Hiding Man_ A Biography Of Donald Barthelme Part 4

As Don explained years later, a writer becomes a writer "by selecting fathers. In the beginning, you know, I thought Hemingway was as far as writing could go....I didn't even know there was a Heinrich von Kleist....Ididn't know anything about Kafka at that point, and how can you write without at least knowing that Kafka exists?...[A]s one reads more and more and more you get more fathers in your hierarchy of fathers. And then, after summoning twenty or thirty fathers, perhaps you you are born...." are born...."

Maranto had exaggerated when he said that Don didn't like people; nevertheless, it was true that love of literature, not of individuals, would animate Don's fiction. Maranto was right that Don would not get into characters the way Steinbeck and Hemingway did. Instead, he would get into the nature of literary form. nature of literary form. The psychological drama in his work does not lie in the tension between personalities, but in the conflicts between traditions, sensibilities, generations, and the tyrannies that time works on human efforts. The psychological drama in his work does not lie in the tension between personalities, but in the conflicts between traditions, sensibilities, generations, and the tyrannies that time works on human efforts.

Agreeing, then, with many tenets of the New Criticism, Don remained convinced that its approach was limited. Most of all, he was uncomfortable with its social biases and their broader implications. Its founders were southerners, rooted in the heavy paternalism of the old Confederacy. They weren't nostalgic for slavery (though in early essays, which he later repudiated, Robert Penn Warren argued for continued segregation), but they adhered to a rigidly hierarchical social system.

How does this civic view get translated into a program of close reading? Listen to Robert Penn Warren: "Poetry wants to be pure," he claimed, but inevitably the elements of a poem are uneven, poems "mar themselves with cacophonies, jagged rhythms, ugly words and ugly thoughts." In his view, the poet was the benevolent overseer, trying to hold these tatters together. The reader's task was to a.n.a.lyze how well, or poorly, the master succeeded.

The longing for purity appealed to Don; he had absorbed his father's notion of what should be. what should be. Yet anything that smacked of paternalism was bound to make him wary. And it was unsettling to imagine Yet anything that smacked of paternalism was bound to make him wary. And it was unsettling to imagine any any single authority-a father, a priest, an architect, a crusading literary critic-telling people what purity looked like. single authority-a father, a priest, an architect, a crusading literary critic-telling people what purity looked like.

Besides, tatters could be pretty.

"If any one person is to be singled out for having begun a tradition of creative writing" at the University of Houston, "it's Miss Ruth Pennybacker," says Lee Pryor. Pryor taught in the university's English department for over forty years. Pennybacker, who never published a word of fiction, graduated from Va.s.sar and arrived in Houston in 1935. According to Pryor, she taught freshman composition, and gradually developed courses in story and poetry writing. She served as the major adviser for the school's literary magazine, Harvest. Harvest. Don took a turn editing the magazine. "Miss Pennybacker," as she insisted on being called, was the only creative writing teacher he ever had. Don took a turn editing the magazine. "Miss Pennybacker," as she insisted on being called, was the only creative writing teacher he ever had.

In 1949, Don wasn't pursuing an academic track. He wanted to be a writer, not a teacher of writing, which is what creative writing programs seemed destined to produce. Though drawn to Miss Pennybacker, and her pa.s.sion for art, he romanticized the Hemingway model. "[Because] Hemingway had been a newspaperman, I sought and got a newspaper job with the idea that this had something to do with writing," he said.

In June 1950, though no longer enrolled in cla.s.ses, he began contributing unsigned book reviews to the Daily Cougar, Daily Cougar, starting with a savage account of Speed Lamkin's novel starting with a savage account of Speed Lamkin's novel Tiger in the Garden. Tiger in the Garden. Lamkin, now largely forgotten, wrote potboilers as well as Broadway plays and television scripts for Lamkin, now largely forgotten, wrote potboilers as well as Broadway plays and television scripts for Playhouse 90. Playhouse 90. Paul West has said that " Paul West has said that "Tiger in the Garden [was] once regarded as the cream of the writing in the Gothic seminars of the deep South." [was] once regarded as the cream of the writing in the Gothic seminars of the deep South."

Don did not share this view. Lamkin's prose is "as emotion-charged as a telephone's dial tone," he wrote. The plot characterizes the city of Houston as a "crazed Negro," holding the "population of Hardtimes plantation at bay with a bread knife." Don's review appeared in the Cougar Cougar on June 16. on June 16.

He supplied the paper with three more book reviews that summer, on Jan Valtin's Wintertime, Wintertime, Frederick Buechner's Frederick Buechner's A Long Day's Dying, A Long Day's Dying, and Joyce Cary's and Joyce Cary's The Horse's Mouth The Horse's Mouth ("Barmaids, Walls and Models Enrich Tale of Frustration"). Additionally, he published a "news item," cast in the form of a drama, on the university's Home Ec Department. The piece was set in an alchemy lab. There, a character named Pitkin turns up, the first of many appearances in Don's ("Barmaids, Walls and Models Enrich Tale of Frustration"). Additionally, he published a "news item," cast in the form of a drama, on the university's Home Ec Department. The piece was set in an alchemy lab. There, a character named Pitkin turns up, the first of many appearances in Don's Cougar Cougar columns by members of the fictional Pitkin family. The name is snitched from Nathanael West's 1934 novel, columns by members of the fictional Pitkin family. The name is snitched from Nathanael West's 1934 novel, A Cool Million, A Cool Million, in which Lemuel Pitkin, duped and physically dismembered by a series of con men, serves as an ironic witness to the American Dream. in which Lemuel Pitkin, duped and physically dismembered by a series of con men, serves as an ironic witness to the American Dream.

Maggie Stubblefield Maranto, the wife of Joe Maranto, recalls that at about this time, Don's friend Pat Goeters "created [a] homely" character named Maud Alice Pitkin, whom he often talked about at parties. "Yes, I'll take credit for the Pitkins," Goeters says. "Sometimes Don would come to my house and we'd engage in a kind of 'battle of the bands' write-off," trying to top each other's literary efforts. "It was during one of those times that I wrote some fable about Lindberg Pitkin. In my friends.h.i.+p with Don, almost every mildly enjoyable event became something of a ritual or, in Don's case, a tale to be told, enhanced and bejeweled."

