The Cannibal: Novel

by Hawkes, John

  FOR SOPHIE

  INTRODUCTION

  Many introductions exist to persuade the reluctant reader that the classic text under consideration is deservedly a classic, with hidden meanings and beauties. But in the presence of a highly experimental novel, and of such a considerable new talent as that of John Hawkes, an introduction should perhaps attempt no more than to clear away some of the peripheral difficulties and obstacles of strangeness which might prevent an early understanding and enjoyment. No doubt the reader has a right to discover the hidden beauties for himself, during the first years of a novel’s life. But isn’t it also the novelist’s own task, a few readers will certainly argue—“to clear away some of the peripheral difficulties and obstacles of strangeness?” My own answer is that this question can be too costly. The merely secondary difficulties and obstacles involved in the first appearance of a Franz Kafka or a William Faulkner or a Djuna Barnes are not comparable to those involved in the first appearance of a conventional realist … and perhaps it would be well if we could get at the restless and original Kafkas at least, if not at the Djuna Barneses, over a shorter period of ridicule, without having to wait so long. I use the names of Kafka and Faulkner and Djuna Barnes advisedly, these august names and coldly intense writers … for I think the talent, intention, present accomplishment and ultimate promise of John Hawkes are suggested by some conjunction of these three disparate names.* I know that this is to say a great deal, and also to predict most rashly as to the future direction an original talent will take. John Hawkes is now, at the outset of his career and at the age of twenty-three, a rather more “difficult” writer than, Kafka or Faulkner, and fully as difficult a writer as Djuna Barnes. The Cannibal, written in 1948, is less surrealist than Charivari, a short novel written in 1947;† and I suspect Hawkes will move still further toward realism. But his talent, whatever may happen to it, is already a major talent.

  The peripheral difficulties, then, and obstacles of strangeness … The plot is a simple one, but not to be simply apprehended. There is in the first place an interesting interlocked story of Germany during the first world war and of Germany in “1945”—a mythical year of the allied occupation, when a single American soldier on a motorcycle is left to supervise a third of the country. In 1914 Stella, later Madame Snow, night club singer and daughter of a general, meets an English traitor Cromwell, and marries the feeble Ernst. In 1945 Stella Snow’s boarding house in a ruined village harbors her sister Jutta, mistress of Zizendorf … new political Leader and “narrator” of the story. Zizendorf successfully plots the death of the lone American overseer and the capture of his motorcycle, and the book ends with the rebirth of an independent Germany. For the tiny gutted Spitzen-on-the-Dein—with its feverish D.Ps., its diseased impotent adults and crippled children, with its foul choked canals, with its hunger, militarism, primitive memories and its unregenerate hatred of the conqueror—is Germany itself in microcosm. (As a picture of the real rather than the actual Germany, and of the American occupant of that Germany, The Cannibal is as frankly distorted as Kafka’s picture of the United States in Amerika; and also perhaps as true, thanks to that very distortion.) This interesting story is left very much in the dark, however; is obscured by brilliant detail, by a submersion in many different minds and their obsessions, by a total vision of horror … and by a very distinct reluctance (the reluctance of a Conrad or a Faulkner) to tell a story directly. As in Faulkner and Conrad, we have the effect of a solitary flashlight playing back and forth over a dark and cluttered room; the images may be sharp ones, but a casual reference to some major happening may be clarified only fifty or a hundred pages later. The inattentive reader would be hard put to make even such a bare plot-summary as mine; though he might easily go far beyond it—to see in Stella Snow, for instance, both Germany herself and the Teutonic female and fertility principles, the traditional earth-mother of German beer and metaphysics, survivor and protectress of the sterile—“for she had survived and hunted now with the pack.”

