Tag Archives: Roberto Bolaño

The Third Reich

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The Third Reich was written by Roberto Bolaño in 1989 and found among his papers after his death in 2003, and serves as an early example of the literary genius coming into his own.

In this mesmerizing and engrossing tale, the German war games champion Udo Berger and his girlfriend Ingeborg visit the resort town of Costa Brava in Spain where Udo’s family vacationed in his youth. While Ingeborg is out making new friends and laying out on the beach, Udo is in his room obsessing over the war game Third Reich and writing papers on new strategies.

In a strange turn of events, a new friend from the trip goes missing and Udo refuses to leave the town until the body is found, despite the fact that the city is quickly being drained of vacationers (including Ingeborg) as the weather shifts. During this time, Udo meets a challenger who may actually pose a threat, both on his champion status and his life.

Although I’m not too knowledgeable about war games and battle geography, the laspes of misunderstanding were outweighted by the interesting characters, dialogue, and supurb use of language. The atmosphere Bolaño conveys in his novel is honest and real, a true expression of experience. The way in which he describes his world – the world he’s built in his novel –  is beautiful and relatable, simple yet profound and touching.

“I scarcely move a muscle, though inside I’m falling apart.”

I found it fascinating to read a predecessor to some of Bolaño’s more recent and well-recognized works. Although somewhat less coherent and intriguing than some of his other stories, The Third Reich mirrored the eloquent, surreal, glamorous, and raw style that defines Bolaño’s work.

Although I thoroughly enjoyed this novel, I would not necessarily recommend this book to someone unfamiliar with Bolaño. Those who have read and enjoyed 2666, The Savage Detectives, or any of his other short stories would surely appreciate this book. For those unfamiliar with, but interested in his works, I’d advise starting with 2666.

The Savage Detectives

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The Savage Detectives, written by the Chilean writer Roberto Bolaño and translated by Chris Andrews, traces the story of a Mexican avant-garde literary movement in the 1920’s - visceral realism. The book begins and ends with a diary-style narrative from the perspective of García Madero, a seventeen-year-old aspiring Mexican poet. The portion between these bookends is filled with short, detailed narratives from the perspective of dozens of different characters, each with their own unique voice, experience, and relation to any of the three main characters – Arturo Belano, Ulises Lima, and Cesárea Tinajero. These individuals (as well as the countless other whose paths cross theirs) live, travel, and experience the ups and down of life all across the globe between the years 1976 and 1996.

In his narrative, García Madero portrays himself as an intelligent, passionate, and inexperienced young man who desperately wants to have his poetry published. He recounts, via diary entries, dropping out of the university to write poety, his first sexual encounters, and making new friends, including the visceral realists Arturo Belano and Ulises Lima. The three share a passion for the movement and, in the final section of the book they venture throughout Mexico in search of the founder of visceral realism, Cesárea Tinajero.

The 52 characters that narrate the central portion of the novel form an intricate network of interaction. The convoluted intermingling of well-developed characters, complex plot lines, and international geography is initially baffling; however the disorientation gradually transitions into a strong intrigue and fascination, although it never culminates in a full understanding of the story. Bolaño is able to entwine several themes and elements into his story, often simultaneously; these range from dark and thrilling, to tender and erotic, and even humorous. The author knows how to prescribe each element in its prefect dosage, aptly balancing drama, tragedy, passion, sadness, hope, happiness, uncertainty, and longing.

Bolaño is a literary genius: he is able to take on several personas and narrative perspectives on a seemingly narrow topic, he regularly resorts to an elevated and eloquent writing style and choice of diction, and he contrives brilliant metaphors and myths which branch out from the linear plot line.

Neither this book, nor this author is for everyone. Both The Savage Detectives and 2666 are excessively dense, complicated, and overwhelming reads; yet both are highly engaging and some of the most exceedingly well-written pieces I have ever encountered. I’m no expert in literature, but I believe Roberto Bolaño one of the greatest writers of our time and I look forward to reading his other works.