On August 18, Don published his first signed piece in the Cougar, Cougar, "Author Hits c.o.kes for Distinct Gain," about stealing redeemable soda bottles. "Author Hits c.o.kes for Distinct Gain," about stealing redeemable soda bottles.

By September he had reenrolled in cla.s.ses. No doubt he bowed to family pressure. Perhaps he didn't know what else to do with himself. What's clear is that his main interest at the time was his work on the paper. Returning to the university as a full-time student was the only way to continue legitimately working at the Cougar. Cougar.

Joe Maranto made Don the amus.e.m.e.nts editor ("Scribe Turns to Culture, Wincing," Don announced in the paper). He would cover books, music, and local stage productions. He would also contribute a regular features column. Soon he was signing these columns "Bardley," a play on the Bard of Avon, Melville's Bartleby the Scrivener, and his own name.

The Pitkin family became part of the university community. Sabatini Pitkin, and his brother Rathbone, "interviewed" in one article, complained that soon everyone in America would be teaching art instead of creating it. Another brother, Ron L., was listed as the author of a book called Your Mind: h.e.l.l or Haven? Your Mind: h.e.l.l or Haven? This was Don's parody of L. Ron Hubbard's This was Don's parody of L. Ron Hubbard's Dianetics, Dianetics, the founding text of Scientology. The parody presages "The Teachings of Don B.," Don's 1973 satire of the Carlos Castaneda books. the founding text of Scientology. The parody presages "The Teachings of Don B.," Don's 1973 satire of the Carlos Castaneda books.

In October, Clyde Rainwater, a student journalist at Yale, wrote a review of the nation's school newspapers. He said that Don seemed to think he was Wolcott Gibbs, a New Yorker New Yorker humorist. The remark's accuracy must have stung Don. Rainwater dismissed Texas as lacking culture and insisted that "there's nowhere else in life but New York." In a little over a decade, Don would come to agree; for now, he acidly thanked Rainwater for showing him "how they do it in the East." humorist. The remark's accuracy must have stung Don. Rainwater dismissed Texas as lacking culture and insisted that "there's nowhere else in life but New York." In a little over a decade, Don would come to agree; for now, he acidly thanked Rainwater for showing him "how they do it in the East."

Occasionally, Don wrote a serious editorial, one of which shows how unsophisticated his political thinking was at the time. "Probe Where Probe Is Due, Sans Spotlight" (May 4, 1951) scolds the "headline-seeking" zeal of the House Committee on Un-American Activities. While investigating Communists in the movie industry, congressmen were paying too much attention to actors, Don said. The pols were dazzled by celebrity. Nevertheless, Don supported the committee's mandate, and urged exposure of producers and directors with ties to the Communist party. Years later, he was appalled at himself for having written such a thing.

As months pa.s.sed, Bardley became increasingly playful and bizarre. He declared "total war" on television because he had been refused admission to a local channel's party. He lambasted a radio station for not broadcasting "Confederate propaganda." He said all Americans should take a course on "turning things off," especially radios. Don was using the Cougar Cougar to create his own imaginative world, and to experiment with a variety of styles. to create his own imaginative world, and to experiment with a variety of styles.

In one piece ent.i.tled "Grimm Revisited," dated July 13, 1951, a witch named Jane appears: Jane was one of the younger wicked old witches in the community. She was electric, vital, a leader. When it came time to dun the villagers for contributions to the Community Chest or the Milk Fund, Jane padded from humble door to humble door, morning till night. Everyone said she was one of the nicest wicked old witches they had ever known.But according to the union rules Jane had some witchly duties to perform. One of these was stealing away little children, and in exercising this function Jane met Oliver [Birdsong].It was a momentous meeting.

Jane botches things. She phones a sister witch, Hazel, for "professional advice." Hazel is annoyed to be disturbed; she says that "any woman who had spent the day reciting incantations over a bubbling cauldron deserved a good night's sleep." She offers no help. Eventually, Oliver escapes from Jane and she is driven out of the witches' union.

Over a decade later, in Snow White, Snow White, Don's first novel, Jane would resurface, along with Don's strategy of exploring social movements-feminism, communal living-in fairy-tale form. Don's first novel, Jane would resurface, along with Don's strategy of exploring social movements-feminism, communal living-in fairy-tale form.

In a 1984 television interview with George Plimpton, aired on Houston's public broadcasting station, Don said, "I originally began writing in rather traditional, ersatz Hemingway fas.h.i.+on, and it was really terrible, it was truly terrible. It was in reaction to my own inability to satisfy myself with traditional forms that I sort of began throwing things on the floor and looking to see what sorts of patterns they made."

"Rover Boys' Retrogression" and the Cougar Cougar pieces make clear that Don was never pieces make clear that Don was never seriously seriously drawn to traditional forms, except as backgrounds to play against. He dashed off many of the newspaper pieces; they're certainly not literary (though a number of them are drawn to traditional forms, except as backgrounds to play against. He dashed off many of the newspaper pieces; they're certainly not literary (though a number of them are fictional fictional). Nevertheless, his obsessions and signature styles are already apparent. His strategies would become less soph.o.m.oric, more refined, and stunningly varied, but his ident.i.ty as a writer remained remarkably consistent from his first published piece to his last.

What accounts for his resistance to traditional forms? His father taught him to notice structure, to understand its origins, to appreciate variations on it, and to value innovation. Don began as a critic, one with a historical inclination. Form was not a given; it was not something to take for granted; it could wear out with time. Its manipulation-more than the content of a piece-was what distinguished one artwork from another. In his father's home, stalking art with this critical att.i.tude was as natural as breathing the air.

In April 1951, Joe Maranto left the Cougar Cougar to become a church reporter for the to become a church reporter for the Houston Post. Houston Post. Many years later, Don commemorated his friend's good fortune in fiction. In his story "January," a writer gets his start covering religion for a Knight-Ridder paper, an experience that teaches him to "think of religion in a much more practical sense than...before, what the church offered or could offer to people, what people got from the church in a day-today sense." The character adds, "I came to theoretical concerns by way of very practical ones"-Don's view of Many years later, Don commemorated his friend's good fortune in fiction. In his story "January," a writer gets his start covering religion for a Knight-Ridder paper, an experience that teaches him to "think of religion in a much more practical sense than...before, what the church offered or could offer to people, what people got from the church in a day-today sense." The character adds, "I came to theoretical concerns by way of very practical ones"-Don's view of his his education as a journalist. education as a journalist.

