John Hawkes occupies a peculiar place in contemporary American fiction. He is one of the few truly gifted writers in the so-called black humor movement which has flourished since 1950, but he lacks the renown enjoyed by less talented authors. In the years since World War II innovative American fiction has turned from the documentation of social forms and the use of realistic technique to an evocation of nightmare and fear. The feeling of disruption left from the war, the specter of atomic catastrophe so vividly objectified at Hiroshima, the tensions of the cold war, and the spread of random violence in everyday life have all contributed to the conviction that chaos rather than order dominates day to day living.
The most exciting of today's novelists reflect this sense of the fractured life in their fiction, but, significantly, the prevailing tone in most of their work is not the gloomy pessimism which might be expected but a shocking sense of humor. Shocking because it encourages laughter at events which are, more often than not, horribly violent, the modern comic novel often meets the general feeling of doom with humor. We need only recall Kurt Vonnegut's Bokonon thumbing his nose at You Know Who while the world around him solidifies into ice (Cat's Cradle) or Joseph Heller's Yossarian walking naked around the air base because Snowden's guts spilled on his uniform (Catch-22) to understand how a different kind of humor, often grotesque and violent, comments on the world's absurdities.
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