Bolaño's last work—and to me, his magnum opus—the culmination of all the ideas he had explored in his established body of works: the contingent natureBolaño's last work—and to me, his magnum opus—the culmination of all the ideas he had explored in his established body of works: the contingent nature of the literary canon, the cultural politics of capital-L Literature, the complicit involvement of authors and critics—no matter how distanced or detached they may be, consciously or not—in the political circumstances of their times.
It's a meandering, ever-expanding maelstrom of a fictional literary biography in the making, but also an imcomplete (because one can never represent reality in all its ugliness) chronicle of what in Bolaño's view constitutes the nexus of evil: the femicide machine of Ciudad Juarez, the impunity of crimes and our indifference toward them, and how even this indescribable evil is ultimately incorporated into the constitution of a literary canon—the epigraph, lifted from Baudelaire, is the key to everything here: for what is literature in the eyes of us consumers, if not "an oasis of horror in the desert of boredom."
As much as I loath to do so, there's no other way but to employ a hyperbole here, it's THE quintessential novel of the 21st century....more
Formative reading for me. Potentially life-changing work of theory. The last piece in the collection, "A Secular Prayer," is probably the only essay tFormative reading for me. Potentially life-changing work of theory. The last piece in the collection, "A Secular Prayer," is probably the only essay that has made me tear up from its sheer beauty and erudition.
No rating because I can't possibly do this one justice....more
Perhaps someday, in some rambling piece of literary review nobody will care to read, I'll write about this equRoberto Bolaño, you magnificent bastard.
Perhaps someday, in some rambling piece of literary review nobody will care to read, I'll write about this equally rambling, desperately melancholic, deliriously funny, stupidly Quixotic novel of yours. Isn't it so sad, Bolaño, that at the end of the day, we would have to lose it all? All the books we have read, all the things we have written. To be lost in time, forgotten like dusty cheap paperbacks in a used book shop, like garbage left to rot in the ever expanding tombs of literary history.
Isn't the literary Canon such a stupid and cruel joke? How do we set about capturing the lives of those poor rejects, those second-third-fourth-rate writers imitating--out of spite, perhaps--those so-called Masters of letters, who never seem to come from your own homeland? To trace the invisible lines, driving blindly through the roads (not) taken by invisible poets, rummaging through obscure anthologies of poems. To arrive at the nothingness which awaits all of us madmen, who were at some point unfortunate enough to fall in love with--to be tricked by--this miserable thing called Literature (now cut the capital L crap, you would say).
I wish I could have had a drink with you, Bolaño. Maybe we could talk about books nobody has written, writers who never existed, or who do exist but nobody cares so it amounts to the same thing--all the things that could and couldn't be.
I wish I could have had a drink with you, Bolaño. I really do....more
"I thought I knew what 'realism' was," Keng said. She smiled, but it was not an easy smile. "How can you, if you don't know what hope is?"
Perhaps the m"I thought I knew what 'realism' was," Keng said. She smiled, but it was not an easy smile. "How can you, if you don't know what hope is?"
Perhaps the most masterful and empathetic meditation on political philosophy ever written in literature. A true justification for science fiction and its potential to defamiliarize our "realist" conceptions of the world, it transcends lofty hierarchical notions of literary genre.
At times, the novel makes me cry with its sheer brilliance and wisdom: the simplicity of Le Guin's language is such that she manages to say so much with so little, to emcompass so much without an effort, to speak directly with courage what needs to be said. During certain parts, it overwhelms me to the point where I have to put it down and take a deep breath.
It was a transformative journey, and I didn't want it to be over. You have no idea how much I admire this monumental work.
We have nothing but our freedom. We have nothing to give you but your own freedom. We have no law but the single principle of mutual aid between individuals. We have no government but the single principle of free association. We have no states, no nations, no presidents, no premiers, no chiefs, no generals, no bosses, no bankers, no landlords, no wages, no charity, no police, no soldiers, no wars. Nor do we have much else. We are sharers, not owners. We are not prosperous. None of us is rich. None of us is powerful. If it is Anarres you want, if it is the future you seek, then I tell you that you must come to it with empty hands. You must come to it alone, and naked, as the child comes into the world, into his future, without any past, without any property, wholly dependent on other people for his life. You cannot take what you have not given, and you must give yourself. You cannot buy the Revolution. You cannot make the Revolution. You can only be the Revolution. It is in your spirit, or it is nowhere....more
Single best novel I've read in 2020. Instant classic. Just do yourself a favor and read it.Single best novel I've read in 2020. Instant classic. Just do yourself a favor and read it....more
A magnificently executed science-fiction novella about the prospects of virtual-reality technologies, a meditation on the permeable relationship betweA magnificently executed science-fiction novella about the prospects of virtual-reality technologies, a meditation on the permeable relationship between reality and representation, and our obsession with the image. Hard to believe it was written in the late 1930s. The narrative itself, though, in the ways it keeps you in a permanent state of suspension--to use Tzvetan Todorov's term--is absolutely "fantastic" in the best way possible.
Praise be to el maestro Jorge Luis Borges for the recommendation. This one was way ahead of its time....more
Revueltas says "PANOPTICON IS FUCKING WACK" in one hell of an extended, spiralling, sprawling, stupifying, dizzying, dazzling, disgusting, deranged paRevueltas says "PANOPTICON IS FUCKING WACK" in one hell of an extended, spiralling, sprawling, stupifying, dizzying, dazzling, disgusting, deranged paragraph. And I eat that shit up....more
Knowledge bomb. Huge chunks of spatial theory. Much needed spatial/geographical detox for my crude, less-than-concrete all-too-historical Marxist persKnowledge bomb. Huge chunks of spatial theory. Much needed spatial/geographical detox for my crude, less-than-concrete all-too-historical Marxist perspectives. Will definitely be referred to and consulted in the future....more
"It is not down on any map; true places never are." --Hermann Melville, Moby Dick
Experimental comfort reading for the rootless souls scattered among th"It is not down on any map; true places never are." --Hermann Melville, Moby Dick
Experimental comfort reading for the rootless souls scattered among this strangely alienating globalized world. Beautifully fragmented, insightfully meditative compendium of diverse voices of travellers, free-spirited pilgrims and caged individuals seeking some fleeting glimpses of a destination, going through cracks in the geometrical grid of metropolises, revealing invisible lines buried in official tourist maps, or even tracing the cartography of our physical bodies.
Chopin's sister smuggles her brother's heart back to Warsaw. An environmental researcher travels back to Poland to settle the past with her childhood lover. A husband loses track of his wife and child during their trip on a tourist island. Preserved specimens of human organs are carried on imperial cargo ships. A caged Russian housewife decides to become a homeless woman living in metro lines. These strangers--some faceless, some nameless, some historical, yet all peculiarly concrete and tangible--converge into a dream-like narrative sequence weaved by an unnamed traveller-narrator. Could it be Tokarczuk herself?
Borders are crossed, time zones swapped, patterns interrupted, maps deconstructed, destinations deferred. Everything is put into motion. Remember: take flight, always stay in motion, seek out possibilities, for to remain static is to cease being alive....more
I'm fairly convinced this will go down as one of the classics of 21st century literature.I'm fairly convinced this will go down as one of the classics of 21st century literature....more
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