In "See the Moon?" Don mentions a "Cardinal Maranto," another nod to his friend's Post Post a.s.signment. a.s.signment.

Maranto's new job was an important development for Don: In his buddy's absence, Don became the Cougar Cougar's editor in chief. On April 20, the Cougar Cougar announced that "[Barthelme], a 20-year-old soph.o.m.ore journalism major, is the youngest student in the COUGAR'S history to hold the position of editor." announced that "[Barthelme], a 20-year-old soph.o.m.ore journalism major, is the youngest student in the COUGAR'S history to hold the position of editor."

A month earlier, he had also begun writing for the university's news service, a position that put him in touch again with Helen Moore, who directed the service. If she was aware of his attraction to her, she didn't let on. She was engaged to another journalism student, Peter Gilpin, and she later recalled that "Don seemed so young" (she was three years his senior). She "thought little" of him except as a talented writer whose skills she was glad to exploit. He covered fine arts at the university and campus productions at the Attic Theatre. "As he wrote his articles, Don was thoughtful and meticulous," she said. He "sometimes erased to make changes, but he often started over on a clean sheet of newsprint."

Between articles, he pursued more expressive forms of writing, penning the music for a campus play, writing short stories and poems for Miss Pennybacker. Maranto, and another pal, George Christian, who worked at the Post, Post, brought Don's writing to the attention of the editors there, and on July 15, Don went to work for the paper, reviewing movies, concerts, and plays. On September 20, "Stage Business," the first installment of his regular Sunday column on local drama, appeared in the brought Don's writing to the attention of the editors there, and on July 15, Don went to work for the paper, reviewing movies, concerts, and plays. On September 20, "Stage Business," the first installment of his regular Sunday column on local drama, appeared in the Post Post. He was not yet twenty-one, but he was already following Hemingway's path, earning a living as a newspaperman.

8.

LET'S TAKE A WALK.

For decades, the Houston Post Houston Post had enjoyed the reputation of opinion maker in the greater Southwest. Under the bellicose management of Rienzi M. Johnston, who came to Houston in 1885 after serving the had enjoyed the reputation of opinion maker in the greater Southwest. Under the bellicose management of Rienzi M. Johnston, who came to Houston in 1885 after serving the Post Post as a political correspondent in Austin, the paper solidified its standing as a promoter of real estate development and progress, framing public debate within business and politics. Johnston turned the paper into a family affair, hiring his daughter Hallie as a columnist and grooming his son, Harry, to one day a.s.sume the editors.h.i.+p (in the 1950s, shortly after Don worked with him, Harry became chief of the Atlanta bureau of as a political correspondent in Austin, the paper solidified its standing as a promoter of real estate development and progress, framing public debate within business and politics. Johnston turned the paper into a family affair, hiring his daughter Hallie as a columnist and grooming his son, Harry, to one day a.s.sume the editors.h.i.+p (in the 1950s, shortly after Don worked with him, Harry became chief of the Atlanta bureau of Time Time magazine). Johnston's granddaughter, Mary Elizabeth, became a magazine). Johnston's granddaughter, Mary Elizabeth, became a Post Post reporter and eventually joined the editorial board of reporter and eventually joined the editorial board of Fortune. Fortune.

In October 1895, Johnston hired, at fifteen dollars a week, a young gadabout named William Sidney Porter-former ranch hand, bank teller, land office clerk, magazine editor-and gave him a regular column, "Tales About Town" (later called "Some Postscripts"). At first, the column, occasionally accompanied by Porter's cartoons, contained society items, standard newspaper fare, but it soon expanded to include vivid character sketches of street people, store clerks, and local artists. It became the Post Post's liveliest feature, and Porter was Texas's most celebrated writer.

Porter befriended a sixteen-year-old named Will Hobby, who had quit high school to take an eight-dollar-a-week job in the Post Post's circulation department. He fetched Porter sandwiches and listened to his tall tales. One day in June 1896, a man came looking for Porter, who had stepped out of the office. Proudly, Hobby pointed to the famous writer's desk. The man identified himself as a police officer. He had a summons for Porter's arrest. The charge was embezzlement. Though Porter wound up fleeing Houston, he eventually served a prison term.

Will Hobby grew up to become governor of Texas. After leaving jail, Porter adopted the pen name O. Henry and, building on many of the stories he had published in the Post, Post, crafted a highly successful literary career. While at the paper, Porter was a staff favorite, and over fifty years later, he was still a topic in the newsroom. Hubert Roussel, the amus.e.m.e.nts editor, and Don's immediate supervisor, kidded Don that his desk had belonged to O. Henry. Don joked that he could see O. Henry's initials carved into the wood. In "Return," a piece commissioned by the Houston Festival Committee and published in the crafted a highly successful literary career. While at the paper, Porter was a staff favorite, and over fifty years later, he was still a topic in the newsroom. Hubert Roussel, the amus.e.m.e.nts editor, and Don's immediate supervisor, kidded Don that his desk had belonged to O. Henry. Don joked that he could see O. Henry's initials carved into the wood. In "Return," a piece commissioned by the Houston Festival Committee and published in the Post Post in 1984, Don wrote: in 1984, Don wrote: [A]s a raw youth, I had worked for the...newspaper...When I was hired they showed me my desk, and they told me that it had been O. Henry's desk....I could see the place where O. Henry had savagely stabbed the desk with his pen in pursuit of a slimy adjective just out of reach, and a kind of bashed-in-looking place where O. Henry had beaten his poor genius head on the desk in frustration over not being able to capture that noun leaping like a fawn just out of reach....So I sat down at the desk and I too began to chase those devils, the dancy nouns and come-hither adjectives, what joy.

