Use of Historical Figures and Events

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Numerous critics have noted that Donald Barthelme’s stories are filled with the everyday bits and pieces of modern life. Tony Tanner summarizes this phenomenon well in his book City of Words: American Fiction 1950–1970 , noting that Barthelme’s writing is ‘‘packed with the detritus of modern life: it seems like...

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Numerous critics have noted that Donald Barthelme’s stories are filled with the everyday bits and pieces of modern life. Tony Tanner summarizes this phenomenon well in his book City of Words: American Fiction 1950–1970, noting that Barthelme’s writing is ‘‘packed with the detritus of modern life: it seems like an unbroken stream of the accumulations and appurtenances which we see around us’’ and that, somehow, Barthelme is able to turn these familiar collections into ‘‘strangeness.’’

Yet, in his short story ‘‘The Indian Uprising,’’ Barthelme moves beyond this effort to expose the material garbage heap of our lives; he has his eye set on our accumulated history as contemporary Americans. According to Barthelme, we are the result of more than two hundred years of collected violence, wars, brutality, and generally rotten behavior toward one another. Thankfully, he delivers this accusation with a bit of black humor. The story presents a collection of historical wreckage gathered into a pile, holding as little meaning and substance as the material bits and pieces of modern life that litter the text. Barthelme’s treatment of the references to history in ‘‘The Indian Uprising’’ call to mind the condemnation Russian revolutionary Leon Trotsky leveled against his enemies in 1917: ‘‘You are pitiful isolated individuals: you are bankrupt; your role is played out. Go where you belong from now on—into the dustbin of history!’’

The city in ‘‘The Indian Uprising’’ is portrayed as a heap of modern junk. Barricades made up of the small bits of everyday modern life—blankets, ashtrays, flutes, and liquor bottles—protect the city streets from the Comanches. There is even an ‘‘offi- cer commanding the garbage dump;’’ indeed, Barthelme makes a number of allusions to the city’s military past during this accumulation process. Streets are named for famous military men, and the whole atmosphere of the battle against the Comanches has a familiar cast to it, as if the battle had jumped from the pages of a slightly irregular textbook on the American West. Add to these textual features the fact that Barthelme wrote this story during a period when many Americans were demanding civil rights for African Americans and thousands of young men were leaving to fight in one of America’s most controversial and unpopular conflicts, the Vietnam War, and it becomes clear that the author wishes his readers to consider the effects of history.

All of the streets in the story bear the name of a renowned military man who had an impact on American history. Boulevard Mark Clark is named for an American general who served in both World War II and the Korean conflict. In fact, Clark is noted for being the first U.S. commander at that time to sign documents ending a war that the United States did not win as well as for being a protégé of George C. Marshall, the inspiration for George C. Marshall Allée in the story. Marshall was a World War II general and the main force behind the Marshall Plan, which helped repair Europe’s economy after the war. Skinny Wainwright Square in the story is named for Jonathan Wainwright, another American general who served during World War II and spent more than three years in Japanese prisoner- of-war camps. There are more similarly named streets, and by the time the story is over their names are more a humorous aside to the action than a memorial to a war hero. As he does with the story’s accumulated material items, Barthelme succeeds in piling up the generals to such a degree that their conventionally historic meaning has been lost.

Barthelme uses the name of a tribe of Indians celebrated for their skills in war, the Comanches, as the narrator’s foes in the story. In fact, the Comanches are said to have killed more white settlers in proportion to their own numbers than any other tribe during America’s westward expansion. Eventually, though, continued wars with the settlers and the United States military destroyed their society. By giving the captured Comanche a European name and by having stereotypical Indian artifacts appear in unexpected and odd places in his prose—the narrator, for example, finds an arrowhead in a piece of mail and has his way to the post office lit by ‘‘fire arrows’’—Barthelme twists this piece of American history in a darkly comic fashion that succeeds in erasing the actual role the Comanches held in history. The narrator of the story even states that the Comanches ‘‘had infiltrated our ghetto and the people of the ghetto instead of resisting had joined.’’ At the story’s conclusion, Barthelme pulls off the ultimate historical reversal by making the Comanches the winning side in the battle against those in charge in the city.

