The Hawkline Monster

 

Richard Brautigan The Hawkline Monster (1974)
This was the first Brautigan I ever read, mainly because Reuben - with whom I was sharing a house at the time - shoved it at me and said, you must read this because it's amazing. This would have been 1984, possibly the first half of '85, and while I did indeed think it was amazing, it has somehow taken me thirty-five years to follow up on its promise with others by the guy; but I think I now understand why.

The Hawkline Monster bills itself as a gothic western, although as with Brautigan's In Watermelon Sugar, it borders on science-fiction, or at least hangs out in the same part of town. Its cast comprises fairly typical Brautigan types, freewheeling and easily distracted as they deal with something which is probably almost magic realism with the inevitable interludes for shagging. The monster of the title is an accumulation of powerful and sentient light living in the basement, which comes with its own similarly sentient but long-suffering shadow. As often seems to be the case with Brautigan, the symbolism is positively pregnant with possibilities which the author leaves pretty much to the reader, not least of these being some slightly screwy parallel with the Biblical creation myth in which God says, let there be light, and so there is and the light brings shadow into being - which would probably be the devil; although this light is a complete cunt while its shadow seems to be a fairly sympathetic character. For what it's worth, as a reformed Who obsessive, I also couldn't help but notice some fairly solid parallels with Marc Platt's Ghostlight, although I've no idea if Brautigan served as inspiration. Along vaguely related lines, The Hawkline Monster might also be considered one of those novels which foreshadows the whole Faction Paradox thing without too much squinting.

It's a genuinely wonderful book - tight, witty, and truly peculiar without feeling the need to pull funny faces - and is in all sense a masterpiece; except for some reason it doesn't feel anything like so personal as a few of his other works. It's unmistakably Brautigan but it feels as though the conversation he's having is with himself more than the reader. This is an observation rather than a criticism, but I guess it at least explains my thirty-five year gap as much as anything does.