrote candidly of the suspicions he had of his wife's relationship with an American writer, describing in detail the Trattoria da Alfredo and the interior of Don's apartment (with its "INGRES poster"). He quoted a pa.s.sage from "Departures" ("But where are you today? Probably out with your husband for a walk.... Do you think he has noticed?...What foolishness! It is as obvious as a b.u.mper sticker....") Frisch portrayed himself as responsible for his wife's unhappiness ("I had been preoccupied with the world") and accepting of, though saddened by, her friendship with the writer, whom he "admired." He wrote that this writer "is afraid of feelings that are not suited to publication; he takes refuge then in irony; all he perceives is considered from the point of view of whether it is worth describing, and he dislikes experiences that can never be expressed in words. A professional disease that drives many writers to drink."

Elsewhere in the book, Frisch recounted an occasion when, after an evening of eating and drinking at the Frisches' place, the writer suddenly "rose to his feet, went to the door, and disappeared." Worried, Frisch followed the man to his apartment. "Sorry," the writer told him. "I'm drunk."

Don sometimes sought late-night conversations with other women. Renata Adler recalled that at three o'clock one morning she was awakened by her apartment buzzer. "I lived then in...a brownstone on East Seventy-Eighth Street," she wrote in her book Gone. Gone. "Don came up the stairs, sat down in the living room, accepted a scotch, and said, 'All right. Go ahead and say it. I know it. You think Garcia Marquez is a better writer than I am.' " Garcia Marquez's breakthrough novel, "Don came up the stairs, sat down in the living room, accepted a scotch, and said, 'All right. Go ahead and say it. I know it. You think Garcia Marquez is a better writer than I am.' " Garcia Marquez's breakthrough novel, One Hundred Years of Solitude, One Hundred Years of Solitude, had appeared in English in 1970. "I said, Honestly not," Adler wrote. "I had never read Garcia Marquez. [Don] said, 'Come on. You think Garcia Marquez is a better writer than I am, and had appeared in English in 1970. "I said, Honestly not," Adler wrote. "I had never read Garcia Marquez. [Don] said, 'Come on. You think Garcia Marquez is a better writer than I am, and A Hundred Years of Solitude A Hundred Years of Solitude [ [sic] is a better book than I will ever write.' I said that I had truly never read Garcia Marquez. After a while he left."

In the midst of all this, Don began an affair with Karen Kennerly. He met her through Jerome Charyn and Mark Mirsky, writers and teachers at City College with whom he had become friendly. She was putting together an anthology of fables from around the world ent.i.tled Hesitant Wolf and Scrupulous Fox. Hesitant Wolf and Scrupulous Fox. Random House had signed to publish it. She had gathered more than a hundred pages of notes for the introduction she needed to write for the book, but the task felt overwhelming to her and she had stalled on it. Don told her, "Write five pages and make every sentence golden." She did as he said, and came up with seven "perfect" pages. Random House had signed to publish it. She had gathered more than a hundred pages of notes for the introduction she needed to write for the book, but the task felt overwhelming to her and she had stalled on it. Don told her, "Write five pages and make every sentence golden." She did as he said, and came up with seven "perfect" pages.

Kennerly says, "Don had the golden ear of all time." In conversation, "every sentence he uttered was stylish, like his work." At the same time, "he didn't lead his life like a major writer who is totally boring in person. Style was simply what he breathed. Maybe his Catholic schooling accounted for his very fine manners and his formality."

She adds, "He was a tortured soul. He had a great darkness inside. And he was heartbreaking. I was very moved by him."

At the time, she was also dating Miles Davis. Naturally, this intrigued Don. "I was with Miles from 1966 to 1979," she says. "Don's story 'The Sandman' is all true. I'm the woman in that story." In the piece, the woman receives a late-night phone call from a man she is seeing. "That's Miles," Kennerly explains, " 'very good, very fast,' as the story says."

