The Board of Regents of The University of Wisconsin System

The Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System
A Newly Envisioned World: Fictional Landscapes of John Hawkes

Author(s): Carol A. MacCurdy
Source: Contemporary Literature, Vol. 27, No. 3 (Autumn, 1986), pp. 318-335
Published by: University of Wisconsin Press
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/1208348 .
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A NEWLY ENVISIONED WORLD:
FICTIONAL LANDSCAPES OF JOHN HAWKES
Carol A.
MacCurdy
The verbal
"pictures"
in John Hawkes's novels are
unforgettable,
provocative
visions that have
perhaps
more
impact
on the reader than
any
other element in Hawkes's fiction.
Descriptions
of a
slumbering
insane
asylum,
an arid desert inhabited
by giant snakes,
an abandoned
lighthouse
amidst
sharp,
black
rocks,
a
lyrical Illyria
of no
seasons,
an
anchorless, drifting
ocean
liner,
and a car
streaking
toward destruc-
tion are all
powerful images
that dominate such other fictional ele-
ments as
plot, character,
or theme. Rather than
exploring
a
subject
or
pursuing
the location of
"truth,"
Hawkes wishes to
enthrall, cap-
ture,
and enchant the reader with the
intensity
of his vision. He chooses
not to offer an accurate
representation
of an
independent, pre-existing
reality
but insists on the creation
of,
in his
words,
"a
totally
new and
necessary
fictional
landscape
or
visionary
world"
("Interview"
with
Enck
141).
As Hawkes
explains
in his interview with John
Enck,
his novels
originate
with
pictorial "flickerings
in the
imagination,"
not with "sub-
stantial narrative materials or even with
particular
characters." He con-
tinues: "In each case what
appealed
to me was a
landscape
or
world,
and in each case I
began
with
something immediately
and
intensely
visual- a
room,
a few
figures,
an
object, something prompted by
the
initial idea and then
literally seen,
like the visual
images
that come
to us
just
before
sleep" (148).
This comment
suggests
that one
key
to Hawkes's
image-making
is his
ability
to
tap
the
dream-energy
resid-
ing
in his unconscious
mind;
he himself admits that his work is "satu-
rated with unconscious content"
("Hawkes
and Barth"
32).
Familiar
locales would crowd and inhibit his
imagination,
he
feels,
because
they
require
a semblance of the
representation
he eschews and would offer,
moreover, what he
regards
as
autobiographical entrapments.
He
Contemporary Literature XXVII, 3 0010-7484/86/0003-0318 $1.50/0
?1986 by the Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System
explains
to John
Enck, "my writing depends
on absolute
detachment,
and the unfamiliar or invented
landscape helps
me to achieve and main-
tain this detachment"
(154).
Fictional
landscapes
are thus at the center
of his fiction because
they
serve not
only
his
writing process
but also
his artistic raison
d'etre.
Taking
cues from Hawkes's
many
comments on the
subject,
most
critics have noted Hawkes's
handling
of
landscape
and have
analyzed
it in
light
of his
style,
narrative
experiments,
or structural
concerns.'
Hawkes's worlds often
get
lost in the
analysis
of the artistic
process;
the critical articles
primarily
focus on the role of the artist and his
imagination,
not on the final creative
product-the
fictional world.
Hawkes's
landscapes
are art
objects; they
are
thoroughly,
self-con-
sciously fictional,
self-contained
artifice,
tableau. These worlds are
the end result of the creative
process,
the
repository
of Hawkes's uncon-
scious,
as well as the source of his
writing.
What has not been well
understood is their
essentiality
to Hawkes's aesthetic and their devel-
opment
in
technique
and focus. Hawkes's
imaginary
worlds have
evolved since he first
published
in
1949,
and these
changes
reflect the
four distinct
phases
in his
literary
career:
1)
the use of
visionary
land-
scape
tied to
specific locales; 2)
the use of
landscape projected
out
of
first-person perspectives; 3)
the use of
landscape totally
contained
by psyches;
and
4)
the return - with a difference - of the
visionary
his-
torical
landscapes
found in
phase
one. A
study
of Hawkes's fictional
landscapes
demonstrates his continual
development
as a writer and
also clarifies his
evolving
world view.
Hawkes's insistence on
constructing private landscapes
results in
early
works of
"nearly pure
vision"
("Interview"
with Enck
149). Any
reader of
"Charivari,"
The Cannibal
(1949),
The Beetle
Leg (1951),
The Owl
(1954),
The Goose on the Grave
(1954),
or The Lime
Twig
(1961)
will attest to their visual brilliance as well as their difficult nar-
rative. Little sense of
plot progression emerges;
instead one finds
stunning
set
pieces
that dazzle the
imagination
while
disorienting
one's
perceptions.
These absolute visions
produce surrealistic,
dreamlike
effects. Each work
has, however,
or seems to
have,
an actual locale
for a
setting: "Charivari," England;
The
Cannibal, postwar Germany;
The Beetle
Leg,
the American
West;
The
Owl,
medieval
Italy;
The
'Tanner
suggests
that a
relationship
exists between Hawkes's
style
and his use
of
landscape (204-5);
Kuehl discusses the role
landscape plays
in the structure of the
novels
(xi).
HAWKEs 319
Goose on the
Grave,
postwar Italy;
and The Lime
Twig, postwar
England. Although
the reader
may point
to a
place
on the
map
where
each book is
set,
the factual identification will be of little comfort.
Hawkes himself refers to these locales as his
"'mythic' England,
Ger-
many, Italy,
American west"
("Interview"
with Enck
154).
Some
recog-
nizable features of these
places exist,
but Hawkes undermines
any
sense
of
familiarity by distorting
the surface
reality.
In "Charivari" a cat
talks to a
seamstress; marauding dogs
board a
passenger
train and
become
paying
customers in The
Cannibal;
and a
giant
desert snake
strikes out the
headlight
of a
vacationing family's
station
wagon
in
The Beetle
Leg.
War dominates the
landscape
of Hawkes's novels between 1949
and 1964. Set in
post-World
War
II
England, Germany,
and
Italy,
these
locales seem standard World War
II fare, yet
Hawkes's hallucinated
vision makes the desolate
backgrounds
not
places
but
nightmares.
