2666: A nagging question and a satisfying answer

As of this posting, our friend Tucker should be right in the thick of Book 4 of Roberto Bolaño’s gigantic doorstop of a classic, 2666.  Getting to that point in the novel is kind of like reaching mile 20 in a very grueling marathon. It’s hard, it hurts, and you’re wondering why you ever started the race in the first place. (At least that’s how this  marathon-virgin imagines mile 20 of a marathon to be…)

Book 4 is titled “The Part About the Crimes” and comes in at around 350 pages in the hardcover edition. That’s not what makes it unusual, though. What makes it unusual is that Book 4 is essentially a 350 page catalogue of a series of violent murders that take place in Santa Teresa, Bolaño’s fictional stand-in for Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. (Read about the real-life inspiration here.)

The reader basically gets a full forensic report on each of the victims, all of them young women, including where they were found, how they were found, what they were wearing, how they were killed, and on and on and on. After the first few cases are explained in detail, one gets the impression this is just Bolaño being Bolaño. He’s using an abundance of random detail to build a picture that’s almost too real to be fiction- just as he does earlier in 2666,  when he plunges headlong into page after descriptive page detailing the random dreams of his characters- dreams that seem to have no bearing on the story at hand, but which give the story a stamp of lifelike authenticity.

But when you get through a hundred pages of detailed murder descriptions, with no apparent signs of the author’s letting up, you can’t help but think there’s something else going on here. And by the time two hundred pages have rolled by, you’re convinced that he’s gone off the deep end- he’s no longer playing “fun with random details-”  he’s cataloguing the endless stream of murders out of some sordid, neurotic necessity. It’s an obsession almost.

So, why does he do it?

I don’t have any idea. At least I didn’t when I first read it. But while researching an old highschool classmate-turned-poet, I stumbled across a very interesting theory that he puts forward here (see the last paragraph.) Here it is in a nutshell:

1. There’s reason to believe that Bolaño sowed some wild oats in the northwest Mexico of his 1970s youth.
2. It’s not inconceivable that he had an illegitimate child or two the exact same age as the victims in 2666  (or the real-life victims in Ciudad Juarez.)
3. If Bolaño believed he might have had a daughter among the dead, then “The Part About the Crimes” could be his desperate search to find, name, connect with and honor her.

Still not sold? I'll admit it could be a stretch, but consider this: Bolaño dedicated 2666  to his daughters.

Mind blown, right?

Roberto Bolano's "Summary Dialogue"

One of the components of Roberto Bolano's powerhouse novel 2666 that is most striking to me is its strict absence of dialogue, by which I mean that Bolano prefers to summarize the dialogue, rather than allowing the characters to directly state their words.  For example:

"Espinoza called Pelletier and asked whether it wouldn't be a good idea to get in touch with Norton.  Unsure, they decided to ask Morini.  Morini abstained from comment."


"She said yes, she had met Archimboldi many years ago, but she didn't remember his face anymore, or what he was like, or any story about him that would be worth telling.  She couldn't remember the last time he was at the publishing house.  She advised them to speak to Mrs. Bubis, and then, without a word, she busied herself editing a galley."

"Norton said there was nothing strange about Espinoza's lateness.  Planes got delayed, she said.  Then she  said, I never turn on the television, surprised that Pelletier didn't already know that.  Of course Pelletier did know it.  But he hadn't had the spirit to say: let's watch the news."

Now, after pouring back through the book, I've realized that Bolano does, on occasion, implement the use of quotation marks and standard dialogue.  But, it appears to be somewhat rare, at least in Book One.

Which begs the question: is this summary of dialogue effective?  Do we like it?  Or do we prefer to actually hammer through the quotation marks of word for word dialogue as spoken by the characters?  I am prone to argue that the "Summary of Dialogue" increases the flow, the current, the fluidity of the writing.

Does anyone disagree?

First Line Friday

Metafiction?

MacEvoy and I are both admitted suckers for Metafiction. So, when I recently came across today's first line, I was immediately sold on the premise of the entire novel (that's the beauty of a good first line). Now, I haven't actually read the novel yet, but it's waiting for me patiently on my shelf. Here is the first line:

"The first time that Jean-Claude Pelletier read Benno Von Archimboldi was Christmas 1980, in Paris, when he was nineteen years old and studying German literature. "

The novel is the critically acclaimed 2666 by Roberto Bolano. And Bolano's first line is packed with intrigue. Without having actually read the novel, I can assume that (i) Jean-Claude Pelletier is some sort of intellectual bibliophile, (ii) Archimboldi's writings are going to be central to Pelletier's core experience, and (iii) the setting is Europe. A beautiful literary recipe! Is it not?

Those of you who have actually read 2666 will please correct me if any of my assumptions are completely off-base.

First Line Friday

Today's first line is one that I've loved since the first day I read it, years ago, on my balcony in Los Angeles below the tapestry of a mild winter afternoon.

"I've been cordially invited to join the visceral realists."

This novel then goes on to tell the story of a 17 year old aspiring poet named Juan Garcia Madero in Mexico City and his interactions with a group of rogue poets known as, of course, the "visceral realists." This first line is very abrupt, not flowery, not overly burdensome, but concise, and then the real kicker: The Visceral Realists. The reader is 7 words into the novel and already wondering who the hell the visceral realists are. To my eyes, it's a very effective first line.

So who wrote this first line? And in what novel? Without further ado, it is Roberto Bolano's critically acclaimed "The Savage Detectives." This novel really frustrated me at times, while completely melting my face with its turns and prose at other times. I guess I'd suggest that you read it, but be advised that it's work. But it's work that's well worth it.