It seems to be written not just in ink, but in blood, tears, seed, and fire. If any novel is going to jump off my lap, and wander off into the wilderness - this is the one. It wasn't my favorite novel, but it seems the most likely (of all the novels I've read these last two or three years) to suddenly become animated. Bolaño jumps from chapter-to-chapter, from scene-to-scene, from sunset-to-sunset and keeps reinventing his PoMo novel as he writes it. He found poetry in the "visceral realists" excesses and his semi-autobiographical confessions. It feels like he took every poetic image, idea, stray hair and paper from every Mexican poet during the past forty years and laid them all down on black velvet to be examined. Bolaño created a novel and a narrative that (IMHO) attempted to capture the energy, the personalities, the youth and the mortar that held together Mexican and Latin American poets during the mid-1970s. This is a book that is nearly impossible to review, absolutely impossible to summarize, and simultaneously amazing and frustrating.
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