In the office, Don established himself as a literary expert fully versed on Porter, Damon Runyan, and Ambrose Bierce. Sly references to these writers spiced his columns. It's intriguing to note that Porter's last, and most well-known, piece for the Post, Post, "An Aquatint," published on June 22, 1896, features a repulsive tramp dressed in a "burlesque" of a "prince" who saves a child from drowning. "Well, thank you, sir," the child's mother tells him. A similar situation ends Don's 1968 story, "Robert Kennedy Saved from Drowning." Kennedy is the one wrapped in princely regalia here, and though the narrator is not described, the story's t.i.tle is a clear allusion to Jean Renoir's 1932 film, "An Aquatint," published on June 22, 1896, features a repulsive tramp dressed in a "burlesque" of a "prince" who saves a child from drowning. "Well, thank you, sir," the child's mother tells him. A similar situation ends Don's 1968 story, "Robert Kennedy Saved from Drowning." Kennedy is the one wrapped in princely regalia here, and though the narrator is not described, the story's t.i.tle is a clear allusion to Jean Renoir's 1932 film, Boudu Sauve des Eaux Boudu Sauve des Eaux ( (Boudu Saved from Drowning), in which a lower-cla.s.s Parisian-a Porter-like tramp-is fished out of the Seine. "Thank you," Kennedy says, simply, at the end of Don's tale.

Eventually, the Ambrose Bierce jokes got out of hand, as Don, Joe Maranto, and George Christian kept slipping his name into news items. Finally, Maranto, about to leave for a job at the Houston Chronicle, Houston Chronicle, signed a column, "Ambrose Bierce, Editor." Harry Johnston, city editor at the time, shrugged it off, but the managing editor, Arthur Laroe, demanded to know what this Bierce business was all about, and stopped all the fooling around. signed a column, "Ambrose Bierce, Editor." Harry Johnston, city editor at the time, shrugged it off, but the managing editor, Arthur Laroe, demanded to know what this Bierce business was all about, and stopped all the fooling around.

"[N]ewspaper work didn't teach me all that much about writing," Don said later, "but it taught me a lot of other things. It taught me what a union was, for example, which I had known only in the abstract." The narrator of his 1970 story "Brain Damage" confesses, "I worked for newspapers at a time when I was not competent to do so. I reported inaccurately. I failed to get all the facts....I put lies in the paper. I put private jokes in the paper. I wrote headlines containing double entendres. I wrote stories while drunk. I abused copy boys."

"Brain Damage" may be true to the spirit of Don's newspaper days, but the story is also highly literary. The sentences echo Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground: Notes from Underground: "I used to be in the government service...I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so." "I used to be in the government service...I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so."

Dostoevsky's man says, "I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me." Don wrote, "I could describe [brain damage] better if I weren't afflicted with it...."

This is not precisely making reference making reference to another writer's work, but folding one's experience, emotion, and playfulness into a preexisting form, a necessary skill for smuggling private jokes into the paper while the soft, steady lights s.h.i.+ne above you, and the editor's scrutiny burns your back. to another writer's work, but folding one's experience, emotion, and playfulness into a preexisting form, a necessary skill for smuggling private jokes into the paper while the soft, steady lights s.h.i.+ne above you, and the editor's scrutiny burns your back.

"George is editing my copy," Don complained to Joe Maranto one day. Don considered George Christian his peer-their desks sat side by side. But Christian had worked at the paper longer. Maranto pointed this out to Don, who insisted, "He should not be editing my copy."

Don "always wanted to write tight, short sentences, except when he wanted to write a long one to impress you and he thought you'd know that's what he was doing," Maranto says. When Hubert Roussel wasn't happy with an article, he'd punch a buzzer in his office. It rang in the outer room-one buzz for Christian, two for Don. The offending party would scurry into the editor's office for a harsh scolding-Roussel was a no-nonsense perfectionist. "The newspaper building was populated with terrifying city editors whose gaze could cut bra.s.s, and ferocious copy desk men whose contempt could make a boy of twenty wish that his mother and father had never met," Don wrote in "Return." "I loved working there."

A photograph from the time shows Christian and Don at their desks, both wearing white s.h.i.+rts with the sleeves rolled nearly to the elbows and thin dark ties. They sport very short haircuts. The room is stark and white, with unadorned walls; it looks airless. The desks are wooden, ma.s.sive, with square recesses for the typewriters, and long telephone cords curl around the desk's squatty legs. The wooden chairs are straight-backed and stiff. Christian seems serious, almost ponderous. Don appears to be smirking as he types.

Frequently, the boys worked late at night, as the Post Post was a morning paper. Often at dawn, they'd stagger out of the office, catch the first of the sun's rays topping the downtown buildings, raise their arms, and shout, "Back, back!" (In an unt.i.tled interchapter in was a morning paper. Often at dawn, they'd stagger out of the office, catch the first of the sun's rays topping the downtown buildings, raise their arms, and shout, "Back, back!" (In an unt.i.tled interchapter in Overnight to Many Distant Cities, Overnight to Many Distant Cities, Don imagines a chamber orchestra forming in a newsroom, and playing Haydn until the sun comes up.) Don didn't own a car, so he walked home from work, past Buffalo Bayou, where William Porter may have witnessed-or more likely imagined-the drowning child saved by the tramp. Don imagines a chamber orchestra forming in a newsroom, and playing Haydn until the sun comes up.) Don didn't own a car, so he walked home from work, past Buffalo Bayou, where William Porter may have witnessed-or more likely imagined-the drowning child saved by the tramp.

During the late mornings and afternoons, Don attended cla.s.ses at the university, a schedule he maintained throughout 1951 and 1952. He also continued his Bardley columns for the Cougar; Cougar; they gave him more freedom than his work at the they gave him more freedom than his work at the Post, Post, where he was a.s.signed standard movie, concert, and drama reviews. Week after week, he sat in the dark in the city's major theaters-the Majestic, Loew's, the Met-watching Doris Day, Bette Davis, Spencer Tracy, Robert Ryan, Greer Garson, Martin and Lewis, Jeff Chandler, James Cagney, Clark Gable, Burt Lancaster, and others. where he was a.s.signed standard movie, concert, and drama reviews. Week after week, he sat in the dark in the city's major theaters-the Majestic, Loew's, the Met-watching Doris Day, Bette Davis, Spencer Tracy, Robert Ryan, Greer Garson, Martin and Lewis, Jeff Chandler, James Cagney, Clark Gable, Burt Lancaster, and others.