Barthelme published this story during a period of great upheaval in the United States: vocal opposition to the Vietnam War was increasing, and the civil rights movement had already staged a number of important demonstrations. Barthelme’s battle descriptions in the story are evocative of the protests in many American cities during the mid-1960s. In the story, barricades, earthworks, and hedges ‘‘laced with sparkling wire’’ circled the city, ‘‘Patrols of paras and volunteers with armbands guarded the tall, flat buildings,’’ and ‘‘Red men in waves like people scattering in a square startled by something tragic or sudden’’ filled the streets. These words echo the actual images of people in the streets during the 1960s, protesting the treatment of African Americans or demanding an explanation for America’s involvement in an unpopular war.

War protesters and civil rights marchers had one thing in common that would be important for Barthelme in writing this story: both groups rejected the status quo and demanded that, despite what had gone on before, life in America was going to change. Barthelme captures that feeling of disorder and reorder in this story by introducing a nonlinear narrative, chaotically listing material items, and disrupting sentence structure. But perhaps most important to Barthelme’s process of reorganizing historical garbage is his success in removing the authority and power from historical events and figures.

By the story’s end, the leaders of past wars whose names identify the city’s avenues are almost forgotten, and traditional representations of authority have been toppled. ‘‘The city officials were tied to trees. Dusky warriors padded with their forest tread into the mouth of the mayor,’’ the narrator notes. When he asks a fellow soldier who he wants to be, the answer is not one of the decorated historical figures whose names have appeared in the story but Jean-Luc Godard, the experimental French film director who became famous in 1959 when he made a movie showing only the beginnings and ends of scenes. Godard was involved in the very same effort to disrupt traditional storytelling patterns that so engaged Barthelme. History had failed the characters in Barthelme’s story and was of little use to them. Increasing numbers of Americans during the 1960s were feeling the same way.

Source: Susan Sanderson, Critical Essay on ‘‘The Indian Uprising,’’ in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2003. Sanderson holds a master of fine arts degree in fiction writing and is an independent writer.


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Attempts to read Barthelme’s ‘‘The Indian Uprising’’ as a conventional short story are doomed to failure and inevitably complicate an already challenging text. The most productive strategy for reading the piece is to focus on its medium rather than its message—to look at how it is put together instead of what it means. Barthelme was the consummate postmodernist who, like many postmodernists, believed that literature had exhausted itself, and that the role of the writer was to recreate it by literally destroying the foundation upon which it rests.

Barthelme’s text is an attack on the notion that language reflects reality. However, rather than arguing against this notion or having one of his characters argue against it, Barthelme embodies the attack in his writing. Most fiction writers attempt to create a world that is recognizable to readers and resonates with their experience. Conventionally, stories include plots that may or may not unfold in chronological order, characters that interact with other characters and are largely driven by identifi- able human desires, and details presented in a more or less coherent manner. In short, conventional fiction writers attempt to represent a plausible world and populate it with engaging characters. Barthelme exposes all of these conventions as fictions, suggesting that language is a closed circle, and the ‘‘real’’ world that words signify is first and foremost the world of language.

Barthelme foregrounds this statement on language by stitching together disparate word-elements, some from other people’s writing, and by imitating the style of writers such as James Joyce in his liberal use of irony, wit, and verbal play. These techniques are called ‘‘collage’’ and ‘‘pastiche’’ respectively. By using them, Barthelme undermines the idea, popular in art and literature, that the primary ingredient for great work should be origi nality. One way Barthelme builds his text is by lifting bits and pieces of material straight from someone else’s story. For example, the reference to Gustave Aschenbach during Comanche’s torture session comes from German writer Thomas Mann’s novella Death In Venice, for which Aschenbach is the emotionally tortured narrator. By having Comanche confess to being Aschenbach using Mann’s own words, Barthelme satirizes both the idea that human beings have coherent identities and the idea that texts, especially ‘‘classics,’’ exist beyond the pale of influence, historical or literary. The way in which Barthelme incorporates Mann’s description is also very funny.

In art, ‘‘collage’’ often refers not only to the mixing of elements from different sources but the mixing of various media in a particular work. For example, a collagist might include paint, wood, metal, and photography to create a work. Barthelme literally cannot do this with words, but his narrator does reference various art forms in ‘‘The Indian Uprising,’’ including painting, sculpture, music, woodworking, film, and architecture. This suggests a parodying of collage, the very technique he is using; parodies poke fun at a particular style or author through imitation, and Barthelme pokes fun at his own reputation as a postmodernist throughout this piece.