"Don always wanted to meet Miles, and Miles was curious about Don, whom he called 'Texas,' " Kennerly says. "I desperately wanted to keep them apart, because I thought Miles would outcool Don, and Don had a very big investment in being cool. One night, Don came over to my apartment and we were about to go to dinner. Miles called and said (hoa.r.s.e, whispery voice), 'Whatcha doing?' I kept trying to put him off and he said, 'Is he there? Is Texas there? I'm having dinner at Elaine's. Come meet me here.' Don said, 'What is he saying? What is he saying?' I told him and he said, 'We're going.' When we got there-it was very early, about 6:30-Miles was sitting at a table by himself, already halfway through dinner. It wouldn't have occurred to him to wait on anyone. He had on these big sungla.s.ses. Finally, Don said, 'Hey man, why don't you take off your shades?' Miles said, 'Why? It's all all black.' After that, the conversation was very stiff. Then Miles got up and said, 'Bye. Gotta go. Good to meet you.' Don and I barely got through dinner. It was very painful. That was the only time I ever saw him out of control in a social situation-it's what I feared would happen. We asked for the check and the waiter said Miles had covered it. Don said, 'No, he has not. I am paying for this meal. Put his money on his tab.' The waiter didn't know what to do, because Miles only came in about twice a year. Finally, I took the boy aside and said, 'Just consider yourself lucky that you got a big tip tonight.' He kept Miles's money and let Don pay for the dinner." black.' After that, the conversation was very stiff. Then Miles got up and said, 'Bye. Gotta go. Good to meet you.' Don and I barely got through dinner. It was very painful. That was the only time I ever saw him out of control in a social situation-it's what I feared would happen. We asked for the check and the waiter said Miles had covered it. Don said, 'No, he has not. I am paying for this meal. Put his money on his tab.' The waiter didn't know what to do, because Miles only came in about twice a year. Finally, I took the boy aside and said, 'Just consider yourself lucky that you got a big tip tonight.' He kept Miles's money and let Don pay for the dinner."

Don would tell Kennerly that Miles had a "tin ear, nowhere as good as Charlie Parker's." Kennerly argued with him, and Don admitted, "Well, he's great, but he's not up there. up there."

"I think he really thought that, and not just because I had been with this very s.e.xy man," Kennerly says. "Don always feared that he would be like Miles, that he wouldn't be considered one of the greats."

In the early days of Kennerly's affair with Don, Anne was around much of the time, visiting from Denmark. "I had a big mother-daughter crush on her and had fantasies of her coming to live with me-screw mean old Don," Kennerly says. "In a way, at first, Anne was our glue." In the spring of 1972, Don made plans with Birgit to send Anne back to Denmark for the summer. When he told Kennerly he wanted to spend the summer with her, and grow closer, she was thrilled. He promised he'd find a summer rental for them in Maine. But after that, whenever she'd ask about the arrangements, he'd put her off, or say he'd checked into a couple of places but hadn't heard back from them. mean old Don," Kennerly says. "In a way, at first, Anne was our glue." In the spring of 1972, Don made plans with Birgit to send Anne back to Denmark for the summer. When he told Kennerly he wanted to spend the summer with her, and grow closer, she was thrilled. He promised he'd find a summer rental for them in Maine. But after that, whenever she'd ask about the arrangements, he'd put her off, or say he'd checked into a couple of places but hadn't heard back from them.

"He could be a tough customer," Kennerly says. "Finally, toward the end of spring, we were drinking somewhere in the Village, and he said the single cruelest thing a man has ever said to me." He stroked his beard with one hand while gripping a scotch in the other. He turned to her and said, "So. What are you you doing this summer?" doing this summer?"

Kennerly was stunned. "But the truth is, we were perfectly matched," she admits. Suspecting that Don wouldn't follow through with his promise, she had, had, in fact, made other plans. She went to Ireland and had a fling with a young Irish journalist. "Don went to Texas that summer," Kennerly says. in fact, made other plans. She went to Ireland and had a fling with a young Irish journalist. "Don went to Texas that summer," Kennerly says.

In Houston, Don spent time with Pat Colville, an old friend from his museum days. She and her husband, Bill, had thrown the going-away party for Don when he first moved to Manhattan. Now she was separated from Bill, teaching at the University of St. Thomas.

Anne had flown to Houston with Don. They stayed with his parents for a few days until she was scheduled to travel to Copenhagen. One day, Don's sister, Joan, and her two sons accompanied Don and Anne to AstroWorld, a Disney-like amus.e.m.e.nt park. Don tried to enjoy the outing, but all he could think of was Anne's imminent departure.

One afternoon, Don left her with his mother and drove to Helen's advertising agency on Buffalo Drive, a busy thoroughfare near the places he and Helen had shared in Montrose. Without warning, he walked into the office. Helen looked up from her desk and there he stood, grinning at her. After she'd regained her composure, she said simply, "I've thought of you mostly with love and affection." Don replied, "Me, too." Quietly, she told him he'd hurt her feelings when he'd dedicated Snow White Snow White to Birgit. He said her letter about the dedication hurt him, as well. She stood and kissed him on the cheek. Then they hugged and laughed. to Birgit. He said her letter about the dedication hurt him, as well. She stood and kissed him on the cheek. Then they hugged and laughed.

At lunch a few days later, at the Courtlandt Restaurant on Francis Street, close to the first apartment they had rented together, they caught up with each other. In addition to her work with the ad agency, Helen had been taking courses at the University of Texas and writing a Ph.D. dissertation on William Faulkner. She noticed that Don seemed nervous to be back in Houston, "apprehensive of getting too personal or at least wary of becoming nostalgic or sentimental." His boyish look was gone, she says, his red hair noticeably thinning, but he was slender and jaunty. It took her awhile to get used to the indentation in his upper lip, a result of his cancer operation.

"He was as dissatisfied as ever," she recalled. "He was not unhappy with [his] work but with what he felt was limited recognition for it." She was surprised at this, having seen the splendid reviews of City Life. City Life. Don's desires were contradictory: On the one hand, he wanted only readers he could respect; on the other, he felt his audience was too small, made up only of a few Don's desires were contradictory: On the one hand, he wanted only readers he could respect; on the other, he felt his audience was too small, made up only of a few New Yorker New Yorker readers and the literati in Europe. readers and the literati in Europe.

Mostly, Don talked about Anne, about the anguish he felt because of living much of the year without her. He told Helen he "couldn't have made it" without his daughter. Of Birgit, he simply said that she was ill. She often phoned him from Denmark, seeking help with problems he couldn't a.s.sist her with long-distance, like locating her misplaced checkbook.

Helen saw Don frequently that summer at social events where he'd show up with Pat Colville. Helen was still dating Sam Southwell; they were considering marriage. Don told her he no longer expected marriage to provide an "ideal relationship."

Back in New York, he resumed his affair with Karen Kennerly. He told her he had been miserable in Texas, and he seemed distressed that she had enjoyed herself in Ireland. He appeared to doubt his virility around her, though this struck her as silly: "We made love every night. He was in his early forties, and his drinking didn't slow him down," she says. He'd point to young men in the street and tease her, saying, "He could be your lover. Or what about could be your lover. Or what about him him?"

When she told him about her Irish fling, "he started hammering away at my self-esteem, telling me I couldn't be happy, [that] I was an anxious, depressed type," she says. "Like many male writers, Don, I think, wanted someone simpler than he was, less complicated."

She says, "He was spooked by a lot of things."

"Donald was extremely fond of women, and it's not gossipy to say that," says the novelist Walter Abish, who met Don around this time. "It was central to him; it was in his makeup. And it was also literary. I mean, read the writing: There is concealment there...." A love of language, games-the flirtations, the obstacles, the overcoming overcoming of obstacles-that keep things interesting between women and men. of obstacles-that keep things interesting between women and men.

39.

HITHERING THITHERING.

In the midst of his domestic churning, Don gathered several copyright-free nineteenth-century ill.u.s.trations to make a picture book for Anne. He called the book The Slightly Irregular Fire Engine, or The Hithering Thithering Djinn. The Slightly Irregular Fire Engine, or The Hithering Thithering Djinn. Farrar, Straus and Giroux published it in 1971. Farrar, Straus and Giroux published it in 1971.

The "book was dictated by the pictures," Don said. The "text was written to fit" them. A knitting pirate becomes one of the central characters, whom the heroine, Mathilda, encounters in a magical Chinese paG.o.da that appears mysteriously in her yard one day. "The pirate comes from a rather well-known children's book of the period, which had an entirely different story," Don said.

His ill.u.s.trations are accompanied by legends such as "SLENDER-WAISTEDNESS / Corseted Divinities with Waspish Affinities / Worrying, Flurrying" and "BURIED JEWELS / Oceanic Dredging Company." Sometimes, the legends enhance a particular picture. For example, when the paG.o.da appears out of nowhere in Mathilda's backyard, the phrase "Suburban Disturbance" lines the right-hand margin of the page. In other cases, the legends bear only a peripheral relationship to the story line: Surrealism for children.