“For a while, Criticism travels side by side with the Work, then Criticism vanishes and it’s the Readers who keep pace. The journey may be long or short. Then the Readers die one by one and the Work continues on alone, although a new Criticism and new Readers gradually fall into step with it along its path. Then Criticism dies again and the Readers die again and the Work passes over a trail of bones on its journey toward solitude. To come near the work, to sail in her wake, is a sign of certain death, but new Criticism and new Readers approach her tirelessly and relentlessly and are devoured by time and speed. Finally the Work journeys irremediably alone in the Great Vastness. And one day the Work dies, as all things must die and come to an end: the Sun and the Earth and the Solar System and the Galaxy and the farthest reaches of man’s memory. Everything that begins as comedy ends in tragedy.”

- Roberto Bolaño, The Savage Detectives

The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower

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Today begins the last semester of my undergraduate career. In other words, four months from now Tucson will become one of those friends whom I look back on fondly, but never want to see again. Getting out of this sleepy pothole-riddled city is exciting, but leaving school is terrifying. Other than the fascinating classes and wonderful professors, the thing which I will miss most about the University of Arizona is the drive between Phoenix and Tucson.

Every two to four weeks I drive 100 miles to visit my family and friends back home. Those 90 minutes are always an incredible experience.

Arizona is a desert. People often associate “desert” with the Sahara - vast expanses of blistering hot sand, a lack of water, and a constant struggle to survive. Yea, Arizona is hot. But it is absolutely beautiful nonetheless.

Towering mountains trail behind me, the mountains ahead beckon me home like an unyielding siren, and mountains surround and embrace me on every side. The overgrown hills are as majestic as the pyramids of Egypt. On overcast days, I can see the low clouds sink and mingle among the peaks, tickling the cacti and lifting the chins of the resistant little plants that call the mountainside home.

 Although I am a bit envious of cities that actually have seasons other than hot, hotter, and monsoon, I have come to appreciate the subtle nuances in Arizona’s plant life. For most of the year, the roadside is littered with sickly shrubs and leafless trees. However, for a month or so in the spring, delicate purple and yellow flowers are sprinkled along the entire drive. It’s an amazing sight. Around this time, those bulging monstrosities that keep me company on my long drive transform from a dull gray to a bright and lush green. For a minute or two I wonder if I’ve absent-mindedly taken a wrong turn and ended up in Southern California or New Mexico. But no, this is my home.

“Erin, please leave before the sun goes down. That’s a dark stretch of road. I worry.”

Sorry mom, but the sunset is the best part of the drive!

“The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower.”

- Roberto Bolaño, “2666“

The sunset that Bolaño was referring to was observed in the fictional city of Santa Teresa, which was modeled after the city of Juarez, which is located in northern Mexico, just shy of the Arizona border. I think Bolaño understands why I purposely delay my journey until the late afternoon. Although “carnivorous flower” is not the first thing that comes to mind when observing the lustrous flare dangle in the sky and then slowly descend behind the mountaintops, seeing the sun illuminate the sky and scatter rays of every color is an indescribable experience and the abstract metaphor seems to suit the phenomenon perfectly.

Sunsets occur all over the world, all around the country, and throughout every state. So what make this Arizona sunset so sensational, so breathtakingly magnificent?

For me, I think the experience serves as a form of meditation. My mind is always racing and the traditional “shut your mind off and just be” just doesn’t work for me. Observing nature, especially its beauty and all the natural phenomena occurring continuously helps me to slow down – both literally (I try to keep my eyes on the road) and figuratively.

An appreciation of nature lends to an appreciation of life and of everyday miracles (see my earlier post about miracles here). Shutting my mind off is near impossible, but conversing with shrubs, cacti, and the overshadowing pile of pebbles rather than myself is a freeing experience. Observing the beauty of nature and momentarily forgetting the concrete-colored skyscrapers, the 9-to-5 desk job, and the endless demands of everyday life must be a form of mediation. If it’s not already, I might need to patent the idea.

I might miss the university, the routines, the professors, and the friends made. I might even reminisce about Tucson on occasion. But what I’m going to miss the most is that transcendent drive, my monthly meditation, my escape from and re-entry into reality. The introspection, the thoughts, the new perspectives.

I have a feeling that when time and money allow, I may succumb to my yearning to make that trek, to not only witness, but also experience the overwhelming influence of that carnivorous flower that hangs so prominently in the desert sky.

Asinine contortionists

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How simple we seem, or pretend to be in front of others, and how twisted we are deep down. How paltry we are and how spectactularly we contort ourselves before our own eyes and the eyes of others… And all for what? To hide what? To make people believe what?