In addition to his journalism, Don continued to write for Miss Pennybacker's creative writing cla.s.ses. In the 1952 issue of Harvest, Harvest, he published a poem ent.i.tled "Shrunken Clocks for Small Hours," whose brittle imagery comes right out of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" ("We crouch in empty cups / And wonder"). It is harder to tell if the speaker's despair is also a lift from Eliot, or whether Don, an undergraduate, was already genuinely world-weary. he published a poem ent.i.tled "Shrunken Clocks for Small Hours," whose brittle imagery comes right out of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" ("We crouch in empty cups / And wonder"). It is harder to tell if the speaker's despair is also a lift from Eliot, or whether Don, an undergraduate, was already genuinely world-weary.

If Texas was hard on budding writers-offering few first-cla.s.s professional outlets-it was, as the old saying has it, "h.e.l.l on horses and women."

Larry McMurtry quibbles with this chestnut: Most "horses are considered valuable" in the Lone Star State, he says, "and are treated well." McMurtry's essay, "Eros in Archer County," published in 1968, offers a scorching look at Texas's s.e.xual mores-att.i.tudes that helped shape Don. The essay focuses on rural areas and small towns in the 1940s and 1950s, but much of what McMurtry says also held true for cities. Men and women were "mutually frightened and inhibited," he writes, and they "suffered the emotional crises that people probably always suffer in periods of rapid transition. Men who were quite content with the nineteenth century were suddenly having to cope with women who had begun to take an interest in the twentieth." From the political to-do of their elders, women had learned that "they were supposed to have o.r.g.a.s.ms too, after which there was generally confusion and distress. How is the female to switch in one generation from an orientation which sees the act of love as a duty to one which sees it as a pleasure?"

The forties saw a general rise in affluence. McMurtry writes: Until the forties, a great many Texans had had been poor all their lives, and when they began to come into the money it was natural that they should over-rate it and expect the wrong things of it. They had imagined it would make them happier with one another, and they resented one another all the more when it didn't. Men made money and women spent it. If one spent unstintingly, s.e.xual poverty might be disguised. Spending might accomplish what f.u.c.king hadn't.... been poor all their lives, and when they began to come into the money it was natural that they should over-rate it and expect the wrong things of it. They had imagined it would make them happier with one another, and they resented one another all the more when it didn't. Men made money and women spent it. If one spent unstintingly, s.e.xual poverty might be disguised. Spending might accomplish what f.u.c.king hadn't....

Sports offered further distractions from domestic distress, or "compensation" for s.e.xual insecurity.

This was the erotic legacy Don's generation inherited from its forebears (compounded, in Don's case, by a strict religious education). "His demeanor, especially with women, was polite and attentive," recalled Helen Moore Barthelme. "And he was a good listener, whether you were a man or a woman, an appealing trait to women in the 1950s. Women were expected to defer to men, especially in discussing ideas, but one did not have to do this with Don."

On the other hand: "If you were a female person, it's perfectly true that he'd often meet you with a sort of attentive bossiness which is the southern male's ingrained behavior with women," Grace Paley said years later. "It was really an awful pain in the neck. A regional problem and serious."

Maggie Stubblefield Maranto, who was dating Joe Maranto at the time, says that when she first met Don, he was "going with" a young woman from Galveston named Anne Hamilton. "Poor Don. She threw him over because she wanted to be an actress-I have never subsequently heard of her, so that was a mistake. I did think she was foolish to let him go. I have always felt she set a pattern of Don being jilted that really affected him."

Don was drawn to Helen Moore, but she was older, already engaged. At first, she did not return his attention. He seems to have adopted a courtly manner toward romance, and to have developed-perhaps from witnessing his mother's forbearance with his father-a strong sense of propriety. Mary Blount, a journalism major at the university, and later a well-known children's book writer, recalled that in her freshman year she began dating Don's office mate at the Post, Post, George Christian (whom she eventually married). One day, before her engagement, she accepted an invitation from another man to go to a prom. Don sought her out in the George Christian (whom she eventually married). One day, before her engagement, she accepted an invitation from another man to go to a prom. Don sought her out in the Cougar Cougar office and said she should "take a walk" with him. Around the reflecting basin in front of the new Ezekiel Cullen Building, Don admonished Blount to "call this fellow and cancel your date with him." That's what George wants, he said. Blount laughed at him but office and said she should "take a walk" with him. Around the reflecting basin in front of the new Ezekiel Cullen Building, Don admonished Blount to "call this fellow and cancel your date with him." That's what George wants, he said. Blount laughed at him but did did call off her date. All his life, Don showed a keen interest in gossip, and in working behind the scenes to arrange social affairs. call off her date. All his life, Don showed a keen interest in gossip, and in working behind the scenes to arrange social affairs.

Christian introduced Don to his first cousin, Marilyn Marrs. They started dating. Don took her to many of the performances he had to review for the paper. Marilyn, whom Don called "Magnolia" or "Maggie," was a senior at the Rice Inst.i.tute, majoring in French. At the time, there was no women's housing at Rice; she lived off campus with her aunt and uncle. She was tall and thin, with a long face and large eyes, dark, slightly curly hair, and a wary smile. "Miss Maggie was a s.e.xy creature," said Herman Gollob, "but she suffered from a deadly case of intellectual sn.o.bbery."

During this period, Don had an argument with his father that was serious enough to drive Don from the house. Pat Goeters, Don's old running buddy in Mexico, along with Joe Maranto and another friend, Henry Buckley, an architecture student, rented a dilapidated house with Don on Leek Street, near the university and close to Cullen Boulevard and the Gulf Freeway. The house sat near sc.r.a.pyards and decaying industrial warehouses; a drive-in burger joint, right across the street, blared loud music late into the evenings. Students gathered to eat and drink in their cars. Young women in short skirts hurried around the parking lot, ferrying fries and c.o.kes on metal trays. Often, in the early mornings, walking home from the Post Post-about a two-mile trek-Don would stop at an all-night restaurant that served grilled cheese sandwiches and black-bottom pie, a "custard affair with chocolate on the bottom half and light custard on the top," says Maggie Maranto. The restaurant was a couple of blocks from Don's house, in a crimeridden neighborhood, but it was run by a friendly Austrian called "Papa Kurt," who looked after his customers.

