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Lunar Landscapes: Stories and Short Novels, 1949-1963
A modern writer depicts the sufferings of man caught in the web of his own intrigues
275 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1969
4 people are currently reading
123 people want to read
About the author
John Hawkes
109 books192 followersJohn Hawkes, born John Clendennin Talbot Burne Hawkes, Jr., was a postmodern American novelist, known for the intensity of his work, which suspended the traditional constraints of the narrative.
Born in Stamford, Connecticut, and educated at Harvard University, Hawkes taught at Brown University for thirty years. Although he published his first novel, The Cannibal, in 1949, it was The Lime Twig (1961) that first won him acclaim. Later, however, his second novel, The Beetle Leg, an intensely surrealistic western set in a Montana landscape that T. S. Eliot might have conjured, came to be viewed by many critics as one of the landmark novels of 20th Century American literature.
Hawkes died in Providence, Rhode Island.
Born in Stamford, Connecticut, and educated at Harvard University, Hawkes taught at Brown University for thirty years. Although he published his first novel, The Cannibal, in 1949, it was The Lime Twig (1961) that first won him acclaim. Later, however, his second novel, The Beetle Leg, an intensely surrealistic western set in a Montana landscape that T. S. Eliot might have conjured, came to be viewed by many critics as one of the landmark novels of 20th Century American literature.
Hawkes died in Providence, Rhode Island.
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
March 25, 2016
Ah, the metafictionalists. I've wanted to read this collection for years and finally obtained a readable copy. Hawkes used to be squarely on the vanguard of 60's metafiction along with Bartheleme, Coover and Calvino. In a recent New Yorker Fiction Podcast reading of Robert Coover's "Going for a Beer," Josh Ferris mentioned Hawkes and I vowed to read this collection.
Let me first say that I love Barthelme, Coover and Calvino. I wondered why Hawkes seemed to have fallen from view. This book explains a lot; I don't want to say it's unreadable--but large portions definitely defy convention (as metafiction should). And yet, why do I devour Barthelme, Calvino and (most of) Coover and Lunar Landscapes left me underwhelmed? Hawkes is a plank-owner in the metafiction movement, I should have liked it more.
Here are some theories: First, Hawkes' stories are too long. Barthelme's stories are much more "chewable." Coover and Calvino as well. (I know there are other metafictionalists--but I'm focusing on the these four [male] icons; female metafictionalists existed in the 60's but didn't gain wide readership until Lydia Davis, Aimee Bender and others came into public view within the last couple of decades). This desire for brevity is not necessarily an ADHD thing--the form, I think, cannot sustain too long of a narrative.
And that's the other thing; Hawkes, by his own admission, throws narrative and character out the window. The stories can really only be read one sentence at a time. There's a visual, dreamlike, surrealistic image that gets imprinted, and the reader moves on--utterly forgetting what they just read. It's wallpaper, it's atmospheric--and that's a pretty amazing way to write a story, right? I'm glad I "read" this book. It made me appreciate and think about why I read more conventional fiction. What does, say, Raymond Carver (who ran screaming from the metafictionalists as if his hair were on fire), GIVE me in each story? Well, there's a narrative I instinctively embrace as a human being, and there's consequence, subtext, authentic human experience and occasional profundity.
The FORM of metafiction, as practiced by Hawkes, is profound in a sense--but it's also very pretentious and absurdist. It's making a statement through technique. No wonder some call Hawkes a pseudo-intellectual fraud. He invites that criticism--but I appreciate his attempts. I mean, one-hundred years from now, NO ONE is going to go back to a story like "Charivari" or "The Goose on the Grave" or "The Owl" and say, "See? Do you see the MEANING here?" There is no "there" there and that is essentially the point.
Finally--and here is the whole enchilada--I read that Donald Barthelme was incredibly jealous of painters. He wanted to write stories that could be taken in and appreciated instantly, the way one does with a painting. Much metafiction--Hawkes especially--is essentially "word painting." I read all the Lunar Landscape stories from start to finish because I'm a meticulous reader and don't like to half-ass things. But at the end of each story, I realized I could have skipped entire pages and still gotten the gist. Is that a good thing? I took my time with long stretches of this book, really visualizing and feeling each sentence. I came away feeling a bit conned.
Hawkes has said that all of this stories were really about the aftermath of war. And to be fair, there is an apocalyptic dystopian feel to his work. And yet...
I read about four books at a time and I like to take an image of one of those authors and make it my desktop background. When I'm not writing or otherwise working, I'll stare at the picture and ask it questions: "What are you trying to teach me?" "What part of your heart are you exposing in your work?" "Why should I care?" As I take one last look at John Hawkes' picture, I see this very 1970's image of a male writer with a bad haircut, boxy plastic glasses, turtleneck sweater; a man who took some artistic chances and had the world by the ass in many respects. I also hear him laughing at me for asking those questions.
https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&r...
Let me first say that I love Barthelme, Coover and Calvino. I wondered why Hawkes seemed to have fallen from view. This book explains a lot; I don't want to say it's unreadable--but large portions definitely defy convention (as metafiction should). And yet, why do I devour Barthelme, Calvino and (most of) Coover and Lunar Landscapes left me underwhelmed? Hawkes is a plank-owner in the metafiction movement, I should have liked it more.
