John Barth’s Where 3 Bodies Meet is a jazzy, looping, witty mix-up of three novellas, each eroticizing the others (a three-some), laying down the grooves of ecstasy and escape and knowledge (triumvirate), adding in bummers of death, disgrace, and dis-authorship (everything in threes) and supported by the straight-up, inverted, and sideways “y” s, by the whys, and by the wise trio of players, narrators, and witnesses.  One road diverged into two, makes three. For Barth, all players are randy (except poor Phil Blank), all narrators dandy, and witnesses super-handy (in crotch or out).

Ah, yes, but too much playing and plumping and plunging of threes can also be trivial: the trivium can be nonsense, excess, and just plain showing-off. Barth is clever, and provides great fun with his word play.  Indeed, he offers up a really amusing, often confounding, and certainly detailed exploration of authorship, sexual appetite, and response (oral, aural, and literal). But words and sex are not equivalent form of communication, fornication is not creativity at its best, and witticisms are not wisdom. Where 3 Roads Meet provides hours of brain fondling but in the end, is as satisfying as a menage à une.