Rid
of most
signs
of
civilization,
the
primitive landscapes
seem timeless
reminders of war's
horrors,
a world void of reason and doomed to
annihilation. In The Cannibal Hawkes bestows
upon Germany
a com-
pletely fictional,
nonexistent
town, Spitzen-on-the-Dein,
a
setting
that
epitomizes
his
warscapes, especially
those in The Owl and The Goose
on the Grave.
Spitzen-on-the-Dein,
"shriveled in structure and as
decomposed
as an ox
tongue
black with ants"
(Cannibal 8),
is a debris-
ridden
village stripped
of
any civilizing
influence.
Using
the
metaphor
of a vulture or carrion
bird,
Hawkes
pictures
the town as a
giant
slum-
bering
fowl: "The
town, roosting
on charred
earth,
no
longer ancient,
S.
..
gorged
itself on
straggling beggars
and remained
gaunt
beneath
an evil cloaked moon"
(7).
This fatalistic
picture suggests
inevitable
human
extinction,
as do most of Hawkes's
early war-ravaged
land-
scapes.
All of Hawkes's fictions from "Charivari" to The Lime
Twig,
whether or not
they
are
war-related, present
such
apocalyptic
land-
scapes
bereft of
life-sustaining energies. Tony
Tanner
suggests
that
Hawkes's
"landscapes
of desolation and decline
...
point
to the
prog-
ress of
entropy quite
as
graphically
as the
landscapes
of
Burroughs
and
Pynchon" (203). Indeed,
each
setting
in the
early
work
conveys
.nothing
but waste and death. In The Cannibal nature itself has become
mutant or
exhausted;
this wasteland
yields only
"twisted stunted trees"
(37),
"bleached
plants" (6),
acidic earth that burns human
flesh,
and
cows that scratch for food with hare's teeth. In such a desiccated land-
scape
man likewise is
depraved,
as illustrated
by
the Duke's
eating
of
the
young boy. Entropic landscapes
underscore not
only
man's fall
320
I
CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE
from innocence
but,
more
important,
his
plunge
into
nightmare.
For
example,
in The Beetle
Leg,
Gov
City
and its inhabitants live in the
shadow of obliteration as the manmade dam drifts
forward, promis-
ing again
the Great Slide. Instead of
being tamed,
the American fron-
tier is
hostilely swallowing up impotent cowboys.
In The Owl, the
medieval
town,
Sasso
Fetore, meaning
"Tomb
Stench,"
is a barren
fortress of
violence, sterility,
and death. In The Goose on the
Grave,
a
grim,
war-scarred
Italy
leaves an
orphan exposed
to the
degeneracies
of
failing
Western culture.
Clearly,
the terrain of a world in
shambles,
with such breaches of nature and violations of
humanity,
comments
on the condition of modern man.
These ominous
settings
not
only suggest
the state of their inhabi-
tants but also dominate them. Environment controls and circumscribes
human action. In The Cannibal the characters seem doomed to re-
capitulate
the
history
of their
war-ravaged
world. In The Owl the
townspeople
of Sasso Fetore are
subject
to the Owl's inhuman demands
just
as their town is dominated
by
his iron fortress. In The Beetle
Leg
the
great
silent desert renders minuscule the clustered human com-
munities. And in The Lime
Twig
Michael and
Margaret Banks,
children
of war and
lodgers
of
Dreary Station,
seem destined to
collapse
with
the dreams of a lost
generation. Imprisoned by
such hostile
landscapes,
people
become aimless creatures
somnambulating
across a
geography
that determines their behavior. Even the social institutions created to
give
order
inevitably
contribute to the
general collapse.
All the insti-
tutions in The Cannibal- the
asylum, University,
and
nunnery
- are
doomed to failure. Their commitment to the
preservation
of social
order ensures ruin because in this world the
apparent
order is war.
Rather than
impeding
the
surrounding
world's decline
through
the
imposition
of
controls,
the
existing
social institutions accelerate it.
Any
effort to control chaos
promotes only
an
entropic
decline into
deathly
uniformity
and stasis. Both modern man and his
environment,
there-
fore, promote entropy, which, according
to the second law of thermo-
dynamics,
results in an ultimate state of inert
uniformity.
Neither
nature nor man is
benign
and
ordered;
an
incipient
chaos
rages
in both.
Because both man and his environment are identified with the
potential
for
destruction,
no clash between
life-sustaining
and death-
oriented
impulses
occurs.
Humanity
is
just
as
corrupt
as the surround-
ing
world. No one can
stop
the Red Devils or the Great Slide. Domi-
nated
by
hostile
landscapes
until
they
become
part
of
them,
the char-
acters become identified with the
very
world in which
they
live. Such
an identification or
correspondence
between external nature and human
HAWKES 321
nature characterizes Hawkes's
early
novels. All
private
and
public
worlds
collapse;
all
energies
are
inverted, resulting
in death or destruc-
tion,
not
love, renewal,
or fulfillment. Given this
negation
and
empha-
sis on
death,
the
early
works offer no conflict between the forces of
life and death. At this
point
in his career Hawkes
speaks
of "the
latency
of destructive force" instead of "the
possibility
of life-force"
("Inter-
view" with Graham
451).
As a
result,
characters
appear flat,
the nar-
rative remains
impersonal,
the structure is
circular,
the
images
are
death-ridden,
and the
settings
are
imprisoning.
A
tensionless,
inert
universe
reigns. Largely deterministic,
these dark
hallucinatory
land-
scapes suggest
Hawkes's
early
world view.
Beginning
in
1964,
Hawkes's
emphasis changes.
Rather than con-
centrating
on the
depiction
of a
dark, powerful world,
he
begins
to
stress modern man's reaction to chaos.
Trapped
in a
wasteland,
iso-
lated,
full of
anxiety,
and unable to
communicate,
man falls back
upon
himself. Because his external environment is not
congenial
to the
self,
he marks off the "inner" world from the "outer" world and turns
inward.
Starting
with Second
Skin,
Hawkes demonstrates the
change
by using
a
first-person point
of view. This shift in narration affects
the
presentation
of
landscape
and
signals
a new direction in Hawkes's
fiction. The earlier works' sense of stasis and
impersonality gives way
to
subjective
fictions with a dramatic form. The
storyteller impelled
by private
needs takes his own
personal history, decomposes it,
and
puts
it back
together.
