Lost in the Funhouse by John Barth Read Free Book Online Page A

Oberammergau Passion play in 1910 had been named Leonard Something-or-other.
    “It was on his pushcart, that stood all the time by our hotel,” she explained, and not to appear overauthoritative, added: “But Konrad said he was a Jew.”
    “Look here,” said Uncle Konrad. “Call him Ambrose.”
    “Ambrose?”
    “Sure Ambrose.” Quite serious now, he brushed back with his hand his straight blond hair and regarded Mother gravely. “Saint Ambrose had the same thing happen when he was a baby. All these bees swarmed on his mouth while he was asleep in his father’s yard, and everybody said he’d grow up to be a great speaker.”
    “Ambrose,” Rosa considered. “That ain’t bad, Andy.”
    My mother admitted that the name had a not unpleasant sound, at least by contrast with Xenophon.
    “But the bees was more on this baby’s eyes and ears than on his mouth,” Grandfather observed for the sake of accuracy. “They was all over the side of his face there where the mark is.”
    “One of them sure wasn’t,” Mother said.
    “So he’ll grow up to see things clear,” said Uncle Konrad.
    Andrea sniffed and lit a cigarette. “Long as he grows up to be a saint like his Uncle Konrad, huh Rosa. Saints we can use in this family.”
    The conversation turned to other matters, but thenceforward I was called Saint Ambrose, in jest, as often as
Honig
, and Ambrose by degrees became my name. Yet years were to pass before anyone troubled to have me christened or to correct my birth certificate, whereon my surname was preceded by a blank. And seldom was I ever to be called anything but
Honig
, Honeybee (after my ambiguous birthmark), or other nicknames.
    As toward one’s face, one’s body, one’s self, one feels complexly toward the name he’s called by, which too one had no hand in choosing. It was to be my fate to wonder at that moniker, relish and revile it, ignore it, stare it out of countenance into hieroglyph and gibber, and come finally if not to embrace at least to accept it with the cold neutrality of self-recognition, whose expression is a thin-lipped smile. Vanity frets about his name, Pride vaunts it, Knowledge retches at its sound, Understanding sighs; all live outside it, knowing well that I and my sign are neither one nor quite two.
    Yet only give it voice: whisper “Ambrose,” as at rare times certain people have—see what-all leaves off to answer! Ambrose, Ambrose, Ambrose, Ambrose! Regard that beast, ungraspable, most queer, pricked up in my soul’s crannies!

AUTOBIOGRAPHY: A Self-Recorded Fiction
    You who     listen     give me life     in a manner of speaking.
    I won’t hold you responsible.
    My first words weren’t my first words. I wish I’d begun differently.
    Among other things I haven’t a proper name. The one I bear’s misleading, if not false. I didn’t choose it either.
    I don’t recall asking to be conceived! Neither did my parents come to think of it. Even so. Score to be settled. Children are vengeance.
    I seem to’ve known myself from the beginning without knowing I knew; no news is good news; perhaps I’m mistaken.
    Now that I reflect I’m not enjoying this life: my link with the world.
    My situation appears to me as follows: I speak in a curious, detached manner, and don’t necessarily hear myself. I’m grateful for small mercies. Whether anyone follows me I can’t tell.
    Are you there? If so I’m blind and deaf to you, or you are me, or both’re both. One may be imaginary; I’ve had stranger ideas. I hope I’m a fiction without real hope. Where there’s a voice there’s a speaker.
    I see I see myself as a halt narrative: first person, tiresome. Pronoun sans ante or precedent, warrant or respite. Surrogatefor the substantive; contentless form, interestless principle; blind eye blinking at nothing. Who am I. A little
crise d’identité
for you.
    I must compose myself.
    Look, I’m writing. No, listen, I’m nothing but talk; I won’t last long. The