Maggie was engaged to Maranto by now, and she spent a lot of time with him on Leek Street. None of the housemates had much money, she says. Don was "existing on the pittance he earned as a reporter." Her memories suggest that Don's dad had cut him off, but their split wasn't so dire that Don didn't invite his father to see the house once he and the others fixed it up. Goeters's mother owned a paper factory. She gave him foot-square black-and-white sheets, with which he fas.h.i.+oned a checkerboard pattern on the living room wall. Maranto brought home newspapers from the Post Post's overrun archives, with front-page banner headlines declaring the end of the Spanish-American War and World War I. With these, the boys papered the ancient walls next to the stairs to the second floor, where Don and Goeters had their bedrooms. The housemates glued record alb.u.m covers to the ceilings, filling the gaps with the black-and-white paper. They painted the living room black.

Buckley bought an Eames lounge chair-the one solid piece of furniture in the place. Maranto had rescued a table from the trailer he'd lived in at the University of Houston. Don took the table and whittled down the legs so it sat at a comfortable height for him to work at his typewriter.

He had never learned to cook. "I used to go over once a week and cook a huge pot of spaghetti sauce or a big batch of vegetable soup and leave it for them," Maggie Maranto says. Or they would eat at the drive-in, listening through its tinny speakers to Johnnie Ray and Rosemary Clooney.

"The guys shared fantastic conversations and much wit and laughter," Maggie recalls. She adds, "Don was a man's man, who got on extremely well with other men, especially those with similar intellectual capacities." Goeters remembers conversations in the house as drunken and endless.

In leaving the house on North Wynden Drive, Don said good-bye to a dynamic place that had enclosed him and freed him to dream. Occasionally, the "peculiar atmosphere" created by his father may have inclined him to feel inadequate; at other moments, it made him feel there was nothing he couldn't do. His parents remained in the house until 1977, by which time condos and high-rise office buildings blanketed the Post Oak area so densely that they cast the old houses into shadow. When George Herbert Walker Bush left the White House, he built his Houston residence in a neighborhood next to the once-startling Barthelme place. In the sixties and seventies, Don frequently returned to the family home to see his folks (developers demolished the house in 2001 to make room for four town houses), but from now on he would merely be a visitor in the world his father had built.

9.

FEVERISH.

Shortly after taking the Leek Street house with Don and the others, Joe Maranto married Maggie Stubblefield and moved into a nearby apartment. This could have meant disaster for the boys, but Maggie took pity on them and continued to cook for the group. "One or more of them would drop by our apartment, oddly enough just at dinner time, and join us for a meal," she says.

Don, Goeters, and Buckley pooled their resources and bought the couple a plastic Eames chair and a bottle of champagne for the wedding reception. A photo of the event shows Don sitting with Pat Goeters, another friend, Harry Vitemb, and the newlyweds. Goeters, tall, light-haired, strikingly handsome, leans toward the camera, commanding attention. He had brought a date to the wedding, a woman known to the others only as "Hot Martha," which may account for the look on his face. Maranto and Maggie, she in a ballooning white wedding gown, appear to be calm, patient, bemused, as if putting up with children. Don's eyebrows arch skeptically above his gla.s.ses. He wears a dark suit, white socks, and penny loafers. His smile, c.o.c.ky, sly, seems to signal that he knows the gang is just playing at being grown-up.

The city condemned the Leek Street house a few months after Maranto's wedding. Don, Goeters, and Buckley moved into an apartment on Cullen Boulevard, closer to campus. Buckley was studying architecture, and Goeters, who had once entertained the idea of becoming a priest, began frequenting the UH architecture barn. Goeters was "eccentric and individualistic, and I can remember him at times suddenly deciding he wanted to be elsewhere, and off he would go," Maggie Maranto says. "One time he took off in his car on a whirlwind trip to Canada to see a girlfriend he decided he was in love with. He drove almost day and night to get there, and found to his chagrin that she wasn't in love with him. He returned via Chicago and registered to attend architecture school there." He also studied with Marshall McLuhan, who told him to read Ezra Pound's The ABC of Reading The ABC of Reading and to write like T. S. Eliot. He began crafting short pieces full of literary references, the kind of stuff "one needed a decoder ring to read and understand," Goeters says. and to write like T. S. Eliot. He began crafting short pieces full of literary references, the kind of stuff "one needed a decoder ring to read and understand," Goeters says.

Back in Houston, Goeters signed up for architecture courses. Don's dad became his mentor. "He was brutally critical and tore at my psyche, but he was always highly supportive," Goeters says. Don must have felt betrayed. This friend, with whom he had once fled his father, had now developed an intimate relations.h.i.+p with the man. Often, the elder Barthelme praised Goeters's talent and promise. Don and Goeters had always pretended to be rivals-over women (he "did try to hit on my sister the night before she left for the convent," Goeters says), over literary accomplishment-but now their compet.i.tiveness turned edgy. "I shared with him what were to me life-changing experiences. As a friend my feelings ran to extremes," Goeters says, reflecting on his conflicts with Don.

Besides his mother, the woman with whom Don had been closest-his sister, Joan-had also left North Wynden Drive. She was earning a journalism degree at the University of Colorado.

Her absence (Don's younger brothers remained in a childhood world of their own), Maranto's marriage, and Goeters's drift toward Don's dad, left young Bardley feeling isolated. He enjoyed his independence, but the family huddle would always be essential to him. As for romance, this was not yet the era, as people later said of the 1960s, when everybody slept in everybody else's bed-especially not for an ex-Catholic whose lapse had occurred, largely, from an excess of idealism.