His mind becomes an active
shaper
of his
world,
resulting
in novels that reflect the
dynamics
of the
fiction-making
process. According
to
Tony Tanner,
Second Skin marks an advance
in Hawkes's work because it offers "less of the stasis of
landscape
and
more of the motion of narrative"
(218).
Instead of
presenting dark,
authoritarian
worlds,
Hawkes offers
settings
that serve the narrators'
storytelling by dramatizing
their
struggle
with life and death. The
"plot"
of Second Skin and The Blood
Oranges
consists of the narrators'
creating lyrical landscapes
in
sensuous detail to offset the world's
threatening forces; settings
are
not
solely
besotted with the forces of death.
Discussing
Second
Skin,
Hawkes
acknowledges
for "the first
time,
I
think,
in
my
fiction that
there is
something
affirmative.
...
I
got very
much involved in the
life-force versus death"
("Interview"
with Graham
459).
The result-
ing
tension between these two
primal
forces
changes
the
topography
of the novels after The Lime
Twig
as Hawkes
increasingly
structures
322 I CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE
his novels
through
the use of two
contrasting settings.
In Second Skin
two islands dramatize antithetical
experiences. Writing
his memoir from
a
floating tropical
island bathed in
sunlight
and
lushness, Skipper
seeks
refuge
from a
jagged,
barren island off the coast of Maine. Even in
the
magical country
of
Illyria
where
Cyril pursues
his love
idyll, Hugh's
dark
dungeon
of death awaits. In
Death, Sleep
& the
Traveler,
Allert's
mind moves from his
hot, sunny
sea
voyage
in the South to a
frigid,
snowbound chateau in the North. In these later works Hawkes's set-
tings express
structural
importance
as
they
dramatize the narrator's
struggle
with Eros and Thanatos.
In order to
convey
this inner conflict
through
the novel's land-
scape,
Hawkes uses
purely imaginative settings.
Searchers with
maps
will not locate
Skipper's floating
island or
Cyril's mythical Illyria
of
no
seasons; likewise,
Allert's whereabouts are unknown.
Skipper, Cyril,
Allert,
and
Papa
create their territories. Because of their destructive
pasts
and their
inability
to make sense of the
surrounding confusion,
the narrators concentrate the enormities of their
existence, consciously
shape
them into a
manageable environment,
and transform the brute
chaos into a fictional but
consciously patterned
world.
Leaving
the
death-haunted,
"black island in the
Atlantic," Skipper imaginatively
constructs his
"sun-dipped wandering
island"
(Skin 48), freeing
it from
geographical
restraints and himself from the
pains
of his
past.
Simi-
larly, Cyril brings Illyria
into
being
in
response
to the
question
asked
in the
epigraph (from
Ford Madox Ford's The Good
Soldier):
"Is there
then
any
terrestrial
paradise where,
amidst the
whispering
of the olive-
leaves, people
can be with whom
they
like and have what
they
like
and take their ease in shadows and in coolness?"
(Oranges epigraph).
The memoirs of these
first-person
narrators are fictional
projections
of both
mythical
worlds and identities
desperately trying
to
regain
a
sense of self. Stimulated
by
a fear of hostile forces as well as a desire
for a
serene, pleasurable existence, Skipper
and
Cyril creatively
resist
the excruciations of life and
actively produce
a
reality
that is consis-
tent with their
psychological
and creative needs. Their fictional land-
scapes
thus offer them
self-preservation,
aesthetic
satisfaction,
and
freedom
-
the freedom to create a world and an
identity
to their
liking.
Skipper
can be an artificial inseminator of
cows,
and
Cyril
can be a
sex-singer
in
Illyria.
As Hawkes
says
to John
Kuehl,
"what we all want
to do
...
is to create our own worlds in our own voice"
(qtd.
in Kuehl
157).
Hawkes's
first-person
narrators
produce
their fictional
landscapes
primarily
out of a
pastoral impulse.
Like
many
American
heroes, these
HAWKES 323
characters withdraw from
society
with its deterministic
limitations,
guilts, anxieties,
and enslavement to time.
Rejecting society's
bound-
aries and the burden of
history,
the
mythical
American hero
journeys
into a domain where an
unspoiled beauty
offers
psychic
renewal.
Hawkes's characters share the same desire for
security, repose,
free-
dom from the flux of
time,
and the
opportunity
for a
spontaneous,
instinctual life. However much
they may yearn
for an
unbounded,
timeless
world,
such an
idyllic pastoral setting
is unavailable in the
contemporary
world. The American fables of the
redemptive journey
into the wilderness told
by Cooper, Thoreau, Melville, Faulkner,
and
Hemingway
now arouse mere
nostalgia.
In his
study
of 1960s
fiction,
Raymond
Olderman
suggests
that the "old theme of the American
Adam
aspiring
to move ever forward in time and
space
unencumbered
by memory
of
guilt
or reflection on human limitation is
certainly
un-
available to the
guilt-ridden psyche
of modern man"
(9).
Even
though
the inherited
symbol
of a
pastoral
retreat or an
American Eden
may
evoke an ironic
response,
the
urge
for a world
remote from
history,
where nature and art are held in
balance,
still
exists. For
Hawkes, however,
the
possibility
for the establishment of
such a
pastoral
ideal is
through
the aesthetic
imagination.
The land-
scapes
themselves hold the
opposing
forces of life and
death;
it is there-
fore
up
to the narrators to create a fictive order. In
essence,
the nar-
rator's creation of a fictional
landscape
has become the
surrogate
for
a
pastoral ideal,
for within this self-created world
paradoxes
can be
aestheticized and therefore made tolerable. In the realm of
supreme
fiction man can
escape
the flux of time and the dualism between
internal and external
reality.
Hawkes's narrators thus
attempt
to
become Adamic heroes in the
garden
of their memoirs.
In Second
Skin,
Skipper's
memories of a
past
filled with death
and violence make
up
much of his "naked
history."
