self

Fear and Confusion

The defining characteristic of metafiction is that the text must self-consciously acknowledge the conventions involved in the fiction-writing process. In Lost in the Funhouse, John Barth not only calls attention to general literary conventions, he blatantly exposes them within his own story, often defining them immediately before defying them. Two of the more significant conventions he chooses to challenge are the classic plot structure and the traditional role of the author. However, Barth’s rejection of traditional methods isn’t simply meaningless experimentation. His subversions of convention all contribute to a carefully crafted metaphor that shows the funhouse as place of potential fear and confusion for an adolescent boy, an author, and a reader who are all venturing into the unknown.

One of the techniques of metafiction used by Barth is the way in which he continually calls attention to the conventions of traditional storytelling. Often he defines to a classic technique of writing only to defy it immediately afterward. The first example of this occurs at the beginning of the story when he explains the proper use of italics. He notes that, in a work of fiction, italics are used to represent “outside, intrusive, artificial voices,” and stresses that they “should be used sparingly” (Barth 72). This is the first “should” of the story and it’s one that he completely disregards. There are five italicized words or phrases in the first paragraph (Barth 72) and six in the second paragraph (Barth 73) and they are used repeatedly throughout the rest of the story. Barth mentions physical description as “one of several standard methods of characterization” (Barth 73) but disregards this method in the very next physical description by cutting himself off mid-sentence (Barth 74). At one point in the story, Barth expresses distaste for a sentence he has written, complaining that “everything was wrong from the outset” (Barth 88), and yet rather than editing the line, he leaves it as it is. Barth continually reminds the reader that this is a story and it should follow standard writing conventions. Occasionally Barth adheres to these conventions, but often he casually ignores them.

An important convention Barth addresses is that of narrative structure. He explains the basics of Freitag’s Triangle and cautions that while it is not “an absolute necessity,” “one ought not to forsake it” (Barth 95). This standard formula for narrative structure and chronology is completely abandoned by Barth in Lost in the Funhouse. Not only does he create a plot that ignores basic linear chronology, he creates a plot that defies all attempts at cohesive synthesis. This is seen most clearly at the end of the story as Ambrose imagines the various endings of his story, his day, and even his life (Barth 95, 96). So disorienting is this disregard for conventional plot structure that it is difficult to know for certain how the story even ends. The reader is told that “the family is going home” (Barth 97), which is tempting to accept as the actual ending, but by this point in the story there are no certainties about anything. Barth frequently comments on the slow progress of the plot. Near the end of Lost in the Funhouse, Barth admits that most of the story to this point “is exposition that should’ve been done earlier” (Barth 94). Shortly after this he notes that “a long time ago we should have passed the apex of Freitag’s Triangle” (Barth 96). In acknowledging these “shoulds” Barth is calling the reader’s attention to the fact that he has willingly disregarded these plot conventions.

One of the most significant conventions abandoned by Barth is the traditional role of the author. Whereas in the past, the author has been clearly separated from the text itself, Barth intentionally dissolves this barrier. Whether he is lamenting the fact that he will “never be an author” (Barth 86), brainstorming the possible endings for his story (Barth 87), considering the proper age to make his characters (Barth 94), or changing “in mock” to “in feigned” (Barth 82) mid-sentence, Barth is continually stepping into the frame of the story. He even goes so far as to offer reasons for not writing a lost-in-the-funhouse story, asking whether there is “anything more tiresome, in fiction, than the problems of sensitive adolescents” (Barth 91, 92). In the next line Barth tells the reader that “it’s all too long and rambling, as if the author.” (Barth 92), suggesting that he finds himself to be the problem with his own story. This lack of distinction between the author and his text brings with it the breakdown of the fact/fiction barrier and contributes to the general sense of confusion for the reader.

Barth doesn’t simply wish make his presence known to the reader; he carries this technique even further by intentionally blurring the line between author and protagonist. Barth questions whether or not there is “really such a person as Ambrose, or is he the figment of the author’s imagination?” (Barth 88), a passage which causes the reader to question those same boundaries. Similarly, Ambrose later sees that he has “deceived himself into supposing that he was a person.” (Barth 93). This lack of distinction between author and protagonist is highlighted by lines such as “he lost himself in the reflection” (Barth 94). This line is written by Barth, from the perspective of Ambrose, in italics, suggesting an “outside, intrusive, or artificial voice” (Barth 72). This paradox is somewhat explained, in a manner appropriately postmodern, several pages earlier by the line, “you think you’re yourself, but there are other persons in you” (Barth 85). In one confusing passage there is a paragraph of dialog begun by Ambrose telling Magda not to worry, that they “can manage it somehow” (Barth 90). The paragraph, still within the same dialog quotes, is completed by Barth explaining that “no character in a work of fiction can make a speech this long” (Barth 90). The most blatant disregard for the author/protagonist distinction comes about as an abrupt shift in perspective. What begins as Barth’s third-person description of the characters’ swimming options ends with a first person decision that “we would do the latter” (Barth79). This line is repeated two more times, as if to stress the significance of this identity confusion.