Roberto Bolaño, “2666″

An Overview and Review of Roberto Bolaño’s 2666

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Being an avid reader, I will buy just about any book I can get my hands on. Whether it’s a New York Times top seller, written by a favorite author, or comes highly recommended by a friend, I am always looking for a good read. After completing the book “Bright Shiny Morning” by James Frey (my favorite author), I read an interview in the back of the book in which Frey mentions the book “2666” by Roberto Bolaño. Within an hour I had ordered the book and anxiously awaited the arrival of that crinkly white plastic Barnes & Noble package. As I twiddled my thumbs and shifted in my seat with anticipation, I read reviews of this 900-page beast of a book. The reviews were cryptic, unclear, and nonsensical; I had no idea what I had gotten myself into. All I knew was that it was going to be good.

Allow me to preface by saying that the book is broken in to five sub-stories, all of which are independently complex, yet seamlessly interrelated – so much so that after completing the book, my initial urge was to begin rereading it, this time creating a character map and taking notes of all the instances of overlap, to gain a better grasp of the full story.

Yes, I’m probably crazy. But, anyways…

The first section, The Part about the Critics, explores the relationship between four literary critics that all greatly appreciate the work of an elusive German author. The next story, The Part about Amalfitano, traces the descent into madness of a professor of Philosophy. The third story, The Part about Fate, follows a Harlem-based reporter to Mexico where he encounters many strange individuals and learns of the horrific crimes occurring throughout the town. The Part about the Crimes is a gruesomely detailed encyclopedia of the crimes in the town of Santa Teresa over the course of a decade– most of which were committed against women. And finally, The Part about Archimboldi is a novella which explores the life of Hans Reiter, who eventually becomes a writer, taking on the pen name Benno von Archimboldi.

Although the stories take place all across the globe, they all have ties to the tiny town of Santa Teresa, Mexico, where thousands of young women a year are kidnapped, raped, mutilated, murdered, and then dumped in the desert. In addition, the stories are all lightly intertwined with minor characters from one chapter being involved with lead characters in a later one. There are also recurring props, situations, and themes which tie together the seemingly unrelated stories. “2666″ was published posthumously and Roberto Bolaño had wanted the five books to be published individually, released in five-year increments. However, I feel that the subtle links between the books create a larger, more complex, and more meaningful picture when placed side-by-side. Recognizing connections between the different sub-stories brought the story to life and the seamless transitions between the books built up a sense of urgency and anticipation for whatever surprises may lie ahead.

The Part about the Critics. This first section had me asking the question repeatedly “What on earth is this?” One of the main characters is simultaneously sexually involved with two of her best friends (as well as several other minor characters), unable to decide whom she is most interested in. She eventually reveals that she is, in fact, in love with the fourth member of their small group of Benno von Archimboldi enthusiasts. Although twisted and convoluted, the story is coherent and intriguing. Despite the fact that the complicated love affairs are a focal point of the narrative, the underlying theme is the main characters’ – all European literary critics and academics – admiration for the writer Benno von Archimboldi. Although the four come from entirely different backgrounds, they are united by their immense appreciation for this mysterious literary genius. They attend conferences together, travel to one another’s hometowns in order to discuss Archimboldi’s writings, and finally travel to Santa Teresa – a small town in northern Mexico – where Archimboldi is rumored to be visiting.

The Part about Amalfitano. In this section, we are introduced to Oscar Amalfitano, a fifty-year-old Chilean, teaching philosophy at a university in Santa Teresa, Mexico. He lives with his seventeen-year-old daughter, Rosa. Lola, Rosa’s mother, who had been mentally unstable, had abandoned her family when Rosa was still young. Despite this, Oscar never forgets Lola and never seems to get over her. Vaguely aware of the violence in Santa Teresa, a subtle yet nagging worry grows within him over the safety of his precious daughter. After discovering a geometry book which neither belonged to him nor his daughter, Oscar decides to hang the book from a clothesline in the backyard “to see if it learns something about real life.” Shortly thereafter, he begins hearing a voice in his head. He is tormented by the inquisitive voice and begins losing sleep; he begins losing his mind.