His
early
child-
hood lived out at his father's
mortuary,
his wartime
experiences,
and
his
stay
on the infernal black
island,
site of Cassandra's
suicide,
all
suggest
a world dominated
by
death. In
many ways
this fictional world
remains as death-oriented as the earlier
novels,
for the cruel
landscapes
formed
by Skipper's imagination compose
most of the novel's struc-
ture. Until
Skipper
reaches his unnamed
wandering island,
the land-
scapes
he travels harbor
nothing
but
inexplicable
malice. The affirma-
tion in the novel comes not from
Skipper's
environment but from his
redemptive imagination. Experiencing
both
psychic
extremes
- of Eros
and Thanatos, as illustrated
by
the two
alternating
islands -
Skipper
chooses life over death in an act of creative will. Even
though
death
324 I CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE
exists on his
peaceful
island in the form of a
cemetery,
he illuminates
the dark
graveyard
with candles to
produce
an "artificial
day" (208)
and "to have a fete with the dead"
(206).
Not
denying
the
presence
of
death,
he
creatively
resists it and instills life
(creative passion)
into
the resistant forces of nature.
Likewise,
the narrator of The Blood
Oranges, Cyril,
tries to restore
his
shredding tapestry
of love from his
pastoral
retreat of
Illyria.
Choosing
the seacoast of
Shakespeare's Twelfth Night
as his
locale,
Hawkes
signals
the reader that
Cyril's country
resides in his
imagina-
tion,
like
Skipper's floating
island.
According
to
Hawkes, Illyria
"actually
consists of an arid
landscape"
that
Cyril
transforms into his
own erotic
idyll.
In his interview with Robert
Scholes,
Hawkes
explains
that
Cyril
"is
simply trying
to
designate
the
power, beauty, fulfillment,
the
possibility
that is evident in
any
actual scene we exist in. . . .
Illyria
doesn't exist unless
you bring
it into
being" ("Conversation" 203).
Skipper's
and
Cyril's pastoral
worlds are not restricted to a terrestrial
landscape
but
spring
from their
imaginative vitality;
the two narrators
vigorously pursue
the creative act. The fictional
landscapes
of Second
Skin and The Blood
Oranges
consist of the narrator's interior world
where the restrictions of time and
space
are
nonexistent,
where the
imagination reigns freely,
and where the
pleasure principle
is enshrined.
According
to Leo
Marx,
the "usual
setting
of
pastorals"
has been
a "never-never land"
(47);
in
keeping
with this
tradition,
Hawkes sets
his later novels in the "never-never land" of the
psyche. Nature,
the
destination of the
pastoral journey,
is no
longer
restricted in
meaning
to terrestrial
landscape
but can be defined as the
vitality
of uncon-
scious
experience. Following
Second
Skin,
each
succeeding
novel in
Hawkes's triad-The Blood
Oranges (1971), Death,
Sleep
& the
Traveler (1974), Travesty (1976)- goes
a
step
further in
banishing
the
rational external world to concentrate on the interior
journey
into the
psyche.
Hawkes's narrators reflect this
process
of
reduction;
external
landmarks and events become
increasingly
removed from the novel's
world. In the
triad,
Hawkes reduces
landscape
to
private, solipsistic
underworlds dominated
by
the narrator's unconscious needs and fears.
Whereas
Skipper consciously
uses his
imagination
in a
redemptive
act
of
creativity,
the other narrators
increasingly pursue
a destructive
course. In The Blood
Oranges Cyril
wreaks havoc on his terrestrial
paradise by attempting
to force others into his
tapestry
of love. In
Death, Sleep
&
the Traveler Allert floats in his anchorless
ship
on his
HAWKES
325
own
psychic
waters until he is so
remote, detached,
and obsessed that
he exists
solely
in his dreams. And in
Travesty Papa
confines himself
to the interior of his car as he
speeds
toward suicide and murder. As
Hawkes charts the narrator's inner
migration,
the destination becomes
increasingly ambivalent,
for the unconscious
simultaneously
offers
freedom and annihilation.
The characters'
complete
isolation in their own inner
landscapes
emphasizes
the
danger
of such
imprisonment.
Like characters in the
early novels, they
too are
imprisoned by
their environments. The dif-
ference is that
they
are ensnared
by projects
of their own
making.
No
longer
casualties of outer
forces, they
have become victims of their
own internalization - victims of their own
psyche.
The artistic
imagina-
tion when
impelled by
a disturbed
psyche
can
shape
a diminished or
nightmarish
world rather than a coherent one.
According
to Frank
Lentricchia,
"the
telling sign
of such self-destructive consciousness is
its
monolithic, absolutizing
character" where
"single
vision
reigns"
(157). Only
in
Skipper's
Second Skin do the
conflicting
forces of life
and death coexist. This healthful reconciliation results from the crea-
tive mind's
ability
to transform the
unintelligible
into a fictive order.
In contrast to
Skipper's
"naked
history," Cyril's tapestry,
which
is also an artistic
design,
is in
shreds; Illyria
is
coming apart
at the
seams because of
Cyril's singleness
of vision.
Ironically,
his
tapestry,
rather than
weaving together
the
opposing threads,
unravels to reveal
the
polarity
in his
pastoral
scene. When
Hugh,
an alien to
Illyria,
comes
over the mountains and
brings
with him the
repressive
forces of civili-
zation, Cyril
is unable to
incorporate Hugh's
"alien
myth"
into
Illyria.
Hawkes
suggests
that
Hugh
is not the
only
character
guilty
of sub-
verting
life into a
rigid
order.
Cyril's
effort to raise sexual
activity
-
a
natural
process
-
to an art form
promotes
disaster.
Although
his sexual
theorizing
is an
attempt
to
compose
the
merging paradoxes,
no erotic
harmony
results. Insistent on the
supremacy
of his
vision, Cyril
fails
to balance the
paradoxes
of Eros and Thanatos. The Blood
Oranges
therefore remains
Cyril's
version of a failed
pastoral.
Another narrator who
struggles
to create a world that will sus-
tain his
imagination
is Allert in
Death,
Sleep
& the
Traveler;
his
imagi-
nation, however,
leads him to demons. As an
artist,
Allert's aesthetic
achievement lies
solely
in the creation of his
dreams,
but no
lyrical
affirmation resides in his
nightmares.
Allert's descent into his
psyche
is enacted on a
large
scale when he takes an uncharted ocean cruise.