In September 1952, when he was twenty-one years old, Don married Marilyn Marrs. They drove to Dallas, where Marrs's parents lived, for the wedding. Except for Joe Maranto, none of Don's friends attended. This suggests an early tension between Don and his bride: Did she not want his pals around, or did he feel his friends did not approve of her? ("They weren't getting married in a church and my narrow-minded Catholicism wouldn't credit the marriage," says Pat Goeters, who refused to serve as Don's best man.) Don was an intensely romantic young man, with a genuine love of women. If he appeared to some as autocratic, Marilyn seems to have struck people as downright haughty. Don's family and friends regarded her as imperious and unapproachable. "Joe and I were not impressed with her," Maggie Maranto says flatly. "She loved herself a lot more than she loved Don." Don was drawn to "her intellect," but she was "very cold."

To Marilyn, it was Don's circle that was chilly. "When I'd go out with my Rice friends, we all talked a lot, there was a lot of give and take, and we'd be silly together," she recalls. "When I'd go out with Don and his friends on a Sat.u.r.day night, say-with Pat [Goeters], George [Christian], and the Marantos-they'd all be sitting around waiting for someone to say something clever. There was a kind of self-consciousness that was inhibiting. Even though they were all best friends and really liked each other, it was not entirely comfortable. I was pretty young, but I found it strange."

The couple moved into an apartment just west of Main Street, downtown. They carried on with their cla.s.ses, Don at UH, Marilyn at Rice. She was now pursuing a master's degree in French. She became obsessed with Mallarme. "At the time, very few people in this country were reading Mallarme, and I'm sure Donald was wondering why I was so interested in him," she says (of course, Don knew Mallarme from Marcel Raymond's book). "Donald didn't know French, but he was intellectually curious. I mean, we were in our twenties-how could you not be intellectually curious? Later, in his writing, he developed a sort of collage approach like Mallarme's. As it turned out, this fit in well with postmodernism, but it was something personal to Don, and not just something he developed for the work, or because it happened to be in the zeitgeist."

"We didn't see much of [Don and Marilyn]," Maggie Maranto says. "I remember we once went over and Marilyn cooked dinner for us. She wasn't very good at that sort of thing, being an intellectual and definitely not not the housewifely sort." the housewifely sort."

Whether or not Don's wife was "cold," it seems clear that she had a more serious demeanor than most of his friends, and this set her apart from them. Her absorption in her studies appears to have prevented her from fully appreciating his literary abilities; it also appears to have been a form of self-protection against his professional ambitions (which, at this time, meant he worked odd hours and for low pay).

Helen Moore Barthelme recalls "hear[ing] about Don occasionally from Mary Blount, who later married George [Christian]," but she seldom saw him "except at a play or musical event" that she attended with her new husband, Peter Gilpin. Blount remembers how poor Don was. One evening, she strolled with him past the reflecting pool in front of the administration building on the UH campus. They discovered a ten-dollar bill on the sidewalk and agreed to share it. Blount was still living at home with her parents; Don needed the money more than she did, so he took eight dollars and she got two.

Around this time, the Catalina Lounge downtown became the most popular new nightspot for jazz, so Don took Marilyn there whenever he could afford to. Given their busy schedules, their social life revolved around the events the paper asked Don to cover (the downside was, after an evening performance, he had to return to the office and work until dawn). "[Hubert] Roussel went to all of the interesting shows, and a.s.signed George and Don the second-rate performances to review-whatever was left on the list," Marilyn says. "Occasionally I went to a floor show at the Shamrock with Don. There were free dinners there. We were poor, and a free dinner was not to be turned down. But I had a lot of work to do on my thesis, so Don mostly went to things without me."

In 1952, the young medium of television, along with the increasing sophistication of sound and film technologies, spread popular culture faster than ever before. At the same time, more people than ever were aware of a split between high and low culture-an awareness made possible, in part, by the access to higher education provided by the G.I. Bill, and by the success of paperback-book publis.h.i.+ng, which made cla.s.sics, as well as pulp, more readily available. Around this time, Willem de Kooning began his Woman Woman series of paintings, marrying abstraction to figurative representation; Ralph Ellison published his modernist masterpiece, series of paintings, marrying abstraction to figurative representation; Ralph Ellison published his modernist masterpiece, Invisible Man, Invisible Man, a book Don devoured with relish; but much of the country spent the evenings staring at a book Don devoured with relish; but much of the country spent the evenings staring at I Love Lucy I Love Lucy and and The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet on the small screen, or listening to dance records. In 1952, RCA introduced the first three-speed record player for 33s, 45s, and 78s. This came as a blessing. The new president, Dwight Eisenhower, threatened to commit more American troops, and possibly nuclear weapons, to the conflict in Korea. The public, still war-weary, craved distractions, and the entertainment industry was happy to oblige. on the small screen, or listening to dance records. In 1952, RCA introduced the first three-speed record player for 33s, 45s, and 78s. This came as a blessing. The new president, Dwight Eisenhower, threatened to commit more American troops, and possibly nuclear weapons, to the conflict in Korea. The public, still war-weary, craved distractions, and the entertainment industry was happy to oblige.

In the first seven months of his marriage, Don, in his capacity as an arts reviewer, could offer his wife a wide array of cultural excitement (whenever he could get her out)-from an evening of Mozart piano sonatas performed by Paul Badura-Skoda, fresh from the Viennese Conservatory, to the Latin singing of Joaquin Garay, best known as the voice of Panchito in Disney's The Three Caballeros The Three Caballeros ("Disney's h.o.r.n.i.e.s.t animated feature," according to one reviewer). Frequently, Don covered events in the Empire Room at the Rice Hotel, on Texas Street downtown. Here, and at the Shamrock Hotel, which sported an elegant performance s.p.a.ce, Don and Marilyn attended shows by Betty Jane Watson, an original member of the London cast of ("Disney's h.o.r.n.i.e.s.t animated feature," according to one reviewer). Frequently, Don covered events in the Empire Room at the Rice Hotel, on Texas Street downtown. Here, and at the Shamrock Hotel, which sported an elegant performance s.p.a.ce, Don and Marilyn attended shows by Betty Jane Watson, an original member of the London cast of Oklahoma! Oklahoma!; by Paddy Wing, billed as a "Chinese tap dancer"; and by Eddie Peabody, the "King of the Banjo." Peabody, tall and thin, with corn-colored hair, performed in a checked coat and a bow tie. Sometimes he played three banjos at once, and he invented the banjoline, a cross between an electric six-string Hawaiian guitar and a standard plectrum banjo.

