FEW PEOPLE IN CANADA have even heard of Ernst Barlach (18704938), A German sculptor of some renown in his native land between the two world wars. And it is unlikely that the publication of his memoirs, A Selftold Life (Penumbra, 103 pages, $14.95 paper), translated by Naomi Jackson Groves, will do much to further his reputation. Barlach`s meandering, self-aggrandizing account of his early years strives mightily for poetical charm and philosophical weight, and broadly misses the mark on both. In passages stentoriously entitled "I Learn to Read and Write" and, in a more reflective vein, "Whither Drifts the Boat?," Barlach reveals himself as a man without insight into or knowledge of art. He admits that during a long stay in Paris he saw "little of Rodin`s work" and never laid eyes on Daumier`s. (Exactly where in Paris was he residing?) In addition, the text is rife with overwrought prose ("the twinkle of a wellknown eye through a chink in the Maygreen leafy canopy of heaved`), sentences that run on and on, pretentious metaphors, and a preponderance of modifiers. Even the photographs of Barlach`s heavy Gothic sculpture are dull. A Selftold Life, we are informed in the introduction, is the first of a "stately series" of works by Barlach. If this book is any indication, we do not have much to look forward to.