The Thurber carnival [Paperback]

James Thurber (Author)

Book Description

Publication Date: 1985

A collection of zany stories and drawings by one of America's greatest satirists.

--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Editorial Reviews

Amazon.com Review

After the chuckles and amidst the chortles, the first-time reader of The Thurber Carnival is bound to utter a discreetly voiced "Huh?" Like Cracker Jacks, there are surprises inside James Thurber's delicious 1945 smorgasbord of essays, stories, and sketches. This festival is, surprises and all, a collection of earlier collections (mostly), including, among others, gems from My World--and Welcome to It, Let Your Mind Alone!, and The Middle Aged Man on the Flying Trapeze. Needless to say, there are also numerous cartoons that, by themselves, are worth the price of admission. While redoubling Thurber's deserved reputation as a laugh-out-loud humorist and teller-of-gentle-tales, it reintroduces him as a thinker-of-thoughts. To wit: his 1933 "Preface to a Life," in which he observes himself while discussing "writers of light pieces running from a thousand to two thousand words":

To call such persons "humorists," a loose-fitting and ugly word, is to miss the nature of their dilemma and the dilemma of their nature. The little wheels of their invention are set in motion by the damp hand of melancholy.

Enjoy the surprises, certainly, but revel in the candy-coated popcorn and peanuts. As in "More Alarms at Night," in which a teenaged Thurber intrudes upon his sleeping father, a skittish man named Charles, because he can't recall the name Perth Amboy, New Jersey. Coincidentally, his father has just been frightened half to death by Thurber's brother, who had earlier stalked into his room saying coldly, "Buck, your time has come."

"Listen," I said. "Name some towns in New Jersey quick!" It must have been around three in the morning. Father got up, keeping the bed between him and me, and started to pull his trousers on. "Don't bother about dressing," I said. "Just name some towns in New Jersey." While he hastily pulled on his clothes--I remember he left his socks off and put his shoes on his bare feet--father began to name, in a shaky voice, various New Jersey cities. I can still see him reaching for his coat without taking his eyes off me. "Newark," he said, "Jersey City, Atlantic City, Elizabeth, Paterson, Passaic, Trenton, Jersey City, Trenton, Paterson--" "It has two names," I snapped. "Elizabeth and Paterson," he said.

Of course, things turn out fine, as well they should. And why not? The best of Thurber, which The Thurber Carnival arguably is, is sublime; surprising insight and wry observations tossed lightly and served constantly with effortless good humor and an obvious love for all things gently eccentric. --Michael Hudson --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Review

"It is time that we stopped thinking about James Thurber as a mere funny man for sophisticates and recognized him as an authentic American genius. And the Carnival, by offering the cream of his work in a handy and attractive volume indicates impressively the scope of his gifts. . . . Mr. Thurber belongs in the great line of American humorists which includes Mark Twain and Ring Lardner. " -- Philadelphia Inquirer --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

See all Editorial Reviews

Product Details

• Paperback: 425 pages
• Publisher: Book-of-the-Month Club; Book-of-the-Month Club Classic ed edition (1985)
• Language: English
• ASIN: B00073CQ4I
• Average Customer Review: 4.8 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (24 customer reviews)
• Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #10,185,039 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)

More About the Author

Discover books, learn about writers, read author blogs, and more.

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

27 of 28 people found the following review helpful:

5.0 out of 5 stars It's about time for a major Thurber revival., March 15, 2001

By 

Miles D. Moore (Alexandria, VA USA) - See all my reviews
(VINE VOICE)    (TOP 1000 REVIEWER)    (REAL NAME)   

This review is from: The Thurber Carnival (Modern Library) (Hardcover)

"The Thurber Carnival" was a beloved companion of my early youth; I laughed out loud again and again at the stories of "My Life and Hard Times," the hilarious "Fables for Our Time," "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty," and other classics. What was really important to me about Thurber was that he came from the same part of Ohio that I did, and actually had had relatives and attended family reunions in Sugar Grove, Ohio, where I grew up. That meant all the world to me, because it showed me that someone who had ties to Sugar Grove could be a famous writer. Now, I love Thurber's work more than ever; as an adult, I can better appreciate the nuances of a story like "The Catbird Seat." Thurber's work is a precise, funny, yet deeply serious portrait of an America which had just recently completed the transition from a frontier to an urban society. Women, having just won the right to vote, were flexing new-found muscles; men, divorced from the need to wrest a living from the soil, felt suddenly unmoored and emasculated; a new breed of self-help authors arose to make a quick buck from the newly uncertain populace; and oceans of alcohol fueled the newly stirred resentments between the sexes.Thurber recorded it all, in a prose style as elegant and lucid as any in the history of American literature. "The Catbird Seat," "Fables for Our Time" and the self-help parodies of "Let Your Mind Alone!" are every bit as fresh and pertinent as when Thurber wrote them 60-odd years ago. Unfortunately, some aspects of his work--most glaringly his portrayal of African-Americans--have not stood up so well. But one can only say of Thurber what the Duc de Saint-Simon said of Louis XIV: "His virtues were his own, his faults were his times'." The best of James Thurber ranks with the best of Mark Twain, Ring Lardner, Woody Allen and any other American humorist you can name.