Here are some theories: First, Hawkes' stories are too long. Barthelme's stories are much more "chewable." Coover and Calvino as well. (I know there are other metafictionalists--but I'm focusing on the these four [male] icons; female metafictionalists existed in the 60's but didn't gain wide readership until Lydia Davis, Aimee Bender and others came into public view within the last couple of decades). This desire for brevity is not necessarily an ADHD thing--the form, I think, cannot sustain too long of a narrative.
And that's the other thing; Hawkes, by his own admission, throws narrative and character out the window. The stories can really only be read one sentence at a time. There's a visual, dreamlike, surrealistic image that gets imprinted, and the reader moves on--utterly forgetting what they just read. It's wallpaper, it's atmospheric--and that's a pretty amazing way to write a story, right? I'm glad I "read" this book. It made me appreciate and think about why I read more conventional fiction. What does, say, Raymond Carver (who ran screaming from the metafictionalists as if his hair were on fire), GIVE me in each story? Well, there's a narrative I instinctively embrace as a human being, and there's consequence, subtext, authentic human experience and occasional profundity.
The FORM of metafiction, as practiced by Hawkes, is profound in a sense--but it's also very pretentious and absurdist. It's making a statement through technique. No wonder some call Hawkes a pseudo-intellectual fraud. He invites that criticism--but I appreciate his attempts. I mean, one-hundred years from now, NO ONE is going to go back to a story like "Charivari" or "The Goose on the Grave" or "The Owl" and say, "See? Do you see the MEANING here?" There is no "there" there and that is essentially the point.
Finally--and here is the whole enchilada--I read that Donald Barthelme was incredibly jealous of painters. He wanted to write stories that could be taken in and appreciated instantly, the way one does with a painting. Much metafiction--Hawkes especially--is essentially "word painting." I read all the Lunar Landscape stories from start to finish because I'm a meticulous reader and don't like to half-ass things. But at the end of each story, I realized I could have skipped entire pages and still gotten the gist. Is that a good thing? I took my time with long stretches of this book, really visualizing and feeling each sentence. I came away feeling a bit conned.
Hawkes has said that all of this stories were really about the aftermath of war. And to be fair, there is an apocalyptic dystopian feel to his work. And yet...
I read about four books at a time and I like to take an image of one of those authors and make it my desktop background. When I'm not writing or otherwise working, I'll stare at the picture and ask it questions: "What are you trying to teach me?" "What part of your heart are you exposing in your work?" "Why should I care?" As I take one last look at John Hawkes' picture, I see this very 1970's image of a male writer with a bad haircut, boxy plastic glasses, turtleneck sweater; a man who took some artistic chances and had the world by the ass in many respects. I also hear him laughing at me for asking those questions.
https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&r...
April 7, 2017
Full disclosure: I read this collection for the first six short stories as well as for Hawkes's debut novella, "Charivari." Will visit The Owl and The Goose on the Grave in a separate volume at a later date.
December 27, 2025
From each tower flew a small white standard, constant and square in the wind. It was a dream of the three white flags which were suitably the ensigns of Sasso Fetore, starkly bleached and deliberately unadorned with the hangman's owl. Their white was mounted briskly above the green. The country was no larger than the flag and as perfect. The road was a bright red line winding to the three precipices and the capital of rigid existence. And the flags were moving, fluttering, the motion of life anchored safely to one place.
A soundless wind. Then some silent battery commenced a cannonade from a distant point in the light of morning- not a figure appeared on the battlements- and a silent invisible grapeshot tore at the flags. The white standards were pierced and began a silent disintegration until they were no more than a few shreds beating solemnly against their masts in the blue sky.
Riches, treasures, riches, treasures, riches.
A soundless wind. Then some silent battery commenced a cannonade from a distant point in the light of morning- not a figure appeared on the battlements- and a silent invisible grapeshot tore at the flags. The white standards were pierced and began a silent disintegration until they were no more than a few shreds beating solemnly against their masts in the blue sky.
Riches, treasures, riches, treasures, riches.
June 8, 2020
THE OWL - needed an editor; so disjointed and plodding. composed of what feels like Borges' discards. impossible to enjoy.
THE GOOSE ON THE GRA.......
Hawkes circa 1940's - not good; not "Hawkes."
THE GOOSE ON THE GRA.......
Hawkes circa 1940's - not good; not "Hawkes."
December 3, 2021
this was the first time i really felt like i got what hawkes was doing, i still didn't what on earth was happening most of the time but it was beautiful and chilling, which is what he wanted more.
October 29, 2021
3.5, rounded up to 4, because I hope people continue to read Hawkes. His stories (all from the early 1960s) are compressed, typically atmospheric, and excellent. The novella Charivari is chronologically fractured, both funny and dark, and exquisitely written, with two breathtaking passages (the delivery of the wedding dress, pp. 107-108, and driving the bride to the ceremony, pp. 123-125). There were stretches where I couldn't follow what was happening from one paragraph to the next, however, as if each sentence was individually preserved in amber, and didn't touch the others around it. The short novels The Owl and The Goose on the Grave are completely disorienting, and difficult and frustrating to read, despite occasional passages of great beauty that feel like nightmares or dreams. They were published in 1950, but written in the 1940s, likely after Hawkes served as an ambulance driver in Italy and Germany during WWII. War permeates every piece in this collection, as the fundamental cause of trauma and destabilization in human relations. I admired his effort, but don't believe he was successful in those two short novels, and I didn't enjoy reading them. Lunar Landscapes is not the place to begin with Hawkes. For anyone interested in the work of this writer whom William H. Gass loved so, seek out The Cannibal, Second Skin, or The Lime Twig.
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews