 |
| You can't really dust for vomit. |
The disjuncture found in Donald Barthelme's fragmented short-stories can often be frustrating to read (at least for me), usually with the deliberate aim of distorting all possible meaning. Sometimes this approach works swimmingly and sometimes it comes across as random gibberish, which is unfortunately the case here in Rif.
The story is basically a never-ending volley of dialogue between two characters, Hettie and Rhoda, who are (appropriately enough) riffing on each other ad nauseum. It’s Barthelme doing his usual Barthelme thing: postmodern experimentation cranked up to 11. Tangents and non-sequiturs are the name of the game but it all feels like nonsensical jargon to me. I’m sure there’s some deep commentary on language, perception or phenomenology buried in there, maybe even a sly wink about how interpretation itself is futile. However, I couldn't be bothered to wade through this failed experiment.
No comments:
Post a Comment