The legends "come from a nineteenth-century printer's typespecimen book," Don explained. "It's a catalog from which printers can order type, samples from type specimens, and whoever set the specimens was wonderfully funny and imaginative.... I just took them out of the catalog and used them...as a design element to make the pages more interesting...."

The paG.o.da is stuffed with astonishing surprises-a tumbling elephant, a rainmaker, a "barrel of pickles surmounted by a sour and severe citizen"-none of which satisfies Mathilda. She wants a bright red fire engine. Finally, the paG.o.da vanishes, leaving in its stead a green green fire truck. Well, "green is a beautiful color too," Mathilda concedes. fire truck. Well, "green is a beautiful color too," Mathilda concedes.

In The Slightly Irregular Fire Engine, The Slightly Irregular Fire Engine, Don suggested that the world of "CONTENTMENT" is bought at a severe price ("Corseted Divinities...Worrying, Flurrying"). "Entertainment" is our only means of escaping worry. Yet there are limits to what we imagine. The adventurous pirate has been reduced to a harmless domestic figure, knitting and rocking in a chair. The truck comes painted in the wrong color. The Victorian ill.u.s.trations remind children Don suggested that the world of "CONTENTMENT" is bought at a severe price ("Corseted Divinities...Worrying, Flurrying"). "Entertainment" is our only means of escaping worry. Yet there are limits to what we imagine. The adventurous pirate has been reduced to a harmless domestic figure, knitting and rocking in a chair. The truck comes painted in the wrong color. The Victorian ill.u.s.trations remind children and and adults of Lewis Carroll, but they locate this remarkable world at an unreachable distance from us. adults of Lewis Carroll, but they locate this remarkable world at an unreachable distance from us.

"I never saw The Slightly Irregular Fire Engine The Slightly Irregular Fire Engine in progress," Anne says. Don said he "tried it out" on Anne, on one of her visits to New York, "and she was kind enough to say that she liked it very much." in progress," Anne says. Don said he "tried it out" on Anne, on one of her visits to New York, "and she was kind enough to say that she liked it very much."

While he may have discovered the pirate pictures at random, their appeal for him was tied to his childhood delight in Sabatini. He was sharing a cherished personal pleasure with his daughter.

The book ends with a portrait of a "gay and laughing couple," Mathilda's parents, accompanied by the caption "CONTENTMENT." Given Anne's family situation, this was heavily ironic-it was also a poignant recognition of what Anne most desired, just as Mathilda wants a fire engine. Don gave his daughter what she was after...but only in fiction. It was the best he could do.

Reviewers were generally respectful of The Slightly Irregular Fire Engine, The Slightly Irregular Fire Engine, but they were concerned that it might sail over the heads of many children. The book was distinguished by "elegant chatter," but the pictures were "too static" for kids, grumbled but they were concerned that it might sail over the heads of many children. The book was distinguished by "elegant chatter," but the pictures were "too static" for kids, grumbled Time Time's reviewer. Writing in The New York Times Book Review, The New York Times Book Review, Selma G. Lanes praised Don's "felicitous and blithe voice," his "considerable promise as an author for children," but she also worried that kids, lacking a sense of nostalgia, wouldn't enjoy the "wooden" Victorian ill.u.s.trations. In Selma G. Lanes praised Don's "felicitous and blithe voice," his "considerable promise as an author for children," but she also worried that kids, lacking a sense of nostalgia, wouldn't enjoy the "wooden" Victorian ill.u.s.trations. In The New Yorker, The New Yorker, Jean Stafford effused over this "immensely captivating" book with its "disconcertingly bright" heroine. Roger Straus was pleased enough with the book's reception to offer Don a contract for a second children's volume (which he never attempted). Jean Stafford effused over this "immensely captivating" book with its "disconcertingly bright" heroine. Roger Straus was pleased enough with the book's reception to offer Don a contract for a second children's volume (which he never attempted).