The novel consists of his interior
journey
into the oceanic
depths
of
his unconscious and his
subsequent
effort to aestheticize the
emerg-
326 CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE
ing
terror. The narrator's location is
unidentified;
his detached voice
speaks
from a
void, suggesting
his
isolation, deprivation,
and
pos-
sible madness. The
story
he tells alternates between two fictional land-
scapes
- one the
frigid
northern world where
Allert, Peter,
and his wife
Ursula form a
menage
a
trois,
and the other a southern world of sun
and sea where he
journeys
with Ariane and Olaf. Hawkes once
again
uses antithetical
settings,
but unlike the
opposing
islands in Second
Skin,
representative
of Eros and
Thanatos,
these two
landscapes
con-
tain both sex and death and
ultimately
make them
synonymous.
The northern scene that best illustrates Allert's
equation
of sex
and death takes
place
in Peter's sauna. In contrast to the
frigid
air
outside,
the sauna's intense "heat was
high enough
to stimulate
visions,
to
bring
death." When Ursula arouses Allert with her "oral
passion,"
he descends further into "the timeless heat"
(Death 22)
until he fears
death. Later Peter does die in the
sauna,
where the three of them lie
"as if in a
dream,
naked and white and at our ease"
(169).
A corre-
sponding
scene occurs in the southern
hemisphere
when
Allert, Ariane,
and Olaf
go
to an island of nudists. The
intensity
of the island's blind-
ing
sun and the
glaring
white beach
decompose
all colors and make
"the island
landscape
a brilliant
unreality" (102).
So
searing
is the heat
that Allert
suggests
it could "bake alive infant tortoises"
(101);
indeed
it does become
poisonous
to
Olaf,
who shrinks from
dehydration
and
sunburn,
while Allert and Ariane make love on the beach. These lovers
thrive in the island's
searing landscape
of
"unreality"
that is unsuited
to all other life. Reminiscent of the sauna
episode,
this
"frightening
white scene" of
heat, water,
and
sexuality
also has
deathly
undertones
and
suggests
Allert's attraction to
landscapes
of sex and death.
Although
his sea
voyage
takes him from his frozen northern
world,
it
ironically brings
him to an inverted world of
sun, heat,
and ocean
that also denies
regeneration.
Like other
figures
in American romance who
journey
into their
psychic
wilderness in
pursuit
of their
dreams,
Allert also
investigates
the font of his dreams and risks the
dangers
of annihilation. Whereas
Walden, Moby-Dick,
and
Huckleberry
Finn offer a chance of tem-
porary
return to
pastoral simplicity,
Allert remains exiled in his dream-
world.
Psychic
renewal is
possible only
when the exile is
imperma-
nent. Allert remains an aimless traveler who drifts between two worlds.
Unlike
Skipper,
he does not trade one world for another
or,
like
Cyril,
attempt
a
faltering
reconciliation between the two. Hawkes
implies
that Allert's
voyage
has led him not to freedom and a world of total
possibility
but to denial of life. His
pursuit
of his
imagination brings
HAWKES 327
destruction. While on board the
ship,
Allert kills Ariane
by dropping
her into the ocean and then kills himself
by remaining
lost in the waters
of his
psyche. Death, Sleep
& the
Traveler, according
to
Hawkes,
"mixes the
night
sea
journey
with a real descent into the realm of
death;
the narrator is accused of murder and suffers his own
psychic
death"
(qtd.
in
Yarborough 73). Allert, nevertheless,
refuses to admit his
culp-
ability.
His final words are "I am not
guilty." Claiming
innocence with
these last
words,
he denies not
only
his
guilt
as a murderer but also
his
guilt
as an artist.
Whereas Allert refuses to admit that his
pursuit
of artistic illu-
sion has
reaped devastation, Papa,
the narrator of
Travesty,
con-
sciously
chooses death over life. He makes death his chosen art form.
Delivering
an
uninterrupted monologue
on the aesthetics of
death,
Papa
careens
through
the
night,
hell-bent on suicide. Hawkes reduces
the novel's
landscape
to the confines of the
car, making
it
synony-
mous with the narrator's
mind;
the ride itself
suggests
another interior
journey
into the
imagination,
like Allert's ocean
voyage.
Yet a differ-
ence remains. Allert floats on his
psychic waters,
and as he heads for
oblivion,
he takes notes.
Papa,
on the other
hand,
is at the
steering
wheel, directing
imminent destruction. Rather than
merely drifting
to inevitable
annihilation, Papa argues
for the conscious
design
of
death,
a
planned execution,
not a "submission to an oblivion"
(Travesty
57).
For him death is an artistic
experience
to be immortalized in the
landscape
of the novel. For him the ultimate artistic
experience
is the
creation of death
- a final union of
paradoxes
where creator and crea-
tion are one. This fatal
design
is the
perfect composition,
a "tableau
of chaos"
(59).
Just as
Skipper
values his
occupation
as artificial
inseminator,
Cyril,
his
tapestry,
and
Allert,
his
dreams, Papa
likewise values arti-
fice over
reality.
When he
rages
toward the final
purity
of
creation,
he
seeks
illusion over the raw material of life. His
pursuit
of death
is, therefore,
not
only
an
imposition
of form on
chaos,
but also a crea-
tion of
something
outside of life: "that
nothing
is more
important
than
the existence of what does not
exist;
that I would rather see two
shadows
flickering
inside the head than all
your flaming
sunrises set
end to end. There
you
have
it,
the
theory
to which I hold as does the
wasp
to his dart"
(57). Although
a comic
exaggeration
of artistic
pur-
suit, Papa's
statement nevertheless
espouses
Hawkes's belief in the
artist's need to
defy
the world around him and "to create from the
imagination
a
totally
new and
necessary
fictional
landscape
or
visionary
world"
("Interview"
with Enck
141).
This dictum is echoed in
Papa's
italicized words:
"Imagined life
is more
exhilarating
than remembered
life" (127).
This
belief,
which all Hawkes's narrators
hold, explains
their
monomaniacal insistence on the artistic act that
inevitably
leads them
into their own
psychic
underworlds. Like Narcissus's
plunge
into the
waters of his own
reflection, Papa's
car ride is a
metaphor
for the
absolute artistic
experience.