  The peripheral difficulties are obvious enough … for the reader who vaguely recognizes his own adult world in The Cannibal, as well as his own childhood fears. The story is radically out of focus, which was of course intended; yet there is no consistently distorting point-of-view. The narrator Zizendorf was perhaps intended to supply an even source of distorting light. But Zizendorf, a relative failure, poses more problems than he solves. Again, no character—except Jutta in the single episode of the nunnery—receives that consistent sympathy which most of all holds the average reader’s attention. John Hawkes clearly belongs, perhaps this to his credit, with the cold immoralists and pure creators who enter sympathetically into all their characters, the saved and the damned alike. Even the saved are absurd, when regarded with a sympathy so demonic: to understand everything is to ridicule everything. And it is also to recognize that even the most contaminated have their dreams of purity which shockingly resemble our own. … A third difficulty and distraction is provided, as in Djuna Barnes, by the energy, tension and brilliance of phrasing often expended on the relatively unimportant: the appalling and prolonged description, for instance, of Madame Snow strangling a chicken, a description interrupted momentarily by the appearance of the Kaiser’s thin and depressed face at the window.

  The final obstacle of strangeness—suggested by the Kaiser’s face—is that John Hawkes’ surrealism is an independent and not a derivative surrealism … I use “surrealism” for want of a better word. There is some traditional symbolism in The Cannibal; even perhaps a little old-fashioned allegory. The dead frozen monkey who screams “Dark is life, dark, dark is death”—tail coiled about his neck, “sitting upright on the bodies of the smaller beasts”—is an authentic surrealist monkey. But the ghosts who return each night to the single charred and abandoned allied tank belong to an older literature … The basic convention of the novel is this: Germany and the world have shrunk to Spitzen-on-the-Dein, rather than the little village enlarged. The characters are passive somnambulistic victims of the divine or diabolic process (history), yet to a degree are aware of their historic position. Thus Ernie running after the carriage of Stella and Cromwell in a German town, stopping in an agony of impatience to relieve himself behind a bush, not merely parallels or suggests but for the moment is Gavrilo Princip, the assassin of Sarajevo; and Cromwell and Stella in the pursued carriage prophesy war and offer themselves as historic symbols: “I will become, as you wish, your Archduchess for the people.” One could even suggest the peculiarly German conception of a narrator possessed of divine or diabolic omniscience … which the characters enter into or share in occasional moments of intuition. History is blind, inconsecutive, absurd … yet a Stella Snow may foresee it: foresee “the naked cowardice of the fencer, the future fluttering wings of the solitary British plane leaving its token pellet in the market place, her mother’s body rolling around it like a stone strained forever, the stain becoming dry and black as onyx.” Of the true solid ingredients of surrealism—illogic, horror, macabre humor—The Cannibal has a full share. Terror, for instance, can create its own geography. Gerta almost stumbles over the dead body of the Merchant, on her return from the open latrine, the “pea-green pit of stench,” behind the sportswelt in das Grab. But this merchant, said to have fallen here some months before (page 101) actually fell near Cambrai (page 94), in a farmhouse demolished by artillery fire:

  There the Merchant, without thoughts of trade, dressed in grey, still fat, had died on his first day at the front and was wedged, standing upright, between two beams, his face knocked backwards, angry, disturbed. In his open mouth there rested a large cocoon, protruding and white, which moved sometimes as if it were alive. The trousers, dropped about his ankles, were filled with rust and tufts of
hair.

  The line between the fantasy of an Edward Lear and that actual creation of another universe which the best surrealism attempts is a hard one to draw … the line, shall we say, between two aspects of Coleridge’s “fancy.” Where else do the “monumental dogs found in the land of the tumbleweed, glorified for their private melancholy and lazy high song” belong—unless in the pages of Lear? And yet the German dogs to which they are compared are fully as remarkable; and become both real dogs running beside the train in which the invalided Ernie lies, and perhaps also recollections of childhood fear; and some pages later, vague symbols of defeat and death:

  Those were certainly dogs that howled. His face pressed against the glass, he heard the cantering of their feet, the yelps and panting that came between the howls. For unlike the monumental dogs found in the land of the tumbleweed, glorified for their private melancholy and lazy high song, always seen resting on their haunches, resting and baying, these dogs ran with the train, nipped at the tie rods, snapped at the lantern from the caboose, and carrying on conversation with the running wheels, begged to be let into the common parlor. They would lap a platter of milk or a bone that appeared dry and scraped to the human eye without soiling the well-worn corridors of rug, and under the green light they would not chew the periodicals or claw the conductor’s heels. As paying passengers, they would eat and doze and leap finally back from the unguarded open platforms between cars into the night and the pack.

