Roberto Bolaño (1953–2003)

Two short passages from The Last Interview and Other Conversations:

For me, the word “writing” is the exact opposite of the word “waiting.” Instead of waiting, there is writing. Well, I’m probably wrong – it’s possible that writing is another form of waiting, of delaying things. I’d like to think otherwise. But, as I said, I’m probably wrong.

Those who have power – even for a short time – know nothing about literature; they are solely interested in power. I can be a clown to my readers, if I damn well please, but never to the powerful.… (more)

4.5 stars

What ties the fourteen stories in this collection together is melancholy. Obscure poets and writers, and exiles make up most of the people in this book, and Bolaño renders moments of transience with great delicacy. Events are narrated plainly, but in all of them there’s the great veil of sadness enshrouding everything. Parting: from people, from the places we know and love, from the times that are familiar, is at most times sad. It can also be the kind of sadness that bears longing; the kind of sadness that is spontaneous and innocuous enough to dwell in. Going for a drive with the windows pulled down and the breeze on our face or looking at the starry sky. English words don’t seem to fit into the shape of these feelings of yearning and so we look for those of other languages: the Amharic tizita; the Welsh hiraeth; the German sehnsucht; the Portuguese saudade. The indefiniteness itself being a part of the experience, and this collection of stories dredges up this feeling exquisitely. This was my first Bolaño and it turned out to be a very good book.… (more)

man. I just finished this, as the sun is coming up, and I don't know where to begin talking about it or even what I think of it

I had heard very great things about 2666, so imagine my disappointment when the first 200 pages, at least, felt like pulling teeth. it wasn't just that I found the academics dull and pretentious - I knew that was the point - but that the writing itself was so detached, so uninteresting. I forced myself to keep going because I just had to understand what everybody raving about this was talking about. and when I got to part 3, I thought, finally! we're getting somewhere. part 4 was the same, but I still couldn't understand what I was missing. part 5, the final chapter, is so beautiful, and the only part of the book where the characters feel in any way 'real', and even though it alone is over 250 pages long it ended far too soon

this is the point - 'an oasis of horror in a desert of boredom' - and it is a very cool concept at which bolano obviously succeeded, but, even if it exposes my philistinism, I can't help but think that it was not necessary for the desert of boredom to be quite so vast. despite this, I think I agree that this book is a masterpiece. and I'm not entirely sure why, given that I despised 20% (at a very conservative estimate) of it. but I'm so in awe of the concept that I can overlook enjoyment. and that last chapter...… (more)