War and War

Novel by Frederick Barthelme published in 1971

Background

Houston Chronicle

February 13, 1972

Ann Waldron

[...] Barthelme worked hard, and waded through a first novel, "Hof." "It's never been published," he said, "and I've robbed it for other books."

His brother, Donald Barthelme Jr., author of "Snow White" and "City Life," helped him find an agent. It had taken Frederick only three or four months to write "Hof," and although it didn't sell, several publishers asked "what Mr. Barthelme is writing now?" So Frederick obligingly sat down and wrote "War and War" in one month.

Doubleday bought "War and War" in 1968. It wasn't published until June, 1971, because the editor who bought it left, the second editor didn't get along with Frederick and the third editor didn't do anything. Finally the fourth editor was found.

Meanwhile, Barthelme put together another novel, "Rangoon," which he says is a "combination of stuff," presumably some of the bits and pieces of "Hof," and a new publisher, Winter House, brought it out in 1970. "Rangoon" is illustrated by Mayo Thompson, an old friend of Frederick's Red Krayola days.

"'War and War' is the leading edge of my development," Barthelme said with a straight face. "It's more serious."

Neither book got much critical attention. "War and War" was panned on Page 46 of the New York Times Book Review. [...]

Contents

• 190 pages, 18 chapters

Reviews

New York Times Book Review

August 19, 1971

Donald Newlove

Dear Frederick Barthelme: stop reading. I wish I'd taken your warning on p. 11: “The bulk role of this second book in my We, as it is in yours, is to occupy the time... all I have to do is sit here and blow it out and then they'll buy it and then I'll do another one and so on until I die.” I thought your best line was on p. 12: “Many things have happened here which, to the untrained eye, might appear interesting.” This, Frederick Barthelme is going to be a bad review.

Metaphysically “War and War” is about the passing of time taken in filling up 190 pages. With a good will I read this book in one sitting—at 6:45 A.M., on the sixth day of a total fast my mind clear and hungry inspired by the book I finished last night John Bunyan's “Grace Abounding” which I mention because Frederick Barthelme is an author who tells how he writes every page. And what he's reading: Sartre Chomsky MerleauPonty, et al.

He begins with a goal to stir my lack of interest a schedule of the novel's coming nonevents. He wants no story tensions to pull me from his word play and brainguistics. He will not expose himself to wounds (or ridicule) by showing his feelings. He summons up his essence somewhere between body and typewriter as pages print out — there is no story and I refuse to suggest one.

The author describes this novel as extraconceptual and pataphysical — in short, a puton. It is not pataphysical enough, and I think the spirit of Ubu is missing.

Rigorously strangled pages in the service of “structural linguistics information theory and phenomenology,” all frozen and published in the ninth circle. What is the point of fiction that doesn't stir you—even once—to read on? I forgive Frederick Barthelme for taking up my time since I'm being paid. It is more difficult to forgive myself for the waste of spirit spent reading this book.