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On this day in 1931 Donald Barthelme was born in Philadelphia. Although Barthelme's eminence in postmodern fiction is beyond dispute, few are brave enough to attempt explaining why. John Barth has talked about "the wit, the bite, the exactitude and flair, inspired whimsy, aw-shucks urbanity, irreal realism and real irreality, wired tersitude, and such Barthelmanic pleasures." William Styron tries this way: "Barthelme, however, happens to be one of a handful of American authors, there to make the rest of us look bad, who know instinctively how to stash the merchandise, bamboozle the inspectors, and smuggle their nocturnal contraband right on past the checkpoints of daylight 'reality ... FULL STORY »
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