In the no man's land of contemporary fiction, Barth has always been a willing occupier of the trenches, a writer concerned both to advance and defend, and this posture has given us works both of great interest and unevenness. His newest, Sabbatical, continues the pattern of engagement and stands as a worthy effort, if a flawed one. As with the earlier novels so with this one: the false starts and rough edges in Sabbatical derive not at all from a lack of skill but rather from the difficulties inherent in juggling diverse rhythms and mixed modes. Some of the features of the new novel remind one of other postmodern writing and also of the asymmetries and unresolved tensions in mannerist art as it sought to move out of the high Renaissance. Sabbatical explores anew Barth's long-standing interest in the way in which writer, text and reader interact, in how these swirling, buzzing energies achieve a momentary stability in a work of fiction. And not unexpectedly, the new novel probes certain genre considerations as well. It is said to be a "Romance" and part of the intellectual game of the work lies in the reader's recognition of how it modifies, negates and parodies this genre. Sabbatical is about a number of matters, and one of these is John Barth on Northrop Frye. Peace.
At plot level the work narrates the adventures of its principals, Fenwick Scott Key Turner and wife Susan Rachel Allan Seckler, as they return from a nine month cruise to the Caribbean aboard their motorized sailboat. The two took their voyage in order to take stock of themselves and life, but they return home to find that some important questions remain unanswered. Reality, Barth pleasantly reminds us, eludes definition just as "real" fictional characters escape the constraints and abstractions of literary typology. In their journey up Chesapeake Bay to Baltimore and home port aboard the Pokey, Fenn and Susan gradually realize that "homecoming" is more a beginning than an ending. Enroute they encounter an uncharted island, a "sea monster," and—more crucially—themselves in their desolation, dreams and love. In the process the reader learns a good deal about the respective families—the mysteries, aspirations and tragedies in the lives of figures such as Manfred, Miriam, Carmen, Dumitru and others—and also about the ravaged, brutal, sterile nature of contemporary America. CIA intrigues (Fenn is a former member), gang rapes, mysterious disappearances and the moral complexities of abortion (Susan's) emerge as manifestations of our waste land, reminders that leviathan swims inscrutably onward. Clearly the "fresh, green breast of the new world" remains as elusive in Sabbatical as it was in Gatsby, but there is a compensation in Barth's novel. Unlike Daisy Buchanan and Jay Gatsby, Fenn and Susan manage to sustain a loving, sexually satisfying and intellectually vibrant relationship. Their "romance" (perhaps the real meaning of the subtitle) endures because of the pair's sense of humor, mutual forbearance and maturity—and of course because John Barth adds to these virtues the mana of art. Susan and Fenwick shape their story as they sail the waters of Chesapeake Bay and Americana; a significant part of their virtu flows from the fact that they are "makers" as well as sufferers.
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