Hawkes
suggests
that such a romantic
endeavor must be fatal. The
artist-figures
in the triad are victimized
by
their own radical
pursuit
of freedom as it resides in the creative
imagination
and
by
their rebellion
against
life's limitations. The
inherent
irony,
of
course,
is that in
combatting
death
(stasis)
art leads
to the same inevitable result. As
Papa says
in his
closing words,
"there
shall be no survivors. None"
(128). Travesty
thus ends with the final
fictional
landscape-the
destructive
vitality
of man's
psyche.
Because
Travesty presses landscape
to the lowest limits of
psychic
isolation,
some critics
suggest
that Hawkes has nowhere to
go-no
other worlds to
explore.
John
Graham,
for
example, says:
"In
Travesty
the
progression
into an isolated world of
language goes
so far
that,
without a new
start,
Hawkes
may
next offer a blank
page" (49).
The
Passion Artist
(1979)
and
Virginie:
Her Two Lives
(1982)
mark
Hawkes's "new start." Published
by Harper
and
Row,
instead of New
Directions,
and written for a
larger audience,
these two novels are his
most accessible to date. Rather than
reducing
the fictional world to
the confines of his narrator's interior
landscape,
Hawkes
opens up
his last two fictions
by presenting
a character in an external world.
With The Passion Artist Hawkes returns to the
distancing
of a third-
person
narrator and to a
landscape
set in a
European
location.
Although Virginie:
Her Two Lives has a
first-person narrator,
she is
an
eleven-year-old girl
who functions
mainly
as an innocent
companion
to the novel's central
artist-figures, Seigneur
and
Bocage.
Not a direct
participant, Virginie
offers some distance on the
proceedings.
Besides
this
change
in
narrator,
the novel also takes
place
in a
specific
locale
-
Paris and the
countryside
of France. With both these novels Hawkes
returns to
landscapes
tied to verifiable
settings,
as was true of his
early
fiction.
The world
expressed
in The Passion Artist in
many ways
resembles
Hawkes's
early
fictional
landscapes,
but with a difference. In The
Cannibal, The Goose on the Grave, The Owl, and The Lime
Twig,
the violence of
war, the
repression
of social
institutions, and the
sterility
HAWKES 329
of sex all combine to
present
a
damning portrait
of the modern world.
The Passion Artist evokes a similar world view. Like
Spitzen-on-the-
Dein,
the
"city
without a name"
(Passion 181)
embodies the
sterility
of modern civilization with its
gray buildings,
desolate
parks,
and
pre-
ponderance
of institutions. Such a
portrait
of
society
is a
given
in
Hawkes's
work,
but his artistic
energy
no
longer
seems
engaged
in con-
veying
this bleak world's
chaos;
his
emphasis
has
changed.
Rather than
offering
surrealistic
descriptions
of a
decomposing world,
as he does
in his
early fiction,
Hawkes
suggests
this town's minimalism in his
prose:
the
city
in which he lived was without
trees,
without national
monuments,
without
ponds
or flower
gardens,
without even a
single building
to attract
visitors from other
parts
of the world. It was a small bleak
city consisting
almost
entirely
of
cheaply
built concrete
dwellings
and unfinished
apartment
houses. It was a
city
without
interest,
without
pride,
without
efficiency. (11)
In this
description
Hawkes's
language
reflects the listlessness of the
static
landscape
instead of
countering
it with a
Dionysian
form of
verbal
energy.
In The Passion Artist Hawkes is not content with
just presenting
landscapes
of
apocalypse
and doom. In a 1979 interview he
implies
that his fictional worlds have
developed. Referring
to the
anonymous
European city
in The Passion
Artist,
he
says,
"We are
archaeologi-
cally
on
top
of the buried
city
of
Spitzen-on-the-Dein,
and
ironically,
the new world is
bleaker,
deader than the world of The Cannibal"
(Radical 185).
In the novel he writes:
Here was the outcome of the centuries of death and
agony;
the
paths
of the
great
minds ended
here;
dreamers of
palaces
and holocausts had invented
nothing.
And what was this
city, denying
in its
daily
life the
validity
of re-
corded
history,
if not the
very
domain of the human
psyche?
The
irony
of
order
existing only
in desolation and discomfort was a satisfaction
beyond
imagining. (11-12)
The human
negation
illustrated
by
the unnamed
city's sterility
is not
tied to war and irrational
violence,
as in the earlier
fiction,
but to the
repression
of the "domain of the
psyche." True,
the conflict between
authoritarian, life-denying
order and creative
irrationality
has
permeated
all of Hawkes's works and been evidenced in the novels'
landscapes.
In the
early
fiction the conflict is characterized
by entropic
landscapes
wrecked
by
war and in the later fiction
by landscapes
more
and more disordered
by
the destructiveness of the narrator's own
psyche.
With The Passion
Artist, however,
Hawkes
brings together
these two domains -
by presenting
both a civilization in
collapse
and
an interior excavation into the
psyche.
The Passion Artist focuses on sexual
repression
as the source of
a culture's authoritarianism and man's enslavement to a life bereft of
imagination. Dominating
the entire
city's landscape
is a woman's
prison,
La
Violaine,
a
symbol epitomizing
the sexual
deprivation
of
modern civilization. The incarceration of women characterizes this
society.
Konrad
Vost,
the
middle-aged protagonist, parallels
his
deficient
surroundings
with his
rigid
self-control and sexual
celibacy.
When a
prison
riot at La Violaine breaks
out,
Vost and other male
volunteers enter the
prison
to
quell
the riot but instead
participate
in
it. Hawkes
suggests through
this
eruption
the
dangers
of
confining
not
only unruly sexuality
but also all
disruptive
needs
lodged
in the
unconscious. La
Violaine,
like
Hugh's dungeon,
is emblematic of man's
culturally repressed
unconscious
("the
domain of the
psyche").
Similar
to other
gothic
enclosures that confine
nightmares,
the
prison
embodies
Vost's worst fears as well as his
only
chance of
tapping
life's
mysteries.
At this
point
The Passion Artist is reminiscent of Hawkes's other
post-1964
fiction.
Although
not filtered
through
a
first-person
nar-
rator,
the
landscape
becomes internalized and Hawkes mirrors Vost's
"disordering":
"the
prison
had
exploded,
so to
speak;
interior and
exterior life were
assuming
a
single shape" (74).
