The End of the Road

John Barth

• Publisher: Dalkey Archive Press
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781628972016
• Topic: Literatura
• Subtopic: Literatura general

As young Jake Horner's mind became an increasingly paralyzing cobweb of dark thoughts, he turned for help to an extraordinary doctor—part saint, part evil-genius, a weird combination of faith healer, magician, and devil. And in so doing Jake found himself following a drastic prescription that was to draw him into a strange, compulsive relationship.

It is around the startling results of Jake Horner's "cure" and its amazing mastermind—a doctor almost surely designed to become one of the most remarkable characters in modern fiction—that this brilliant, imaginative novel hinges. John Barth is an accomplished writer of unusual talent whose uncanny insight into the dark mazes of the human mind has given The End of the Road a haunting and troubling reality.

1

In a Sense, I Am Jacob Horner

IN A SENSE, I AM JACOB HORNER.

It was on the advice of the Doctor that I entered the teaching profession; for a time I was a teacher of grammar at the Wicomico State Teachers College, in Maryland.

The Doctor had brought me to a certain point in my original schedule of therapies (this was in June 1953), and then, once when I drove down from Baltimore for my quarterly checkup at the Remobilization Farm, which at that time was near Wicomico, he said to me, “Jacob Horner, you mustn’t sit idle any longer. You will have to begin work.”

“I’m not idle all the time,” said I. “I take different jobs.”

We were seated in the Progress and Advice Room of the farmhouse: there is one exactly like it in the present establishment, in Pennsylvania. It is a medium-size room, about as large as an apartment living room, only high-ceilinged. The walls are flat white, the windows are covered by white venetian blinds, usually closed, and a globed ceiling fixture provides the light. In this room there are two straight-backed white wooden chairs, exactly alike, facing each other in the center of the floor, and no other furniture. The chairs are very close together—so close that the advisee almost touches knees with the adviser.

It is impossible to be at ease in the Progress and Advice Room. The Doctor sits facing you, his legs slightly spread, his hands on his knees, and leans a little toward you. You would not slouch down, because to do so would thrust your knees virtually against his. Neither would you be inclined to cross your legs in either the masculine or the feminine manner: the masculine manner, with your left ankle resting on your right knee, would cause your left shoe to rub against the Doctor’s left trouser leg, up by his knee, and possibly dirty his white trousers; the feminine manner, with your left knee crooked over your right knee, would thrust the toe of your shoe against the same trouser leg, lower down on his shin. To sit sideways, of course, would be unthinkable, and spreading your knees in the manner of the Doctor makes you acutely conscious of aping his position, as if you hadn’t a personality of your own. Your position, then (which has the appearance of choice, because you are not ordered to sit thus, but which is chosen only in a very limited sense, since there are no alternatives), is as follows: you sit rather rigidly in your white chair, your back and thighs describing the same right angle described by the structure of the chair, and keep your legs together, your thighs and lower legs describing another right angle.

The placing of your arms is a separate problem, interesting in its own right and, in a way, even more complicated, but of lesser importance, since no matter where you put them they will not normally come into physical contact with the Doctor. You may do anything you like with them (you wouldn’t, clearly, put them on your knees in imitation of him). As a rule I move mine about a good bit, leaving them in one position for a while and then moving them to another. Arms folded, akimbo, or dangling; hands grasping the seat edges or thighs, or clasped behind the head or resting in the lap—these (and their numerous degrees and variations) are all in their own ways satisfactory positions for the arms and hands, and if I shift from one to another, this shifting is really not so much a manifestation of embarrassment, or hasn’t been since the first half-dozen interviews, as a recognition of the fact that when one is faced with such a multitude of desirable choices, no one choice seems satisfactory for very long by comparison with the aggregate desirability of all the rest, though compared to any one of the others it would not be found inferior.

It seems to me at just this moment (I am writing this at 7:55 in the evening of Tuesday, October 4, 1955, upstairs in the dormitory) that, should you choose to consider that final observation as a metaphor, it is the story of my life in a sentence—to be precise, in the latter member of a double predicate nominative expression in the second independent clause of a rather intricate compound sentence. You see that I was in truth a grammar teacher.

It is not fit that you should be at your ease in the Progress and Advice Room, for after all it is not for relaxation that you come there, but for advice. Were you totally at your ease, you would only be inclined to consider the Doctor’s words in a leisurely manner, as one might regard the breakfast brought to one’s bed by a liveried servant, hypercritically, selecting this, rejecting that, eating only as much as one chooses. And clearly such a frame of mind would be out of place in the Progress and Advice Room, for there it is you who have placed yourself in the Doctor’s hands; your wishes are subservient to his, not vice versa; and his advice is given you not to be questioned or even examined (to question is impertinent; to examine, pointless), but to be followed.

“That isn’t satisfactory,” the Doctor said, referring to my current practice of working only when I needed cash, and then at any job that presented itself. “Not any longer.”

He paused and studied me, as is his habit, rolling his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and back again, under his pink tongue.

“You’ll have to begin work at a more meaningful job now. A career, you know. A calling. A lifework.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are thirty.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you have taken an undergraduate degree somewhere. In history? Literature? Economics?”

“Arts and sciences.”

“That’s everything!”

“No major, sir.”

“Arts and sciences! What under heaven that’s interesting isn’t either an art or a science? Did you study philosophy?”

“Yes.”

“Psychology?”

“Yes.”

“Political science?”

“Yes.”

“Wait a minute. Zoology?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, and philology? Romance philology? And cultural anthropology?”

“Later, sir, in the graduate school. You remember, I—”

“Argh!” the Doctor said, as if hawking to spit upon the graduate school. “Did you study lock-picking in the graduate school? Fornication? Sailmaking? Cross-examination?”

“No, sir.”

“Aren’t these arts and sciences?”

“My master’s degree was to be in English, sir.”

“Damn you! English what? Navigation? Colonial policy? Common law?”

“English literature, sir. But I didn’t finish. I passed the oral examinations, but I never got my thesis done.”

“Jacob Horner, you are a fool.”

My legs remained directly in front of me, as before, but I moved my hands from behind my head (which position suggests a rather too casual attitude for many sorts of situations anyway) to a combination position, my left hand grasping my left coat lapel, my right lying palm up, fingers loosely curled, near the mid-point of my right thigh.

After a while the Doctor said, “What reason do you think you have for not applying for a job at the little teachers college here in Wicomico?”

Instantly a host of arguments against applying for a job at the Wicomico State Teachers College presented themselves for my use, and as instantly a corresponding number of refutations lined up opposite them, one for one, so that the question of my application was held static like the rope marker in a tug-o’-war where the opposing teams are perfectly matched. This again is in a sense the story of my life, nor does it really matter if it is not just the same story as that of a few paragraphs ago: as I began to learn not long after this interview, when the schedule of therapies reached Mythotherapy, the same life lends itself to any number of stories—parallel, concentric, mutually habitant, or what you will.

Well.

“No reason, sir,” I said.

“Then it’s settled. Apply at once for the fall term. And what will you teach? Iconography? Automotive mechanics?”

“English literature, I guess.”

“No. There must be a rigid discipline, or else it will be merely an occupation, not an occupational therapy. There must be a body of laws. You mean you can’t teach plane geometry?”

“Oh, I suppose—” I made a suppositive gesture, which consisted of a slight outward motion of my lapel-grasping left hand, extending simultaneously the fore and index fingers but not releasing my lapel—the hand motion accompanied by quickly arched (and as quickly released) eyebrows, momentarily pursed lips, and an on-the-one-hand/on-the-other-hand rocking of the head.

“Nonsense. Of course you can’t Tell them you will teach grammar. English grammar.”

“But you know, Doctor,” I ventured, “there is descriptive as well as prescriptive grammar. I mean, you mentioned a fixed body of rules.”

“You will teach prescriptive grammar.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No description at all. No optional situations. Teach the rules. Teach the truth about grammar.”

The advising was at an end. The Doctor stood up quickly (I jerked my legs out of his way) and left the room, and after I had paid Mrs. Dickey, the receptionist-nurse, I returned to Baltimore. That night I composed a letter to the president of the Wicomico State Teachers College, requesting an interview and indicating my desire to join the staff as an instructor in the prescriptive grammar of the English language. There is an art that my diffuse education had schooled me in, perforce: the art of composing a telling letter of application. I was asked to appear for an interview in July.

2

The Wicomico State Teachers College Sits in a Great Flat Open Field

THE WICOMICO STATE TEACHERS COLLEGE SITS IN A GREAT FLAT OPEN FIELD ringed with loblolly pine trees, at the southeastern edge of the town of Wicomico, on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Its physical plant consists of a single graceless brick building with two ells, a building too large for the pseudo-Georgian style in which it is constructed. A deep semicircular drive runs in from College Avenue to the main entrance.

In July, when the day of my interview approached, I loaded my belongings into my Chevrolet and relinquished the key to my room on East Chase Street, in Baltimore, for I meant to take lodgings in Wicomico at once, whether I were hired or not. This was on a Sunday. The date of the interview had originally been set for Tuesday in the letter I received in answer to my application, but on the Saturday afternoon before I left Baltimore the president of the college had telephoned me and asked that I come on Monday instead. The connection was poor, but there is no doubt in my mind that he changed the date to Monday.

“I can make it either day,” I recall saying.

“Well, as a matter of fact I suppose we could too,” the president said. “Monday or Tuesday. But maybe Monday would be better than Tuesday for some of the Committee. Unless Monday is out of the question for you, of course. Would Tuesday be better for you?”

“Monday or Tuesday, either one,” I said. I was thinking that actually Tuesday (which remember was the original date) would be better for me, because there might be last-minute errands or some such for me to make before I moved out of Baltimore, and on Sunday the stores would be closed. But I certainly wasn’t going to make an issue out of it, and for that matter an equally good case could be made for Monday. “If Monday is better for you all, then it’s all right with me.”

“I know we’d planned on Tuesday before,” admitted the president, “but I guess Monday would be best.”

“Either day, sir,” I said.

So on Sunday I piled my clothes, my few books, my phonograph and phonograph records, whiskey, piece of sculpture, and odds and ends into the car and set out for the Eastern Shore. Three hours later I checked in at the Peninsula Hotel in Wicomico, where I meant to live until I found suitable permanent quarters, and after lunch I began looking for a room.

The first thing that went wrong was that I found an entirely satisfactory room at once. As a rule I was extremely hard to please in the matter of renting a room. I required that no one live above me; that my room be high-ceilinged and large-windowed; that my bed be high off the floor, wide, and very soft; that the bathroom be equipped with a good shower; that the landlord not live in the same building (and that he be not very particular about his property or his tenants); that the other tenants be of an uncomplaining nature; and that maid service be available. Because I was so fussy, it usually took me a good while to find even a barely acceptable place. But as ill luck would have it, the first room I saw advertised for rent on my way out College Avenue from the hotel met all these qualifications. The landlady...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• 1 In a Sense, I Am Jacob Horner
• 2 The Wicomico State Teachers College Sits in a Great Flat Open Field
• 3 A Turning Down of Dinner Damped, in Ways Subtle Fast Knowing
• 4 I Got Up, Stiff from Sleeping in the Chair
• 5 The Clumsy Force of Rennie Was a Thing That Attracted Me
• 6 In September It Was Time to See the Doctor
• 7 The Dance of Sex: If One Had no Other Reason for Choosing to Subscribe
• 8 Such Guilt as I Felt Could Not Be Sustained, nor Could Such Self-Contempt
• 9 One of the Things I Did Not See Fit to Tell foe Morgan
• 10 The Disintegration of Rennie That September Was Not Often an Entertaining Spectacle
• 11 The Next Morning, Early, My Eyes Opened Suddenly
• 12 I Stood in the Morgans’ Living Room with My Coat Still On, for It Was Not Suggested That I Stay