Part of that poking fun is the narrator’s references to the very techniques he is using in the text of ‘‘The Indian Uprising.’’ For example, directly after passages in which he shifts from describing the torture of the captured Comanche to explaining how to touch a woman, to recounting the cheering of Swedish children over liver paste, to accusing Jane of bad behavior, the narrator writes, ‘‘Strings of language extend in every direction to bind the world into a rushing, ribald whole.’’ Another time, he reports the words of a Miss R. who praises the form of the litany, using a litany as part of her praise. This relentless self-reflexivity further underscores the idea that the world ‘‘out there,’’ the sensory world beyond language, the world of trees, and rocks, and blood, and bodies is never knowable except as it is mediated through language. Communication is always an act of representation and therefore always an interpretation, Barthelme’s story seems to suggest. And if you do not believe that, just try to read his story as a story.

Inherent in communication is an audience or an addressee. Barthelme undermines this convention as well, as his narrator shifts addressees often, sometimes addressing an unnamed ‘‘you,’’ sometimes Jane, and sometimes others. Not only does the audience shift but the tone of the writing does as well. One minute it is grave and the next comic. ‘‘What is the situation?’’ the narrator asks Block. ‘‘The situation is liquid,’’ he replies, once again commenting on the composition of the text. The shifts in tone and audience are partly a result from other shifts, shifts brought about through liberal use of anachronisms and surrealist imagery. An anachronism is the representation of something outside of its appropriate time. For example, the narrator places Comanches, Native Americans who lived on the Southern Plains in the United States and were fierce warriors more than one hundred years ago, outside a French city, attacking its barricades. Rooted in the unconscious, this surrealist imagery is dreamlike and frequently juxtaposes unlike items. For example, take the narrator’s report of Kenneth’s response when asked who he want wants to be, ‘‘He said he wanted to be Jean-Luc Goddard but later when time permitted conversations in large, lighted rooms, whispering galleries with black-and-white Spanish rugs and problematic sculpture on calm, red catafalques.’’ The seeming randomness of events, imagery, and discourse mimics a kind of dream logic in which the narrator is a helpless witness to himself rather than a master of his circumstances. In an interview with Larry McCaffery in Partisan Review, Barthelme discusses his writing process, commenting that he often looks for an ‘‘awkward’’ rather than a beautiful sentence with which to begin:

Then a process of accretion occurs, like barnacles growing on a wreck or a rock. I’d rather have a wreck than a ship that sails. Things attach themselves to wrecks; strange fish find your wreck or rock to be a good feeding ground. After a while you’ve got a situation with possibilities.

This is not to say that Barthelme’s ‘‘wreck’’ is without unifying features. It has a first-person narrator throughout and uses repetition such as the phrase ‘‘I knew nothing’’ as a kind of thread to hold the wildly varying parts together. Some critics such as Maclin Bocock, in his essay, ‘‘‘The Indian Uprising’ or Donald Barthelme’s Strange Object Covered with Fur,’’ even provide ingenious and coherent readings of the story. Bocock argues that ultimately ‘‘The Indian Uprising’’ is about the failure of romantic love, writing, ‘‘The narrator himself is the city under siege and the Indians are the words with which Sylvia is attacking him.’’ By the end of the story, Babcock writes, ‘‘The hero descends a little lower until finally he touches bottom, defeated, no longer able to summon either memory or fantasy to sustain him.’’

In the end, ‘‘The Indian Uprising’’ says as much about the process of reading and creating meaning as it does about the process of writing. By subverting the conventions of stories in a mosaic of words, Barthelme creates a new code for new readers, a code that asks them to work harder and to be more aware of their participation in how language in general and stories in particular shape their desires and ideas.

Source: Chris Semansky, Critical Essay on ‘‘The Indian Uprising,’’ in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2003. Semansky is an instructor of English literature and composition who writes about literature and culture for various publications.