  The temptation to quote from The Cannibal is enormous. But no doubt this passage, and the dogs’ progressive irresistible taking over of the train and the paragraph, is enough to suggest the author’s delight in grotesque distortion—and to suggest the dangers and promises implicit in an imagination so uninhibited and so incorrigibly visual, immediate, obsessed.

  How far John Hawkes will go as a writer must obviously depend on how far he consents to impose some page-by-page and chapter-by-chapter consecutive understanding on his astonishing creative energy; on how richly he exploits his ability to achieve truth through distortion; on how well he continues to uncover and use childhood images and fears. Of the larger distortion of The Cannibal—of its total reading of life and vision of desolation as terrible as that of Melville’s Encantadas—there is no need to speak at length. The historic fact of our present effort to reconstruct German pride and nationalism is rather more absurd than the negligent withdrawal pictured by Hawkes. And yet his few “scenes of occupation life” may someday tell us more of the underlying historical truth than the newspapers of 1945 will tell us: the trial and execution of the pastor Miller for having changed his views under the Nazis (the present Mayor betraying him in terror of the curled claws and sharp hooked nose and red terrifying eyes of the eagle on the Colonel’s shoulder); the snarling lovemaking of the American overseer Leevey and his diseased German mistress; and the “overseeing” Leevey at work … hurtling on his motorcycle through the third of the nation he controls, absorbed in an historical process which transcends any human intention and which he has no hope of understanding. John Hawkes, who saw wartime Germany briefly as a driver for the American Field Service, has written an unpolitical book but not an unhistorical one. As Kafka achieved a truth about his society through perhaps unintentional claustrophobic images and impressions, so Hawkes—abnormally aware of physical disabilities and indignities and degradations—has achieved some truth about his. This is a Germany of men with claws for hands, of women with reddened flesh, of children with braces to support their stumps or their heads. It is a world without food, without hope, without energy … reduced for its pleasures to impotent mechanical ruttings bereft of all desire. I think it can be understood that this is more than post-war Germany, whatever the author intended; that this is, to some degree, our modern world. At the end of the novel the liberation of Germany has occurred; or, perhaps, our old world is renewed. This, to be sure, may be looked at in several ways. The insane asylum in Spitzen-on-the-Dein is reopened on the next to last page. “At the top of the hill he saw the long lines that were already filing back into the institution, revived already with the public spirit.”

  ALBERT J. GUERARD

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  November 29, 1948

  * I understand that Mr. Hawkes had all but finished The Cannibal before reading Kafka, Faulkner and Djuna Barnes. His earlier reading of modern experimental literature was largely confined to poetry.

  † Published in New Directions 11 anthology.

  ADDENDUM

  Almost fourteen years have passed since the above was written, yet I see no need to revise, erase or retract. There is much more that might have been said. Today, too, I might substitute the term “anti-realism” (vague as it is) for “surrealism” and its often misleading connotations. And of course it would now seem absurd to speak of John Hawkes as “promising.” In the years since publication The Cannibal never died as so many good first novels do. It kept up its quiet underground life, highly praised from the first by a few, the yellow jacket still present in the serious bookstores where these underground lives occur, the book each year winning new adherents among readers impatient with the cliches and sentimentalities of commercial fiction, or impatient with the loose babblings of the publicized avant-garde. The Cannibal was reprinted and read.

  There was always the possibility Hawkes had exhausted his particular dark vision in this single book, and would write no more. But during these years (while working full time for the Harvard University Press, then as a teacher at Harvard and Brown), he published three more books: The Beetle Leg (1951), The Goose on the Grave & The Owl (1954, two short novels), and The Lime Twig (1961). Each had its different myth and setting, its landscape of an inward geography projected onto a dry impotent American west, onto fascist Italy and San Marino, onto a damp decrepit England of gangsters and gamblers.

