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‘Hiding Man’ reveals Barthelme’s legacy at UH

He wrote in fragments. His teaching was unorthodox; his methods were unpredictable, and his legacy undeniable.

Filed away in UH history, the writings and teachings of author and alumnus Donald Barthelme seldom emerge in today’s conversation.

His arrival on the scene at the infancy of UH’s Creative Writing Program brought the program much-needed gravity.

Yet, the renowned author remains unknown to most of today’s UH students.

Author Tracy Daugherty received his Ph.D. from the Creative Writing Program.

In his new book Hiding Man: A Biography of Donald Barthelme, Daugherty said he attempts to immortalize the postmodernist through the stories of those who knew him best.

‘He was an engaged University citizen, working behind the scenes, as well as in class, to improve the learning environment, shake his students and colleagues out of complacency and to better the resources available to us all,’ Daugherty said.

Daugherty’s book, released in February, includes personal accounts and insight into the life of a fiction writer who spent most of his career deeply conflicted.

Hiding Man profiles his developments in style, accomplishments in writing, failures in marriage and struggles with alcoholism, all from the perspective of a UH student.

Influenced by John Ashbery, Francois Rabelais, Franz Kafka and several other contemporary writers, Barthelme developed a modern style uniquely his own.

He wrote novels as well as incidental short stories compiled into different collections, such as his first book Come Back, Dr. Caligari.

His writings were filled with irony and text broken by large pictures as seen in his notable collection Forty Stories.

‘There is no one like him,’ said journalism assistant professor Michael Berryhill. ‘His language was so pure, almost like a poet. Very few writers can have such an original voice.’

Some of Barthelme’s most notable achievements included his 1967 novel Snow White that ran in its entirety in The New Yorker, making it one of only three novels to ever have this honor.

Barthelme, nicknamed in the 1980’s as the ‘Big Daddy of the Creative Writing Program’, was an unparalleled surrealist whose comical prose and juxtaposition made his short stories comparable to likes of Ernest Hemingway and J.D. Salinger.

Barthelme spent most of his life in Houston and at UH. He was the son of UH architecture professor, Donald Barthelme, Sr. The younger Barthelme graduated from Lamar High School in 1949. After graduation, Barthelme attended UH, majoring in journalism and working for The Houston Post, until he was drafted into the Korean War in 1953.

When he returned from the Korean War, Barthelme continued his education at UH, majoring this time in philosophy. While attending UH, Barthelme was a member of The Daily Cougar staff until 1961 and served as the Life and Arts editor.

Writing under the pseudonym Bardley, Barthelme wrote about controversial issues in a humorous tone ranging in topics from campus cops to cafeteria cooks.

After leaving UH, Barthelme became the Director of the Contemporary Arts Museum in Houston. Shortly after, he moved to New York to become the managing editor of Location magazine and begin a writing career that would span more than 20 years and produce 15 novels.

In 1981, he returned to UH at the urging of Cynthia MacDonald and Stanley Plumly, the founders of the Creative Writing Program, and by 1983 had joined the faculty full time as a Cullen Professor of English.

In 1985 Barthelme said part of being a writer is one’s responsibility toward younger writers and, until his untimely death from throat cancer in July 1989, Barthelme stayed true to this philosophy.

His last novel, The King, was released two years after his death. For students and colleagues who knew him, it is hard to believe he has been gone for twenty years.

‘Whenever I make a point of view choice or end a scene at a particular spot, or even stick a comma in a certain place, I try to imagine what Don might have said about it,’ Daugherty said. ‘He remains a powerful editorial presence, I think, in the minds of everyone who studied with him.’

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