The Part about Fate. Oscar Fate is a journalist from New York who works for an African-American interest magazine. He first travels to Detroit, where he interviews an inspirational former-Black Panther who talks about danger, money, food, stars, and usefulness. Fate is then sent to Santa Teresa to cover a boxing match, even though he does not regularly write for the sports section. He meets other reporters, interviews the boxers, and spends time with some interesting characters and beautiful women (including Rosa Amalfitano). During his time in Santa Teresa, Fate learns of the ongoing serial murders and becomes thoroughly interested. However, the magazine he works for refuses to fund the story and demands he return to the US. Before doing so, he accompanies a female journalist to the local prison to talk to the supposed perpetrator of the crimes, a daunting blonde giant, in whose presence all questions are lost.

The Part about the Crimes. Over a span of about ten years, thousands of young women and girls in Santa Teresa, Mexico are kidnapped, raped, mutilated, and murdered; their ravaged bodies dumped in the desert, in ravines, behind dumpsters, and in the middle of school yards. The explicit descriptions are simultaneously fascinating and repulsive, as if featured in a medical report or some sick documentary. It is so real, yet written in a clinical and detached tone. The images evoked are strong enough to make your stomach churn, as if you were watching a live bovine being forced through a meat press. It is abhorrent; yet it is impossible to look away. Certain instances, such as meeting the victims’ families stir up acute feelings of sympathy and a longing for the injustice to end, for the perpetrators to be punished for their heinous crimes. However, the crimes continue as the policemen fruitlessly, and often carelessly, investigate the crimes to no avail. The Part about the Crimes exposes the true horror of humanity – people are dying, people are killing, and everyone else chooses to simply look away and ignore what is happening.

The Part about Archimboldi. Hans Reiter is born in Prussia in 1920 to poor, German parents. He has blonde hair, clear blue eyes, long legs, a passionate love for the ocean, and an extensive knowledge of different types of seaweed. When he is ten-years-old, his parents have another child, a little sister whom Hans adores. After leaving school and working several small jobs, he is drafted into the military. Reiter meets, and later falls in love with, a cynical and opinionated young woman who believes the only things worth swearing by are storms and the Aztecs. During his time serving in the army, Reiter runs into a woman for whom he and his mother had briefly worked – a woman who would continually reappear in his life – and discovers, in an abandoned house, the fascinating journal of a Jewish boy who had joined the Red Army. He later rents a typewriter under the name Benno von Archimboldi and sends his first novel off to be published; all of his subsequent works are printed, as well – some receiving positive reviews, and others negative. After the death of his lover, Archimboldi becomes elusive, making his whereabouts known only long enough to receive reparations for his latest novel. Later in life, his sister – whom he had lost contact with for several decades– contacts him with news that her son is locked up in a Mexican prison and she needs help negotiating his release. The book ends with Hans Reiter boarding a plane to Mexico to meet his sister and her son, the blonde giant accused of the serial murders in Santa Teresa.

“2666″ is a phenomenally complex narrative that explores the intense depths of passion and love, the convulsions of insanity and hopelessness, as well as the throes of death and despair. It is grotesque and eloquent, if such a combination exists. Bolaño not only probes, but delves into generally taboo topics – sex, sodomy, prostitution, rape, horrendous mutilation, murder, sexism, abandonment, love, lust, and twisted, dysfunctional relationships. However, these obscene motifs are addressed in an elegant and ornate style, making them not only easier to swallow, but almost beautiful. The book is thick with metaphors, anecdotes, quotes, random facts, and chunks of knowledge that enhance the authenticity of the characters and the believability of their stories. There are several sections of the book which I had to immediately reread, sometimes multiple times, in an attempt to capture the meaning and understand the author’s motivations. Each story and each character placed Bolaño’s talent on exhibit – he used several different writing techniques and styles and was somehow able to make them work in unison and play off of one other. Details from one story bring light to mysteries from another. The book takes its readers on a fantastic journey across multiple continents over the course of the twentieth century, altering the style in order to represent the setting and the circumstances.

Although I’ve presented the backbone of the novel, “2666″ is a dense book with many abstruse details that I could never explain in such a concise review. I now understand why the reviews for “2666″ were all positive, yet so obscure. The novel is a compilation of dozens of interrelated stories, none of which seem related to one another, yet all of which build on the others and help paint an intricate, albeit ambiguous, portrait. The book is resistant to classification and open to interpretation, in many respects.

“2666″ is a long  and complicated book; however, is one of the most phenomenally well-written books I have encountered and I would highly recommend that you check it out for yourself.