  The predicted movement toward realism has occurred, but chiefly in the sense that the later novels are much more orderly and more even in pace, and distinctly less difficult to read. The spatial form and dizzying simultaneity of The Cannibal are modified. The imaginative strengths remain, however, and the vivifying distortions: the power to exploit waking nightmare and childhood trauma, to summon pre-conscious anxieties and longings, to symbolize oral fantasies and castration fears—to shadow forth, in a word, our underground selves. And in each of the novels a fine black humor and a nervous beauty of language play against the plot’s impulse to imprison us unpleasantly in the nightmare, to implicate us in these crimes. We are indeed deeply involved. But we are outside too, watching the work of art.

  Four slender volumes. The achievement may not seem a large one in this day of voluminous and improvising writers, scornful of the right word. Yet it is an achievement roughly comparable in bulk and in variety of interest to that of Nathanael West. Hawkes has of course not written such an easy or public book as The Day of the Locust; perhaps he never will. But he has surely exhibited a power of language and an integrity of imaginative vision that West showed very rarely. Hawkes’s position is an unusual one: that of the avant-garde writer who has imitated no one and who has made no personal gestures of defiance. His defiances—the violence and the indignities and the horror, the queer reversals of sympathy—are all in his books. He has been associated, moreover, with none of the publicized groupings.

  Yet for all this lack of politics and compromise, his work appears to be about to prevail. It is being published in France, Germany, Sweden, Italy and England; it has been honored with a National Institute of Arts and Letters award; it has been admired by Cela in Spain as well as by curiously diverse American writers and critics: Flannery O’Connor and Andrew Lytle, Saul Bellow and Bernard Malamud; Paul Engle (one of the first to recognize and praise); Leslie Fiedler, Frederick Hoffmann, Ray West.

  The Cannibal itself no longer seems as willful or eccentric as it did in 1948, nor as difficult to read. This is partly in accord with the law that the highly original artist must create the taste that will eventually applaud
him. Time, time and powerful reiteration, at last triumph over ridicule. The Cannibal prepares us to read The Lime Twig; but, even more obviously, The Lime Twig and the others prepare us to reread The Cannibal. Beyond this, The Cannibal doubtless profits from the drift of the novel generally, away from flat reporting and delusive clarities. Readers are no longer as distrustful as they were in 1948 of imaginative distortion and poetic invention, of macabre humor and reversed sympathies, of violence, transferred from outer to inner world and from inner to outer. The rich playfulness of Nabokov; the verbal pyrotechnics of Lawrence Durrell and his humorous relishing of decay; the wilder energies of Donleavy and Bellow; the great poetic myth-making of Andrew Lytle and the visions of Flannery O’Connor; the structural experiments of the later Faulkner and the broken-record repetitions of Beckett; and, even, the brilliant ingenious longueurs of certain French anti-novels— all these (to mention only a few of many) show the extent to which the personal and the experimental have been vindicated; have even won public acclaim. Whatever the quickening anti-realist impulse in the novel signifies—whether transformation or annihilation of a genre or even a symbolic foretaste of literal annihilation of the self or of matter, a Byzantine decadence or a created myth of dissolution for our time; or whether, more hopefully, a public awakening to new types of fictional pleasure and suasion— whatever all this adds up to helps define The Cannibal as a central rather than peripheral work of art and vision.

  A.J.G.

  Stanford, California

  April 14, 1962

  There is a town in Germany today, I cannot say just where, that has, by a great effort, risen above the misery that falls the lot of defeated communities on the continent. It has been slowly bettering itself now, under my guidance, for three years, and I am very nearly satisfied with the progress we have made in civic organization. It is a garden spot: all of our memories are there, and people continually seek it out. But until now there has been only silence for the outside world concerning this place, since I thought it more appropriate to have my people keep their happiness and ideas of courage to themselves.