One of Don's favorite shows that winter was by the Dixieland clarinetist Ted Lewis, at the Shamrock. Lewis wore a black suit and a battered top hat, and was known as the "High-Hatted Tragedian of Jazz." His band mates wore white harlequin costumes with Shriner-like caps. His signature song was "Dip Your Brush in the Suns.h.i.+ne."

Don's mature fiction is characterized by deliberate anachronisms, wild juxtapositions, and references to high and low culture. Perelman's work influenced him in this regard. But so did these early newspaper days: the blurring of styles, of serious and silly entertainments he witnessed night after night, and in venues like the Rice Hotel, whose old-fas.h.i.+oned ornamentation contrasted sharply with the contemporary structures rising around it.

In September, the Cougar Cougar solicited a new article from Bardley, welcoming back, after a short absence, his "nastiness." Don wrote a piece whose sole purpose was to allow him to print, in bold letters at the bottom of the page, "REPENT." More and more, Korea dominated the news. At the solicited a new article from Bardley, welcoming back, after a short absence, his "nastiness." Don wrote a piece whose sole purpose was to allow him to print, in bold letters at the bottom of the page, "REPENT." More and more, Korea dominated the news. At the Post, Post, Joe Maranto had run a mail-exchange newsletter for soldiers and their families back home. In November, Don was a.s.signed to interview Michele Condrey, a Houston actress who had just returned from a USO tour. She shared with readers her positive impressions of troop morale. In the meantime, the movies: Gary Cooper, Ray Milland, Lillian Ross, Francis the Talking Mule... Joe Maranto had run a mail-exchange newsletter for soldiers and their families back home. In November, Don was a.s.signed to interview Michele Condrey, a Houston actress who had just returned from a USO tour. She shared with readers her positive impressions of troop morale. In the meantime, the movies: Gary Cooper, Ray Milland, Lillian Ross, Francis the Talking Mule...

By themselves, Don's movie reviews for the Post Post are of little interest, but when placed in the context of the budding counterculture, and Don's relation to it, his immersion in Hollywood films is noteworthy. are of little interest, but when placed in the context of the budding counterculture, and Don's relation to it, his immersion in Hollywood films is noteworthy.

Don didn't read French, so at best he could only have been dimly aware of the Parisian journal Cahiers du Cinema. Cahiers du Cinema. The journal offered exciting new criticism by Jean-Luc G.o.dard and Francois Truffaut. Both would become innovative filmmakers, and G.o.dard in particular would turn out to be essential to Don, but in 1952 they were defining a film aesthetic in provocative essays for The journal offered exciting new criticism by Jean-Luc G.o.dard and Francois Truffaut. Both would become innovative filmmakers, and G.o.dard in particular would turn out to be essential to Don, but in 1952 they were defining a film aesthetic in provocative essays for Cahiers, Cahiers, based largely on an appreciation of mainstream American movies. based largely on an appreciation of mainstream American movies.

The French New Wave, which erupted in the late fifties, had its beginnings around the time Don was born, when Henri Langlois, a Turkish immigrant to France, established the Cinematheque in Paris to salvage cla.s.sic silent movies, already in danger of being lost, misplaced, or destroyed. Langlois was especially drawn to the films of Louis Feuillade, which included such features as Fantomas Fantomas and and Les Vampires. Les Vampires. "I am persuaded that Surrealism first existed in the cinema," Langlois said. "You've only got to look at 'Les Vampires' to understand that the cinema, because it was the expression of the twentieth century and the universal unconscious, carried Surrealism within it." At the same time, he championed Howard Hawks, John Ford, and other American directors, whose simplicity and naturalness, he said, augured film's future. "I am persuaded that Surrealism first existed in the cinema," Langlois said. "You've only got to look at 'Les Vampires' to understand that the cinema, because it was the expression of the twentieth century and the universal unconscious, carried Surrealism within it." At the same time, he championed Howard Hawks, John Ford, and other American directors, whose simplicity and naturalness, he said, augured film's future.

He showed movies at a cine-club called the Cercle du Cinema. Reportedly, James Joyce and Andre Breton were patrons. Later, when the Cinematheque acquired larger screening rooms in the avenue de Messine, then on the rue d'Ulm, young cinephiles like Andre Bazin, one of the founders of Cahiers Cahiers, Truffaut, and G.o.dard found the hub around which to build their lives.

Prominent critics disparaged the group's favorite films-Feuillade's wild fantasies and American adventure tales. But in Hollywood's slick treatment of genre, mixed with the possibilities of Surrealism, the cine-club boys saw new directions for the eye and the mind. Langlois's preference for pairing unlikely works (a Chaplin short followed by an anti-Russian German film) also broke boundaries of subject and style, and prompted new thinking about visual structures.

In 1945, Bazin wrote a seminal essay ent.i.tled "The Ontology of the Photographic Image," which established Cahiers du Cinema Cahiers du Cinema's critical framework and influenced the way Don's generation of moviegoers viewed films and their effect on other arts. For Bazin, realism in art was a struggle against death. As examples of this, he offered Egyptian tombs, icons, and mummies-"arts" designed to arrest the movement of time. Similarly, the conventions of realism in literature and film sought to freeze life before us. This impulse conflicted with the artist's desire to explore possibilities of color, form, sound: Art's true vocation being the fulfillment of its own medium. Bazin argued that the discovery of perspective in painting sidetracked it into a misguided effort to represent the world. Photography and film, with their ability to render the world directly, had now freed painting to return to its proper concerns: shape, color, texture, the flatness of the canvas. (In America, Clement Greenberg was making the same argument with regard to Abstract Expressionist painting.) Like a painter, a filmmaker must focus on the primary materials of the medium, which include filmed reality. filmed reality. To argue whether footage is staged or candid, fact or fiction, is beside the point. It is To argue whether footage is staged or candid, fact or fiction, is beside the point. It is all all a record of the reality in front of the camera at that moment. The filmmaker's responsibility is to render reality's contradictions, not to try to force reality into a predetermined model. a record of the reality in front of the camera at that moment. The filmmaker's responsibility is to render reality's contradictions, not to try to force reality into a predetermined model.