You can find a lot of Barthelme on the internet, but you cannot find all of “The Balloon.” Part of it is here, but that isn’t all of it. I know because I once said that I found the ending of “The Balloon” spectacularly adorable, which was immediately misinterpreted, and that adorableness is missing from this excerpt. In any case
Here, Henry, take this package of money I have wrapped for you, because we have been doing so well in the business here, and I admire the way you bruise the tulips…
I’ve recently finished Paradise which is about a married architect who lives away from his wife and with three other women who insist upon offering him their nubile young bodies, often simultaneously. The back of the book calls it “a meditation on the melancholy of fulfilled desire,” how I often imagine most everyone.
Patron Saint of the Perpetually Unsatisfied
People often respond to Barthelme et al with a disgust at their lack of real characters, which I could not disagree with more vehemently [yes you could. you’ve never responded with violence, which would be vehement-est. even your self-characterization is a lie!] “Tim, the professional whistler, is a sad Saab of a man about thirty.” pg. 114 2005 Dalkey Archive Press edition. I have met that man.
The architect falls in love with a poet. Crafty. I have wanted to be an architect since I was born but am no good at math, at all. How nice it would be to make things you could live in. Barthelme’s sentences, though. Better than log cabins.
She holds out an empty wineglass. Simon pouring.
Goddamn.
Goddamn.
Barthelme’s father was an architect.