His
"disordering"
takes
place
in two locales: inside the
city's prison
itself and in an old stable
in an
outlying
marsh.
Playing
on the
age-old
distinction between the
"city"
and the
"country,"
Hawkes
dichotomizes
the forces of civiliza-
tion and
nature, illustrating
the central conflict between
repressive
con-
sciousness and the
irrational, imaginative
unconscious. The
dichotomy
between
"city"
and
"country"
is also clear in
Virginie:
Her Two
Lives,
with the
presentation
of Paris in 1945 as
opposed
to the rural French
countryside
of 1740. Even
though
a character does not travel from
one
experience
to
another,
in this novel Hawkes
juxtaposes
the
city
and rural
settings
to dramatize the conflict.
Like Allert's
voyage
and
Papa's ride,
Vost's
trip
from
city
to marsh
is a
journey
into the interiors of self. The turn inward is
immediately
characterized
by
the
squalid
nature of the
landscape
itself and
by
the
return of Hawkes's
visionary
use of
language:
off
to his
right lay
a
geometric arrangement
of wet stones where
primitive
buildings, long
since dissolved, had sheltered both men and animals. More
HAWKES
331
fence
posts,
the rotten ribs and backbone of a small
boat, brightly
colored
marsh
plants festering
in sockets of
ice,
the
fragments
of a shattered
aque-
duct
gray
and
dripping
where moments before there had been
only
flatness
and
emptiness, abrupt
discolorations that revealed
quicksand
or
underground
rivers: it was all an
agglomeration
of
flashing mirrors,
the
strong
cold
salty
air was
impossibly heavy
with the smell of human excrement and of human
bodies armed and booted and
decomposing
under the
ferns,
behind
piles
of
rocks,
in the
depths
of the wells.
(The
Passion Artist
85)
Like the
entropic decay
of The Cannibal's
landscape,
this marsh
actively decomposes
all
signs
of life and "was in itself a
morgue" (99).
Walking deeper
into its dark
formlessness,
Vost finds a stone enclo-
sure of "wet rocks" and
"slimy roughness."
Womblike in its
warmth,
yet repulsive
in its
filth,
this
obviously
sexual
symbol
is nature's ana-
logue
to civilization's
prison.
A recurrent
symbol
in Hawkes's
fiction,
this chamber of sex and death
subjects
the character to
unexplored
psychic
terrors
(just
as the
lighthouse
does in Second
Skin,
the
dungeon
in The Blood
Oranges,
and the ocean liner in
Death, Sleep
& the
Traveler).
Likewise,
the
entirety
of
Virginie:
Her Two Lives takes
place
in
such
disordering
interiors. The novel alternates between a low-rent
flophouse
in
postwar
Paris and a castle of erotic decadence set in the
French
countryside
of 1740. Within either one of these interiors lies
the
possibility
of the ultimate in both sexual
expression
and
complete
degradation.
In the Paris salon five
trollops
in various
stages
of undress
cavort with a tattooed boxer and an old
man,
under the behest of
Bocage,
a
greasy
cab driver.
Although
the
group
frolics
congenially,
the
atmosphere
is
deathly
because of the mute
presence
of Maman.
Upstairs
the "bedridden
effigy"
of Maman lies
paralyzed
in a
dark,
camphorous
bedroom. In the
countryside
chateau of 1740 five French
beauties live in the
elegant simplicity
of a castle with stone
corridors,
vaulted
windows,
and
courtyards
and in the
pastoral beauty
of
shep-
herds'
huts, haystacks,
and
poplars.
Yet within this rural
tableau,
which
Virginie
describes as "the
very
domain of
my purity" (Virginie 50),
Seigneur
oversees acts of
bestiality
and self-abasement. The
landscapes
themselves,
whether
plebian
or
aristocratic,
as well as the
experiences
within them
suggest paradoxical
extremes
- of terror and freedom
-
and relate to the
epigraph by
Heide
Ziegler: "beauty
is
paradox."
Captives
of these dark
interiors,
Vost and
Virginie,
like all of
Hawkes's
characters,
are
caught
in
nightmares
of sex and violence.
Whether external microcosms of an
entropic
modern world or internal
representations
of a narrator's
psyche,
all of Hawkes's
landscapes
imprison
the characters. In The Passion Artist Hawkes externalizes
the
imprisonment
as a
symbol
not
only
of a
repressive
world's con-
finement of the individual
spirit
but also of the individual's enslave-
ment to his own
submerged
unconscious. After
Vost's
journey
into
the
marsh,
it is therefore
fitting
that he is
brought
back to
prison.
His
release, ironically,
comes from
imprisonment. By being
held
cap-
tive in the darkness of his own
interior,
Vost is forced to
experience
the ambivalences
present
in the unconscious - the terror and the
freedom.
For the first time in Hawkes's fiction the
paradoxes
evident in
the
landscape,
to which the main character is
subjected,
are
ultimately
transcended. Not an
artist-figure
like
Skipper
who transforms one
world into
another,
Vost reconciles the ambivalences in his uncon-
scious. Freed from the
imprisonment
of
self,
he achieves the ultimate
artistic
experience through
sex
(not death),
the "willed erotic union"
of the self and the
other,
the creator and the
creation,
and thus achieves
momentarily
what all of Hawkes's
first-person
narrators
try
to create
in their fictional
landscapes.
Unlike
Allert,
who
merely
dreams
it,
or
Papa,
who
aesthetically designs it,
Vost not
only
confronts but attains
the actual
experience.
The
possibility
of
achieving
such freedom exists
in Hawkes's
world,
both in The Passion Artist and
Virginie:
Her Two
Lives. Hawkes
explains
in his interview with Robert Scholes:
my
fiction is
generally
an evocation of the
nightmare
or terroristic universe
in which
sexuality
is
destroyed by law, by dictum, by
human
perversity, by
contraption,
and it is this destruction of human
sexuality
which I have
attempted
to
portray
and confront in order to be true to human fear and
to human
ruthlessness,
but also in
part
to evoke its
opposite,
the moment
of freedom from
constriction, constraint,
death.
("Conversation" 207)
The cost of such freedom is
great.
In Hawkes's world authori-
tarian order and erotic
vitality inevitably
collide in violent
disruption.
