The Judge under discussion in John Barth's essay is his father. Mr. Barth (the son) gives us a quick glimpse of his father's maturement from a boy who mashes his finger to the only surviving son. We learn about the creation of Whitey's, a candy shop on Race Street no less, in Cambridge, Maryland, on the Eastern Shore. Mr. Barth (the father) becomes a leader in his community and surrounding area, as an elected judge to the orphan's court (I have no idea what that is), a volunteer fireman, an American Legionnaire and a much sought after after-dinner speaker at various events.
Mr. Barth clearly loves the Judge, but he only knew bits of him. He discovers his father's notebooks and files filled, not with the actual jokes, but with cues, splashes of ideas, that were intended to guide the Judge through his speeches. Judge Barth is a humorist, with some subtle adult humor mixed in. But Mr. Barth never attended any of these functions. He never saw his dad in action.
This is a short essay, and it isn't intended as a salute to dad. It really is about the concept of actually knowing someone, a lament on our inability to get beyond the artifacts, how we're stuck (until we develop telepathy and shared empathy) with a frustrating epistemological limit that doesn't go beyond simple recollection and memory. Everything we know about someone is relative to ourselves.
Mr. Barth's novels
are humorous, downright funny, but in person, apparently he isn't all that. He didn't inherit his father's gift for creating the chuckle. How can he know someone so different from himself?How can we?
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