19 of 19 people found the following review helpful:

5.0 out of 5 stars James Thurber? Brilliant..., March 12, 2001

By 

S. GODFREY "Stuart" (Risca, South Wales) - See all my reviews
(REAL NAME)   

This review is from: The Thurber Carnival (Perennial Classics) (Paperback)

A few years back I used to travel to work (some 15 miles) by bus. As is the custom with commuters just about everywhere, my fellow travellers and I seldom spoke..a nod and a half-smile would be about as much communication as we managed. One morning I unwisely picked up a copy of "The Thurber Carnival" to while away the time on the journey: unwise because about halfway through "Travels With Olympy" I let out such an unrestrained hoot of laughter that I startled myself and everyone else on the bus. For a moment it seemed that the driver was about to stop and come back to check on the commotion. Things got back to normal, however....but I couldn't help noticing a few puzzled looks in my direction when I found myself choking back the tears while reading about Thurber's dog Rex: I don't even like dogs much, but such is the punch of Thurber's writing that I was howling my eyes out over the demise of this pooch. As the passengers were getting off the bus one kindly lady stopped by my seat and asked what I had been reading. The next day I got it into my head to buy a bicycle and started cycling to work each day. I recall one morning as the bus hurtled past me, seeing the kindly lady reading a book and smiling...I can't be sure, but I like to think it was the Thurber Carnival. These days I drive to work.

22 of 24 people found the following review helpful:

4.0 out of 5 stars The Artistic Humorist, October 31, 2002

By 

Fred Wemyss (Actual Name) (Huntington, NY United States) - See all my reviews

This review is from: The Thurber Carnival (Perennial Classics) (Paperback)

THE THURBER CARNIVAL is an excellent collection if only because it contains the complete MY LIFE AND HARD TIMES. In the early seventies, when my grandmother gave me a respectful and wonderfully brief biography called THE CLOCKS OF COLUMBUS, I became a THURBER fan. I was in Junior High and Thurber, dead more than ten years already, was enjoying something of a vogue. Most of his books were back in print. Today, we're down to about a third or less of what he wrote. The Library of America's collection looks fairly complete, but THE THURBER CARNIVAL was his own selection of greatest hits, if you will. In both cases I miss the separate volumes from which these stories and cartoons are culled. If there are concept albums, Thurber had concept collections. You don't get the sense of a Beatles album listening to bits from different albums. This is true with Thurber. You need all of LET YOUR MIND ALONE, which you can only get used now. You need all of THE MIDDLE-AGED MAN ON THE FLYING TRAPEZE; his most representative collection.
He tried writing a novel once or twice, but found he could only write short stories. This bothered him. The chief thing to remember as you read him is that he was deeply ashamed of being a humorist. His literary hero was Henry James. During Thurber's time at the New Yorker (and he arrived there about a year after its founding, staying until his death more than three decades later) the magazine was a showcase for humorists. Think of the original cast of Saturday Night Live and you'll have something of an idea of the atmosphere at the magazine in its first ten years or so. Competitive humorists travelled from all over the United States to work for THE NEW YORKER. The Algonquin Roundtable was largely a haven for NEW YORKER staffers. James Thurber learned from E. B. White and a few others and then outstripped them. If you read E. B. White's forays into humor, you'll see his clean prose shining, but you won't feel you know him. Thurber, on the other hand, leaves you with the impression that he wishes to God he never left Ohio. There is a sense of loss in Thurber's rhythms.
He is as dated as a Studebaker. If you're not willing to put yourself back in time, Thurber's not for you. But, if you notice his pain, you might notice how mightily he strove against it. Thomas Wolfe once met him at a party. Someone said, "This is James Thurber, the New Yorker writer."
Wolfe shook his hand and said, "You call those little, tiny things writing?"
All Thurber had was his writing. He was a mess otherwise. Even when his writing practically barks its bitter sentiment, Thurber turns a phrase as if he owns it. The actual content of the stories is immaterial. He should be read outloud, because he was essentially a poet.