These subversions of convention alone would simply be chaotic pastiche of experimental style were they not all connected by and contributing toward a deeper level of meaning. Barth’s use of metaphor isn’t subtle, as he himself admits (Barth 94), but it is effective. It is carefully crafted to reflect several different levels of meaning contained within Lost in the Funhouse. At its most obvious level, Barth presents the funhouse is a metaphor for sex, specifically adolescent sexuality. Ambrose has an epiphany in which he suddenly understands that sex, or at least seeing up girls’ dresses, is “the whole point … of the entire funhouse” (Barth 89). Ambrose imagines his father wondering if Ambrose knows “what the funhouse is for” (Barth 92), and he even fantasizes about what he could get away with doing to a girl if he knew the funhouse like his own bedroom (Barth 83). Ambrose wishes that his father had taken him aside and explained the secret of the funhouse, even loathing his parents for not helping him out of his sexually confused and awkward state (Barth 91). Ambrose imagines alleviating his own son’s confusion by assuring him that “it will not last forever.” As Barth explains at the beginning of the story, the funhouse is, for Ambrose, “a place of fear and confusion” (Barth 72).

On a deeper, more metafictional level, the funhouse symbolizes Lost in the Funhouse itself. It is a strikingly appropriate metaphor for such an experimental work of postmodern fiction. The plot, like the path through the funhouse itself “doesn’t rise by meaningful steps but winds upon itself, digresses, retreats, hesitates, sighs, collapses, expires” (Barth 96). The sense of confusion and exasperation expressed by Ambrose is echoed repeatedly by Barth who complains to the reader that “this can’t go on much longer; it can go on forever” (Barth 95). Ambrose’ fears of being lost in the literal funhouse are mirrored by Barth’s fears of being lost in his own story. Barth offers advice for what a person should do when lost, which is to “stay put till you’re found, hollering if necessary” (Barth 88). It is difficult to say whether this advice is being offered to Ambrose or to Barth himself. At first he seems casual in his complaints that “we will never get out of the funhouse” (Barth 77), but his tone becomes more serious as he states that he will never be an author because “it’s been forever already, everybody’s gone home” (Barth 86). Eventually, his tone begins to sound nearly frantic as he asks “how long will it last?” (Barth 97). Barth has become lost in the convoluted hallways of his own story which is threatening to become a place “of fear and confusion” (Barth 72).

True to postmodernist style, Barth has no intention of imparting any grand moral message to his readers. Instead he offers something more appropriate to a work of metafiction: an approach to reading his story. The reader is expected to realize, just as Ambrose does, that “to get through expeditiously is not the point” (Barth 92). Barth, through Ambrose, assumes that the reader will travel through the funhouse more than once and “see the serious wordplay on second reading” (Barth 86). In one of the many passages in which Barth worries about the slow progress of the story, he asks how it is that “most go along without difficulty but a few lose their way” (Barth 79). He is acknowledging that Lost in the Funhouse is a difficult story and that not everyone will find it fun. In identifying the conventions of fiction writing, Barth has pulled back the curtain, exposing the “great central switchboard” (Barth 97) of the funhouse. Seeing the inner workings can be overwhelming and disorienting for the reader who may begin to feel lost in “a place of fear and confusion” (Barth 72). For some, the funhouse has grown monstrous and too much has been exposed to simply be enjoyed as a fun story. Even for these, Barth offers hope in the example of Ambrose. Although he wishes he could be one of the carefree lovers, he resolves to “construct funhouses for others and be their secret operator” (Barth 97). The advantage to being lost in the funhouse is the opportunity to learn its secrets.

Barth’s Lost in the Funhouse presents so many open doors, false passageways, tricks of light, and warped reflections that it is impossible to reduce its many aspects into a tidy and cohesive picture. Just as it defies Freitag’s Triangle, it also defies exhaustive analysis. Barth himself acknowledges that it can be a confusing work of fiction, but offers the reader hope and advice for navigating it’s corridors. What he presents as a richly complex metaphor for fear and confusion, he also presents as an opportunity to better understand the process of fiction itself.