Don had published two books in two years, one of which, City Life City Life, had received extraordinary attention, but he struggled during this period to please Roger Angell. At this point, Angell was the reader Don most trusted; he spiraled into a "panic" whenever Angell went on vacation, but these days-particularly throughout the summer, fall, and winter of 1972-Angell rejected more of Don's stories than he accepted. "Badly strained," "much too close to Joyce," "familiar and overused irony"-these were Angell's typical responses. To the editor of an anthology seeking to reprint the definitive version of one of Don's stories, Angell said, "Almost everything [Barthelme] submits these days seems to be in midstage; he keeps revising even the stories we have purchased, right up to the page proof, so one can't be too definite in advance about the final look of the thing."

"At the End of the Mechanical Age," in retrospect one of Don's funniest, most charming pieces, elicited an "unhappy opinion" from Angell; "The Educational Experience," a parody of academia, left him "irritated" at its abstruseness. He "didn't admire" "Swallowing," Don's satire on the Nixon administration; he pa.s.sed on "Three." "Belief," a wry meditation on aging, he returned without comment.

"I feel especially bad about hitting you with so many rejections in the midst of a difficult time for you," he told Don. "I'm sure this is only a temporary phenomenon. There is no no feeling here that we care less for your work, and I don't think we are judging it in any new way." feeling here that we care less for your work, and I don't think we are judging it in any new way."

A month or so later, on October 10, 1972, Angell wrote to Don, "I'm unhappily aware that a) You are in a slump, or b) We are in a slump, or c) We are both in a slump. I'm sure it's not much consolation to you when I say that these b.u.mpy stretches happen to all writers and that they go away of their own accord....In any case, I hope you know that it distresses me to disappoint you this way. We can talk about this at any time if you want to."

He also reminded Don that his current indebtedness to the magazine stood at $1,778.

On the occasions when Angell was was pleased with the work, Don wasn't happy. He withdrew a story that the magazine had bought, and was forced to return the $1,375 advance. On September 9, 1972, pleased with the work, Don wasn't happy. He withdrew a story that the magazine had bought, and was forced to return the $1,375 advance. On September 9, 1972, The New Yorker The New Yorker published a piece called "Edwards, Amelia." Don didn't like it enough to ever reprint it in a book. The t.i.tle character, listless and depressed, feels that her life is falling apart, but she doesn't have the energy or the will to do much about it. She wonders, "Am I a standard-issue American alcoholic?" published a piece called "Edwards, Amelia." Don didn't like it enough to ever reprint it in a book. The t.i.tle character, listless and depressed, feels that her life is falling apart, but she doesn't have the energy or the will to do much about it. She wonders, "Am I a standard-issue American alcoholic?"

Despite Angell's a.s.sertion that he wasn't judging Don differently now, a mild peevishness crept into his letters during this period, apparently in the conviction that Don was living recklessly.

Certainly, the drinking was a concern. But Angell seemed just as irked at Don's. .h.i.thering and thithering. He was in and out of Houston. In the fall of 1972, he accepted a temporary teaching position at the State University of New York at Buffalo. John Barth recruited him as a sabbatical replacement. At first, Don didn't relish the idea of teaching creative writing, but he needed the money. He owed The New Yorker The New Yorker-perpetually-and he had a.s.sumed full financial responsibility for Birgit and Anne.

Angell never said so directly, but he appeared to feel that Don should stay put and concentrate on his fiction. "How was the Buffalo hunt?" he asked rather snidely near the beginning of September. A few weeks later, he complained, "I tried to reach you this morning, but I guess you're back in Buffalo." In mid-October, as he tried to clarify his negative reactions to Don's recent stories, his wording got tangled, and he quipped, "You can ask your students to straighten out that metaphor."

Teaching gave Don a merciful respite from his back-and-forth with the magazine; though he remained aloof and awkward in public, contact with young writers energized him.

In the late 1960s and early 1970s, SUNY Buffalo had the money and the vision to a.s.semble possibly the most astounding English Department in the country. Under the leadership of its chair, Al Cook, the department hired or brought in as visitors Barth, Leslie Fiedler, Charles Olsen, Robert Creeley, Lionel Abel, Helene Cixous, Michel Foucault, Eugenio Donato, John Logan, J. M. Coetzee, Robert Ha.s.s, Dwight Macdonald, and Don-a stellar team of scholars and artists (if disproportionately male). Some of them, including Don, did not have university degrees, but the school recognized their impact on American arts and letters and hired them anyway.

