The Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor (Hardcover)

While this is a tale filled with mystery and adventure, love and sex, betrayal and death, and an endless supply of conflict, the underlying theme is the role that stories play in our lives, both as literal archives and moral instruction. Barth's trademark wordplay makes every passage worth a second and third reading, and his characters are impressively believable given their unbelievable context. Like his other masterpiece, "The Sot-Weed Factor," this is a sprawling and ribald epic, showcasing the enormous intellect and imagination of an American master in his prime.

Yes, this book SHOULD strike the reader as sexist (male chauvanistic is not really accurate) and yes, it would strike me, at least, as quite surprising if a woman were able to swallow this piece of literature without at least some digestive malaise. But (although, I speak as a male) I think it should be said that it is pretty evident (Barth's narrator admits it more than once) that Barth is really writing about his "Muse" and not literal women. The voyages of the story are the narrator's life voyages of lost and found identity and the various female characters are really one shape shifting "Lady Soul", sister, and twin. And yet, to me, this does not excuse Barth's utter usurping of these female characters. They are "men's women", not characters with any autonomous femininity and do not rightfully belong to the world of Woman or the female imagination.

In fact, I found the book to have a flavor of pornography, albeit pornography suited to a somewhat more sophisticated, middle-aged man's tastes. Half of the time I read, I balked at this lack of emotional complexity and conflict with the Other and its substitution with mid-life crisis/adolescent fantasy. But (again a but) This book is about the opposing poles of Reality and Fantasy and how one might identify their own humanity and self while moving between these poles. So one voice in me would say--That's just a cheap male fantasy-- and another voice would say--Barth knows this and has made it specifically so. And the first voice would chime in--Why is every "voyage" or stage of his life so sex-obsessed as if nothing but sex is formative.

My only reply to that is a bit intellectual and probably insufficient: in the journey of self-discovery and identity forging for a man(at least) there is a significant stage of battling with self and other which is psycho-sexually symbolic, polar, and erotically charged. It has always been portrayed this way--from folk tale to ancient alchemy to medieval romance to psychoanalysis. Barth may be trapped in his complexes and obsessions, too trapped to see all the limitations of his vision, but, on a symbolic level, his seven journeys are an important if often misunderstood (mostly by women, I'm sorry to say) part of a man's life. My only ultimate disappointment was that both Barth and his middle-aged Behler seemed to be hung up in this "psychosexual" stage a bit too long into the age of "wisdom," and that the book ends before either of them looks back on it all with a wistful but comprehending demystification.

So for psychological maturity: three stars. But, damn if this isn't maybe the most brilliantly written piece of quasi-pornography ever. It may not be his best book, but it may be his "best-written" book. The prose is frankly amazing (though not at all for either the casual or non-literary reader) and the overall creation is a master symphony where themes arise and disappear, transform, stir subterraneaously and echo with such virtuosity I was utter blown away. At times, it's a bit long-winded, but it's finally a very tight and complexly wound narrative that makes for an exquisite piece of literary art. For that, five stars at least.

Oh, and is it racist? I don't really think so. Barth is fully aware that he is not creating a legitimate Arabian world. He is more performing a tap dance with a very fantastic and very fictional and mystical world of the occidental imagination--thus the one reviewer's claim of "orientalism." Barth frequently uses the "exploded stereotype" as if to make sure we all know we are not in a world of three dimensions, but a world that exists only on the page, a world born on the page that can only move to another page and never stand up fully formed out of the book.

This book was so bad we named an award after it. The John Barth Award, bestowed upon those courageous enough to finish a terrible book that everyone else has cast aside. I still hold the award, as we have never come across another book as terrible as this one.

It has been many years, and due to the trauma I have blocked most of the details out of my mind. However, I do remember that it is a boring, confused muddle of pretension and male chauvinism.

If you see this book in the store, do not touch it, don't look at it - run in the opposite direction as quickly as you can.

I gave this book one star because I had to, frankly I want to give it an infinite number of negative stars. This book was worse than the Bridges of Madison County, and I didn't think that that was possible.

AVOID AT ALL COSTS!!