Comanches and Civilization in Donald Barthelme’s The Indian Uprising

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Last Updated on May 6, 2015, by eNotes Editorial. Word Count: 2421

Donald Barthelme’s bizarre, innovative short story ‘‘The Indian Uprising’’ involves a group of sophisticates beseiged in some contemporary city by a band of wild redskins who finally triumph. How must we respond to the story? A historical interpretation might tempt many—one statement by the narrator could recall Viet Nam to some readers: ‘‘We hold the south quarter and they hold the north quarter.’’ But Barthelme published the story in 1965 before antiwar materials were at all in vogue, and he’s taken care not to limit the associations to any one conflict. Perhaps it’s more generally a story of the haves versus the have-nots (those in the ghetto do join the Comanches). Perhaps the ‘‘red’’ men actually represent the Communists and Barthelme offers a Marxist (though certainly not a social realist) story of Western decadence and fall? Such possible readings seem to me too partial, too incomplete, hardly preferable to those which see all Barthelme’s work as somehow subliterary. Maclin Bocock has provided the closest and most substantial reading of the story heretofore, discussing it in Freudian terms as a kind of phallic fantasy involving the narrator’s personal failures with his girlfriend Sylvia. Bocock is the very first to treat the piece as truly serious fiction rather than as some sort of postmodern allegory or as a rather trivial jeu d’esprit. Her analysis seems to me limited, however, in considering the failed relationship as the story’s central and single theme rather than as another contributing element to a more comprehensive theme.

The key to the story seems to me the elements of Western parody. Parody, however, may be the wrong term. Barthelme himself carefully distinguishes between parody and short story and if parody means simply to mock or ridicule elements of a formula, then ‘‘The Indian Uprising’’ depends on parody of the Western no more than Borges’s ‘‘The Garden of Forking Paths’’ depends on parody of the spy formula or Lolita depends on parody of a murderer’s legal deposition. The Western formula offers a vehicle, not an object, for Barthelme’s critical commentary. The Western provides a convenient nexus of themes and values which Barthelme directs outward, at contemporary society, not backward to reflect on the genre itself. Extended allusion might better describe the relationship, but in fact it might be most accurate to describe the story as a postmodern Western and let it go at that.

Certainly a full understanding of the story demands a full understanding of the formula it participates in. The finest and most complete analysis of the Western as formula appears in John Cawelti’s The Six-Gun Mystique. Cawelti points out that ‘‘there are three central roles in the Western: the townspeople or agents of civilization, the savages or outlaws who threaten this first group, and the heroes who are above all ‘men in the middle,’ that is, they possess many qualities and skills of the savages, but are fundamentally committed to the townspeople.’’

The first of Cawelti’s fundamental elements is the town, which ‘‘offers love, domesticity, and order as well as the opportunity for personal achieve ment and the creation of a family, but it requires the repression of spontaneous passion.’’ In this regard the story’s opening sentence reverberates powerfully and clearly: ‘‘We defended the city as best we could.’’ It is not love, domesticity, and family, not wives, children, even themselves that the narrator and his circle focus on defending, but ‘‘the city.’’ And here ‘‘the city’’ represents the hyperbolic extremes Western civilization has reached in luxurious material superfluity, effete sensuality.

In the opening paragraph Barthelme rhetorically offers as the narrator’s conception of the ‘‘good life’’ allusions not to religion, ethics, duty, family, love, the sorts of things that make the town valuable in Westerns, but allusions to pleasant private experiences in which the self-oriented narrator may privately indulge himself: ‘‘apples, books, long-playing records.’’ Barthelme loads the rest of his story with sophisticated, self-indulgent luxuries. He describes, for example, some typical ‘‘barricades’’ erected against savagery, i.e. against the red men. These barricades consist of ‘‘window dummies, silk, thoughtfully planned job descriptions (including scales for the orderly progress of other colors [racial minorities?]), wine in demijohns, and robes.’’ Another ‘‘barricade’’ contains, among other materials, ‘‘two-litre bottles of red wine; threequarter- litre bottles of Black & White, aquavit, cognac, vodka, gin, Fad #6 sherry; a hollow-core door in birch veneer on black wrought-iron legs,’’ and so on.

To these ‘‘civilized’’ materials of sensual indulgence, of material sophistication, Barthelme intimately relates esthetic-intellectual sophistication. The narrator’s people, mediating all through their highly cultivated minds, react even to an Indian uprising by ‘‘trying to understand.’’ At the height of the uprising they discuss Gabriel Faur’s ‘‘Dolly,’’ the narrator ‘‘nonevaluates’’ remarks ‘‘as Korzybski instructed,’’ they quote Valéry, listen to concerts of ‘‘Gabrieli, Albinoni, Marcello, Vivaldi, Boccherini,’’ converse with a tortured Indian who identifies himself as Gustave Aschenbach (protagonist of the thematically quite relevant Death in Venice), and so on. Surely a more sophisticated, more ‘‘civilized’’ group never faced hostile Comanches.