Don's "literary income never kept pace with his literary stature, and he remarked to me...that he could remember scarcely a month in his adult life when he hadn't had to worry seriously about paying the bills," Barth recalled. The pay was good at Buffalo and Don's teaching responsibilities "entail[ed] only a pair of once-a-week workshop sessions and conferences with the apprentice writers; he could fly out to the Queen City overnight, do his seminars and conferences, and take his week's worth of ma.n.u.scripts home to West Eleventh Street for line-editing," Barth said.

Privately, Barth worried that Don's inexperience in the cla.s.sroom, and his desire to commute from Manhattan, would "short-change" his students. "What Donald did, in fact, was long long-change them," Barth said. "Word reached me...that he and they were publishing the best of the students' work in...tabloid format...complete with wonderful graphics by Donald himself." Furthermore, "he let them take him after cla.s.s to Buffalo neighborhood bars, where he instructed them in the perils of alcohol for aspiring American writers."

"The key thing about those years" at SUNY Buffalo "was the war in Southeast Asia," recalled Bruce Jackson, a young professor in the department then. "It touched nearly everything we did: how we taught our cla.s.ses, the lives of our students, our conversations. You can't imagine now the antipathy between town and gown. For a time, hundreds of Buffalo policemen in riot gear occupied the Main Street campus. Forty-five faculty were arrested for demonstrating against the war in the administration building one Sunday morning." Tear-gas canisters "were fired into stairwells of the old Norton Union (now part of the School of Dental Medicine) so they would enter the circulating air system of the entire building." Though Don was not involved in antiwar activity on campus (after the killings at Kent State, most people were literally gun-shy), Buffalo's air was tinged with chaos.

"He seemed sad," says Michael Silverblatt, one of Don's students, and now the host of the syndicated radio talk show Bookworm. Bookworm. "A friend and I talked about getting him a dog. We gave him a collection of some of our favorite objects and he arranged them into an altar; he really did like making collage. We all began making altars, kept in the corner of the room, or on a shelf. I had a Donald altar." "A friend and I talked about getting him a dog. We gave him a collection of some of our favorite objects and he arranged them into an altar; he really did like making collage. We all began making altars, kept in the corner of the room, or on a shelf. I had a Donald altar."

In cla.s.s, Don "could be terrifying," Silverblatt recalls. He'd suddenly "toss out a phrase like 'Me pap! Me pap!' and be utterly disappointed that I didn't know it came from [Beckett's] 'Endgame.' It was a pop quiz." Don never questioned the "content of a story, only the language. And he edited word by word." He never "changed a student writer's sense of truth."

He was a "little stern, always n.o.ble, very funny-but the funny things he said were a little dour," says Silverblatt. "He advised me several times that 'we were put here on earth to love one another.' I once heard him say, 'You make my life a living h.e.l.l,' to a dear friend and she answered, right back, 'You make my life a living h.e.l.l.' I remember that this was said in the friendliest way, while Don fixed barbecued ribs for supper."

On his father's advice, Don started trusting his money-including his earnings from teaching-to an accountant, who told him how much to spend and when.

On Don's frequent visits to Houston, he rented an apartment, a shortterm arrangement, on Richmond Avenue in Montrose. For a while, he continued to see Pat Colville, but she disapproved of his drinking. At a party one evening in the fall of 1973, he ran into Helen and Sam Southwell. "I saw him looking closely at Sam and a few days later, when he asked what Sam had said about him, I replied that he thought Don seemed 'n.o.ble and graceful,' " Helen recalled. "Clearly satisfied with the description, he said of Sam that he 'looked quite strong.' "

Don had gone to Texas that autumn under the auspices of the Southwest Writers Conference. He taught a fiction workshop and held individual ma.n.u.script conferences with paid partic.i.p.ants. Beverly Lowry, who would eventually become a successful novelist but who at that time had published nothing, recalled her "lesson" with him at the conference. "We [met] at a table in the middle of a wide and busy hall [at the University of Houston]. Around us, other literary pilgrims met, consulted, and milled about." Don stood with "[s]pine erect." He "held himself at a tilt, as if to get a bead on whatever action was in the works."

