re: Read my reads

In an effort to keep my fans abreast of my endeavours, I submit to you the following reaction to Chilean-born Roberto Bolaño´s 1998 breakout tome, ¨The Savage Detectives¨.

Hearalded as a fresh and rejuvinating force in Latin American literature, Bolaño is posthumously considered among the elite of the turn of the century world authors (he died in 2003), even though he was a self proclaimed poet, not a novelist.

When I finished this book a couple of days ago and set it down, I was uncharacteristically ambivalent. That is to say, I wasn´t sure exactly how I felt about it. I´ve thought about this some, and I don´t believe this to be a good thing. The story was beautifully written (and translated, of course), the characters where fully fleshed out, the subjects covered are as varied as life has to offer, and Bolaño masterfully captures voices for innumerable characters, which is always something I´ve thought would be difficult to do even competently. I also like how, in the style of Easton Ellis and Eggers, Bolaño´s books are semi-autobiographical with recurring characters. It´s a fun contemporary flourish. Lastly, this book offers a sometimes startling and chrytalline look into the life of a person wholly immersed in the art of poetry. In this sense, ¨The Savage Detectives¨is rather unique. I´ve never read anything before that so wholly captures the poetic experience, with all of it´s dramatic pitfalls and nebulous ideals. And I think this is the point at which my personal tastes diverge.

In my opinion, ¨The Savage Detectives¨is poetry masked as a novel. I personally find peotry to be overly wrought, insubstantial or faux-substantial, and something of a fool´s errand (this last qualification I´m sure would be widely contested, but this is my blog!!). This book follows that lead. For 650 pages, the story dances around any kind of actual progression and almost seems non-commital(which is an adjective I have never used to describe a book before!). Any kind of meaning is, at best, allusive and the plot meanders along at a snail´s pace. And though I generally love literature with a macabre tone, this book was dark and horrifying in an unsatisfactory way. Furthermore, I love a book with an open ending that challenges the reader and allows for multiple interpretations... but come on! The ending of this book is like reading an e.e. cummings poem: not worth it!!

In any event, NY Times judged this book to be one of the 10 best of its year, so I guess I am just wrong. However, as anybody that knows me will substantiate, just because I know I am wrong doesn´t mean I won´t defend an opinion.

If you have any interest in following along with me, today I picked up Julio Cortázar´s ¨Hopscotch¨. Though he was born and died in Europe, he was raised in Argentina and is considered among the country´s best.

In other news, I am still enjoying my stay in Ushuaia. I purchased a bus ticket today that leaves for Puerto Natales on Thursday, so I have a couple more days, which is fine by me. Last night I met a couple of Argentines, a guy from Holland, and a large group of Israelis (who, by the way, are ubiquitous in South America) and we had dinner and went to the bar for a bit. Good times, though every smokes cigarettes, unfortunately. I forgot how much cigarettes in bars really suck. I smelled like booty-doo this morning. It was a fun, and best of all, I actually followed and participated in my first Spanish conversation last night! Hooray! I contributed less to the conversation than a Bill O´Reilly guest, but that´s not important.

I´ll close today´s sermon with a quote taken from the Infrarealist Manifesto (Infrarealism is the poetic movement Roberto Bolaño founded in Mexico). I like it, and it is at least germane:
¨And the person will have to walk a thousand kilometers, but the road will swallow him up at last.¨