What is the effect (one might almost say the purpose or function) of civilization or sophistication in the material, sensual, intellectual terms with which Barthelme here identifies it all? Certainly one effect, for Barthelme’s story the chief effect, involves muting genuine and spontaneous emotion, limiting and controlling and ordering once perhaps strong but now depleted subterranean forces. Cawelti describes the second of the ‘‘three central roles in the Western’’ in terms which Barthelme’s story heartily endorses: ‘‘The savage symbolizes the violence, brutality, and ignorance which civilized society seeks to control and eliminate, but he also commonly stands for certain positive values which are restricted or destroyed by advancing civilization.’’

In the opening paragraph the narrator responds to (or defends against) the violent uprising by seeking to initiate a calm discussion. When denizens of the ghetto join the uprising the civilized forces initiate a quite characteristic attempt to quell this new threat by calming, by drugging the emotions: ‘‘We sent more heroin into the ghetto, and hyacinths, ordering another hundred thousand of the pale, delicate flowers.’’

Cawelti observes that in the Western, the town or civilization ‘‘requires the repression of spontaneous passion.’’ The narrator unemotionally mentions participating in torturing at least one, perhaps two captured Comanches; he relates to torture not with warm emotions of either disgust or pleasure, but coolly, with a distanced intellect. A little later, with a friend, the narrator relates ‘‘a little of the history of torture, reviewing the technical literature quoting the best modern sources.’’ He consistently relates to the world intellectually rather than emotionally. Even at the height of a crisis he describes his companion dispassionately: ‘‘Block was firing a greasegun from the upper floor of a building designed by Emery Roth & Sons.’’ Completely devoid of any emotion, lacking passion, fear, excitement, the narrator here again drifts into intellectualization, identifying an architect. When captured, the narrator and his friends react characteristically; either lacking emotions or still repressing them, they re vert to tired intellectual games: ‘‘‘Who do you want to be?’ I asked Kenneth and he said he wanted to be Jean-Luc Godard.’’ Godard, of course, is an ‘‘artist’’ who ‘‘intellectualizes’’ revolution.

What effect has this subversion of emotion? One effect, that which seems most to interest Barthelme, is a corruption of values. The narrator’s disinterested use of torture on the Comanche foreshadows a late, neutral report on an ineffective campaign:

We killed a great many in the south suddenly with helicopters and rockets, but we found that those we had killed were children and more came from the north and from the east and from other places where there are children preparing to live.

Significantly, Barthelme never associates the redskins with the savagery and brutality of the citizens; indeed, at the conclusion the narrator and his friends are neither killed nor tortured (as they so richly deserve), but turned over to the Clemency Committee.

The narrator recalls his Sylvia performing in a movie which, to me at least, sounds pornographic:

And when they shot the scene in the bed I wondered how you felt under the eyes of the cameramen, grips, juicers, men in the mixing booth: excited? stimulated? And when they shot the scene in the shower I sanded a hollow-core door working carefully against the illustrations in texts and whispered instructions from one who had already solved the problem. I had made after all other tables, one while living with Nancy, one while living with Alice, one while living with Eunice, one while living with Marianne.

Of course the narrator can make a table from a door while men film Sylvia in the shower; he has made lots of doors for lots of women and understands the technique. The implicit question is, How could he do it? The implicit answer focuses on knowledge of technique, not on any moral or emotional dimension. Like the door, the narrator has a hollow core; only the surface finish matters.

The narrator’s moral values explicitly appear in the story only once. Near the end the narrator addresses a lane in the second person: ‘‘Your affair with Harold is reprehensible, you know that, don’t you, Jane?’’ Harold is married and has children. ‘‘I think your values are peculiar, Jane!’’ Barthelme here intends, it seems, for us to add an egocentric hypocrisy to the narrator’s faults. When are the narrator’s values ever superior? Apparently the narrator himself seeks to renew a liaison with Jane; earlier he addresses an unnamed someone in the second person (here employed with Jane): ‘‘it is you I want now . . . It is when I am with you that I am happiest . . . ’’

Is the narrator capable of such an emotion as love? He claims so in the second paragraph, sitting with Sylvia while the city’s forces defend against the Comanches: ‘‘And I sat there getting drunker and drunker and more in love and more in love.’’ Later essentially the same sentence reappears; Barthelme makes certain no reader can take the statement at face value. It is only nine lines later than the first of these statements that the narrator remembers fashioning at least his fifth hollow-core door/table for his fifth woman while this same Sylvia is in the shower for a pornographic film.