He took her story ma.n.u.script and "blue-penciled" it, pragmatically, straightforwardly. "He ran his pen down a page to these sentences: 'I never said a word, never asked, never complained. I did the dishes.'

"He peered down his eyebones," Lowry said. " 'You don't have to do this of course,' [he said]. And he made the one substantial change he was to suggest that day: " 'I never said a word, never asked, never complained. Period, new paragraph. Period, new paragraph. What I did was the dishes. What I did was the dishes.'

"In low comedy, I'd have slapped my forehead with the heel of my hand," Lowry recalled. "It was like jokes, after all; you had to set up the punchline, same as Henny Youngman."

During this period, Don's frustrations with Roger Angell were minor compared to his friend Mark Mirsky's fury at the American literary scene. "I had been trekking over to Donald's [West Village apartment] to listen to his talk about books and show him my own work," Mirsky wrote in a history of Fiction Fiction magazine. "At one moment I...angrily threatened to bring out a magazine in pure spite at the vast conspiracy of indifference" toward quality fiction in this country. Don took him up on this, and said, "I will do the layout." magazine. "At one moment I...angrily threatened to bring out a magazine in pure spite at the vast conspiracy of indifference" toward quality fiction in this country. Don took him up on this, and said, "I will do the layout."

In this way, Fiction Fiction magazine "owed its existence to Donald Barthelme," said Mirsky. magazine "owed its existence to Donald Barthelme," said Mirsky.

Mirsky approached City College for funding, but the school blew "hot and cold" on the project. Mirsky's hopes flagged, but on his own Don produced a "handsome dummy page which was the basis for the first issue's design and layout"-"three elegant walls of type" enhanced by a whimsical collage. "I knew that if we never went beyond a single number of Fiction Fiction, it would be worth it, whatever the contents, just to hold [Donald's] work...in my hands," Mirsky said.

He begged donations from friends and took money from his savings account to jump-start the first issue. Together, he and Don solicited stories from Stanley Elkin, John Hawkes, Max Frisch, Jerome Charyn, and John Ashbery (who submitted an excerpt of what would later become Three Poems Three Poems).

Late one afternoon, Don went to the typesetters to supervise the final pasteup. He took a bottle of scotch along with him. In his enthusiasm, he spilled a drink over several of the boards. Mirsky showed up and saw him "holding the wet paste-up, abashed....It was one of those rare moments when I saw him in boyish embarra.s.sment," Mirsky said. In the end, Don and a couple of Mirsky's friends chipped in to cover the redo costs.

One day, as they were editing ma.n.u.scripts in Don's apartment, Don told Mirsky, "There's a woman downstairs"-Faith Sale-"who is willing to help you with the copy editing."

"[Eventually] many of our most important submissions came through her," Mirsky wrote, adding: She was far shrewder than I about commercial fiction but not as sympathetic to surrealism, or the experimental novel....Donald enjoyed arbitrating between us. Faith...was more than alert to my tendency to irresponsibility, my desertions of duty at the helm (I was often on [my] motorcycle escaping into the country [and she was] not shy about scolding me). This was just what Donald loved, two editors at daggers with each other-he was the pacifying father....The role she fell into with Donald was [one of] motherly concern...

"About Faith," says Kirk Sale, "the first thing to know is that after our second daughter was old enough to go to kindergarten, Don one day told me that she should go to work...he would ask [a] friend at Dutton to give her a job. She was reluctant-she was working as a freelance copy editor then, and organizing a freelancers' union so they could get reasonable pay-but Don went ahead and got her the job, which she loved, and she moved on and up. She always gave him credit. Their working arrangements were close, and I think he really loved her in his way-love was not something he would ever declare, at least to anyone other than his wives.

"On Fiction Fiction, Don more or less had his way."

Jerome Charyn, who soon joined the Fiction Fiction staff, agrees. "He gave it such flair in terms of its design. You felt his absolute seriousness. Everyone had such respect for him. All these writers-Gunter Gra.s.s, Max Frisch, John Barth-wanted to be in a magazine where he played such a dominant role. No one got paid anything, but we never had trouble getting work from anyone. I even asked John Lennon for a piece and he gave it to us." (Lennon and Yoko Ono lived in the West Village then, on Bank Street). staff, agrees. "He gave it such flair in terms of its design. You felt his absolute seriousness. Everyone had such respect for him. All these writers-Gunter Gra.s.s, Max Frisch, John Barth-wanted to be in a magazine where he played such a dominant role. No one got paid anything, but we never had trouble getting work from anyone. I even asked John Lennon for a piece and he gave it to us." (Lennon and Yoko Ono lived in the West Village then, on Bank Street).

