Customer Reviews

Travesty

5 star:		(4)
4 star:		(0)
3 star:		(0)
2 star:		(1)
1 star:		(1)

 

 

This slim novel covers some of the same ground as J.G. Ballard's "Crash," but focuses less on the medical/scientific/technological aspects of auto accident deaths and more on the psychological depths of a man who plans to take his friend and daughter to their deaths in a car wreck. Although an American writer, Hawkes's prose often reads like an English translation of a French writer, such as Camus. (Hawkes found much greater fame in France than he ever did in the United States.) "Travesty," which is told from the point of view of a single, unstable narrator, is a brilliant exploration of sex, death, duality, and incestuous desire.

"We are travelling as if inside a clock the shape of a bullet, seated as if stationary among tight springs and brilliant gems. And we have a full tank of gas, and tires half a month old. Do not ask me to slow down. It is impossible." -JH
Hawkes book is a brilliant, chilling, and hypnotic look into the urgency of life itself. In creating a situation of imminent death he deftly manuevers the reader into an assessment of our own reasons for living. A truly beautiful narrative, and probably the most easily accessible of Hawkes works.

Travesty is a must read! The dialogue and thoughts of a "mad man" as he drives himself, his daughter and his daughter's/wife's lover to their deaths at top speeds in a car...fascinating! Once you start reading it, you cannot put the book down because of its fast paced momentum. Erotica, madness, and machinery all blended into one! If you liked the movie Crash, this is much much better.

Wonderfully written, brutal, crisp, not shrinking from cruelty, perversion, tender twists of psyche. An awful delight - read if not fragile.

I'm tired of these effete, English, dissolute, and decaying narrators (e.g., The Sea, The Sea; Cast in Doubt; The Book of Evidence; etc.). If the movie industry decided to adapt all of these novels, Alan Rickman wouldn't have a moment's rest. Strangely, this novel, for a change, is written by a yank.

Woe to the world: looks like postmodernism is here to stay. Travesty is just a transcript of a driver talking to his passengers before crashing the car in an "arranged accident." Along the way, he pontificates about love and betrayal, a collection of cliches and bad epigrams. Nothing really happens in this book, just this guy rambling on and on. I'm glad this book is out of print: it will save the world a lot of time. If for some reason you like this book, you might also like Donald Antrim's A Hundred Brothers.