In the opening paragraph, describing the uprising, Barthelme’s narrator tells us: ‘‘People were trying to understand.’’ Shortly thereafter he twice in four lines repeats the phrase: ‘‘I decided I knew nothing.’’ When, on the advice of others, he consults the teacher, Miss R. (who wears a ‘‘blue dress containing a red figure’’ [an Indian?]; is she Miss Redskin?), her response seems quite unironic: ‘‘‘You know nothing,’ she said, ‘you feel nothing, you are locked in a most savage and terrible ignorance, I despise you.’’’

Miss R.’s speech should lead us to see that the narrator knows nothing because he feels nothing. He is ‘‘locked in a most savage and terrible ignorance’’ because his sophistication has locked him away from natural, genuine, spontaneous emotion. In seeking to ‘‘know’’ intellectually he locks himself (a hollow-core door with a shiny veneer) further and further from the emotional key. With tremendous irony, Barthelme uses this ‘‘savage and terrible ignorance’’ to identify the narrator with the negative aspects of—at the same time it distances him from valuable dimensions of—the cliché redskins. Cawelti’s analysis of the Western formula clearly outlines the terms and conditions of the protagonist’s failure:

In the simplest Westerns, the townspeople and the savages represent a basic moral opposition between good and evil. In most examples of the formula, however, the opposition is a more complex one, a dialectic of contrasting ways of life or psychic states. The resolution of this opposition is the work of the hero. Thus, the most basic definition of the hero role in the Western is as the figure who resolves the conflict between pioneers and savages . . . the hero is a more complex figure because he has internalized the conflict between savagery and civilization. His inner conflict . . . tends to overshadow the clash between savages and townspeople.

Barthelme’s narrator fails as hero precisely because he remains unable, for himself or for the city, to mediate between the extremes as the Western formula demands. The narrator’s ignorance, and Barthelme’s condemnation, persist through the conclusion. The last words describe the protagonist still failing to relate to the Comanches with any emotion; his conclusive response, watching them, is an emotionless (though the Indians have emotions) catalog of material phenomena; he looks into ‘‘their savage black eyes, paint, feathers, beads.’’

Barthelme compels us to condemn the artificial world, so clever a distortion of our own, which he reflects. The narrator’s initial doubts as to whether theirs is a good life or not provokes Sylvia’s unambiguous response: ‘‘No.’’ Nothing in the pages which follow the introductory paragraph’s indictment modifies that condemnation.

Cawelti’s comments on the contemporary Western bear special relevance:

. . . from the point of view of social ritual, the meaning of the Western formula’s pattern of plot and character is that of offering the hero a choice between civilization and its ideals of progress and success and anarchistic savagery with its spontaneity and freedom.

Though the Western remains officially on the side of progress and success, shifting formula patterns in the twentieth century reflect an increasing disillusionment with these ideals . . . as we approach the present, the ritualistic affirmation of progress and success becomes more and more ambiguous and strained . . . it seems that we have come to a point where it is increasingly difficult to imagine a synthesis between the honor and independence of the Western hero and the imperatives of progress and success. In such a pattern, the ritual action reaffirms the inevitability of progress, but suggests increasing disillusionment and uncertainty about its consequences.

In Barthelme’s world, as in many modern Westerns, ‘‘civilization’’ has gone too far. Emotion, energy, spontaneity too long and too forcefully repressed rise up to reassert their place in the human scheme of things. It is this ‘‘uprising’’ which provides the story’s subject. In the final sentence Barthelme describes a purely natural phenomenon, rain (often, Frye reminds us, a symbol for the life force): ‘‘shattering from a great height the prospects of silence and clear, neat rows of houses in the subdivisions.’’

Source: Walter Evans, ‘‘Comanches and Civilization in Donald Barthelme’s ‘The Indian Uprising,’’’ in Arizona Quarterly, Vol. 42, No. 1, Spring 1986, pp. 45–52.

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