Finally, the first issue was ready for distribution. For its cover, Don created a hilarious collage: Little Red Riding Hood in bed with the wolf (wearing a bow-tied granny cap); on the golden wallpaper behind the bed was the face of Marcel Proust, repeated dozens of times.

Mirsky believes Fiction Fiction was born in a "bleak moment" for American literature, and this accounts for its "noisemaking: the fact that for an instant we were able to get national attention-the back page of was born in a "bleak moment" for American literature, and this accounts for its "noisemaking: the fact that for an instant we were able to get national attention-the back page of The New York Times Book Review, New York The New York Times Book Review, New York magazine's 'Best Bets,' a lot of newspaper coverage" (including notices in magazine's 'Best Bets,' a lot of newspaper coverage" (including notices in The Washington Post The Washington Post and the and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch St. Louis Post-Dispatch).

The truth is, quality fiction has always had to fight for notice in America; Fiction Fiction's visibility had to do with Don's growing literary celebrity. NBC's Today Today show called, said Mirsky, and asked if "we could produce one of [ show called, said Mirsky, and asked if "we could produce one of [Fiction's] famous writers, they would be interested in having us on television." Mirsky knew they were "angling" for Don, who refused to appear.

The Fiction Fiction staff-Mirsky, Jane DeLynn, Penny Blum, Kathy Harman-arranged to distribute five thousand copies of the magazine across the city. Quickly, they learned harsh truths about the "wars of...newstand deliverers, the piracy of distributors, the Mafia." Still, within days, five hundred copies "melted away" at the Eighth Street Bookstore-Ted Wilentz placed issues prominently next to the cash register. They sold for fifty cents apiece. "We were never able to collect, however, from the distributors who brought it to the newstands," Mirsky wrote. Don stored unsold copies in one of his bedrooms. staff-Mirsky, Jane DeLynn, Penny Blum, Kathy Harman-arranged to distribute five thousand copies of the magazine across the city. Quickly, they learned harsh truths about the "wars of...newstand deliverers, the piracy of distributors, the Mafia." Still, within days, five hundred copies "melted away" at the Eighth Street Bookstore-Ted Wilentz placed issues prominently next to the cash register. They sold for fifty cents apiece. "We were never able to collect, however, from the distributors who brought it to the newstands," Mirsky wrote. Don stored unsold copies in one of his bedrooms.

Six months after the inaugural issue appeared, Tom Wolfe attacked Mirsky in Esquire. Esquire. "The idea that the novel has a spiritual function of providing a mythic consciousness for the people is...popular within the literary community today," Wolfe said. "[In "The idea that the novel has a spiritual function of providing a mythic consciousness for the people is...popular within the literary community today," Wolfe said. "[In The New York Times Book Review The New York Times Book Review] Mark J. Mirsky writes a manifesto for a new periodical called Fiction Fiction devoted to reviving the art [of myth] in the 1970's." But, Wolfe contended, myth couldn't have been "further from the minds of the realists who established the novel as the reigning genre over a hundred years ago. As a matter of fact, they were turning their backs, with a kind of mucker's euphoria, on the idea of myth and fable." devoted to reviving the art [of myth] in the 1970's." But, Wolfe contended, myth couldn't have been "further from the minds of the realists who established the novel as the reigning genre over a hundred years ago. As a matter of fact, they were turning their backs, with a kind of mucker's euphoria, on the idea of myth and fable."

Wolfe ended by exalting the true to life over fairy tales.

Don took the attack in stride-he had heard Wolfe's howling before. But Mirsky was furious. Esquire Esquire refused him reply s.p.a.ce. All he could do was mutter to friends that Wolfe "had amnesia" about the origins of realism. In the meantime, quietly wounded, he hustled refused him reply s.p.a.ce. All he could do was mutter to friends that Wolfe "had amnesia" about the origins of realism. In the meantime, quietly wounded, he hustled Fiction Fiction from bookstore to bookstore. from bookstore to bookstore.