Vost is shot as he
emerges
from the
prison gates,
and
Virginie perishes
in flames. On the other side of
completely integrated psychic experi-
ence is annihilation. Thus Vost achieves "his final
irony"
and in death
discovers "for himself what it was to be
nothing" (The
Passion Artist
184). Virginie
also is
destroyed
after
finally consummating
her rela-
tionship
with her creator-father. As the Beckett
epigraph suggests,
"Birth was the death of her." In the Paris
sequence
her Maman sets
fire to their
abode,
and in the other
sequence Virginie joins
her creator
HAWKES
I
333
(Seigneur) being
burned at the stake. The novel
begins
and ends with
apocalyptic
flames.
Despite
the
paradoxical
extremes
present
in Hawkes's fictional
landscapes, they ultimately
all move toward death - whether it is the
destruction inherent in a
repressive
world or in an irrational mind.
The triad shows the
danger
of
tapping
the
irrational;
The Passion Artist
shows the
danger
of
denying
it.
Believing
in the
necessity
of
pursuing
demons in order to exorcise hidden fears
responsible
for the external
world's
bleakness,
Hawkes follows his characters into their inner
recesses. From these interior
journeys
into man's
psyche
have
emerged
lush
landscapes
of exotic
sexuality
and
lyricism
as well as the
darkest,
most horrific
nightmares imaginable.
These
emerging ambiguities
come
from Hawkes's own
plumbing
of his
unconscious,
from which
spring
his visions. In an
article,
Hawkes writes:
"my
own
imagination
is a
kind of hall of
'whippers'
in which the materials of the unconscious
are
beaten,
transformed into fictional
landscape
itself"
("Opera
and
Skin"
20).
Hawkes
probes
his unconscious not
only
to stimulate his own
artistic visions but also to
express
his belief that from this
pursuit
comes
balance.
Only by excavating
the interior
depths
where the
irrational,
imaginative,
and erotic lie can man ever achieve
harmony.
Not
deny-
ing
the
significance
of
sanity
or
rationalism,
Hawkes
pursues unreason,
which is too often
denied,
in an effort to
forge
a union:
"Yes,
of course
sanity
is
important.
But basic
harmony, serenity,
and a rational
equi-
librium can be achieved
only
out of a
workshop
of the irrational"
("A
Trap" 179).
Always
interested in
pursuing
the
nightmare,
in
assaulting
the con-
ventional
world,
and in
creating
what did not exist
before,
Hawkes
uses the device of fictional
landscape
so
necessary
to his creative vision
as well as his aesthetic.
Explaining
his travels down the dark tunnel
from which
emerge
his
singular
works of
brutality
and
beauty,
he
writes: "For me the writer should
always
serve as his own
angle-
worm
-
and the
sharper
the barb with which he fishes himself out of
the
blackness,
the better"
("Notes" 788).
Hawkes makes no
promises
about what will be retrieved from these
depths,
but the
resulting
land-
scapes testify
to his
unremittingly
creative vision.
University of
Southwestern Louisiana
334
|
CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE
WORKS CITED
Graham,
John.
Postscript
to "On The Cannibal." A John Hawkes
Symposium: Design
and Debris. Eds.
Anthony
C. Santore and Michael N.
Pocalyko. Insights
1:
Working Papers
in
Contemporary
Criticism. New York: New
Directions,
1977.
Hawkes,
John. The Blood
Oranges.
New York: New
Directions,
1971.
.-.
The Cannibal. New York: New
Directions,
1949.
.-.
"A Conversation on The Blood
Oranges."
With Robert Scholes. Novel 5
(1972):
197-207.
.-.
Death, Sleep
& the Traveler. New York: New
Directions,
1974.
-.
"John Hawkes: An Interview." With John Enck. Wisconsin Studies in Con-
temporary
Literature 6
(1965):
141-55.
-.
"John Hawkes on His Novels: An Interview with John Graham." Massa-
chusetts Review 7
(1966):
449-61.
.-.
"Notes on the Wild Goose Chase." Massachusetts Review 3
(1962):
784-88.
.-.
"The
Floating Opera
and Second Skin." Mosaic 8
(1974):
17-28.
.-.
The Passion Artist. New York:
Harper
and
Row,
1979.
.-.
The Radical
Imagination
and the Liberal Tradition: Interviews with
English
and American Novelists. Interview with Heide
Ziegler.
Eds. Heide
Ziegler
and
Christopher Bigsby.
London: Junction
Books,
1982. 169-87.
-.
"Interview." With John Kuehl. Kuehl 155-83.
.-.
Second Skin. New York: New
Directions,
1964.
.-.
"A
Trap
to Catch Little Birds With." Interview with
Anthony
C. Santore
and Michael
Pocalyko.
A John Hawkes
Symposium: Design
and Debris. Eds.
Anthony
C. Santore and Michael
Pocalyko. Insights
1:
Working Papers
in Con-
temporary
Criticism. New York: New
Directions,
1977. 165-84.
.-.
Travesty.
New York: New
Directions,
1976.
"-.
Virginie:
Her Two Lives. New York:
Harper
and
Row,
1982.
Hawkes, John,
and John Barth. "Hawkes and Barth Talk About Fiction." Ed. Thomas
LeClair. The New York Times Book Review
1 April
1979:
7,
31-33.
Kuehl,
John. John Hawkes and the
Craft of Conflict.
New
Brunswick,
N.J.:
Rutgers
UP,
1975.
Lentricchia,
Frank. Robert Frost: Modern Poetics and the
Landscapes of Self.
Durham,
N.C.: Duke
UP,
1975.
Marx,
Leo. The Machine in the Garden:
Technology
and the Pastoral Ideal in America.
New York: Oxford
UP,
1964.
Olderman, Raymond
M.
Beyond
the Waste
Land:
A
Study of
the American Novel
in the Nineteen-Sixties. New Haven: Yale
UP,
1972.
Tanner, Tony. City of
Words: American Fiction 1950-1970. New York:
Harper
and
Row,
1971.
Yarborough,
Richard. "Hawkes' Second Skin." Mosaic 8
(1974):
65-75.
HAWKES 335

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A Newly Envisioned World: Fictional Landscapes of John Hawkes

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