longing 4 roberto bolaño

Health insurance rip off lying FDA big bankers buying
Fake computer crashes dining
Cloning while they're multiplying
Fashion shoots with Beck and Hanson
Courtney Love, and Marilyn Manson
You're all fakes
Run to your mansions
Come around
We'll kick your ass in

Postby big zorb » Thu Oct 17, 2019 6:32 pm

gonna read 2666 again for the rest of october
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Postby Sobieski » Wed Sep 16, 2020 1:35 pm

Sobieski wrote:also I just realized that The Stridentists really existed, I always thought bolano just made them up!

manuel maples arce is a real person! damn

Stridentism shares some characteristics with Cubism, Dadaism, Futurism and Ultraism, but it developed a specific social dimension, taken from the Mexican Revolution, and a concern for action and its own present. Stridentists were part of the political avant-garde, in contrast to the "elitist" modernism of Los Contemporáneos.


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Postby Sobieski » Wed Sep 16, 2020 1:36 pm

sometimes i just read random sections of the savage detectives
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Postby helix krull » Wed Sep 16, 2020 3:08 pm

a project i want to complete before my most likely untimely death is to catalogue a bibliography of bolaño's babel , all of the poets and gangsters and idiots and queers and guerillas and UFOs and bars and presses and prints and scenes and fights and flights and flesh and viscera , but as a work of fiction itself , even tho bolaño's fiction is itself only bibliography , trans: writing th ebook ? ,so many late night conversations about how bolaño writes as if circling an abyss , never entering or ending , but defining its outside from the outside (que hay detras de la ventana ?) , which makes of it a tangible darkness , if not known , then there , and the libraries and the poetry / crime scenes and the unknown university and the never-ending bibliographies and the names and the names and the names , do something similar , never the work , only the name , and some kind of terrifying poetics results from such refractory fragments , and it's always at his most matter-of-fact listlessness that the refrains soar , listing names , listing murders , listing books , each as if they had an unutterable significance scrawled in or scavenged from a detective's notebook or a dead manic's journal , i think it was borges who wrote stories , who couldn't write stories , who actually wrote poems , bolaño , himself , too , never called himself a novelist , only a poet , but they both wrote stories , who couldn't write stories , by imagining a book in an infinite library outside of the world , and then summarized it , wrote on top of it , in the margins , ancestral incestual palimpsest of "Cut it out with this bullshit text! she screams. The kaleidoscope assumes the look of solitude. Crack, goes your heart." , maybe it would just be a list of titles , maybe it would be don quixote , maybe it's entirely unnecessary
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Postby helix krull » Wed Sep 16, 2020 3:09 pm

the best "quotation" in bolaño is this leopardi:

What are you doing, moon, up in the sky;
what are you doing, tell me, silent moon?
You rise at night and go,
observing the deserts. Then you set:
Aren’t you tired
of plying the eternal byways?
Aren’t you bored? Do you still want
to look down on these valleys?
The shepherd’s life
is like your life.
He rises at first light,
moves his flock across the fields, and sees
sheep, springs, and grass,
then, weary, rests at evening,
and hopes for nothing more.
Tell me, moon, what good
is the shepherd’s life to him
or yours to you? Tell me: where is it tending,
my brief wandering,
your immortal journey?

Little old white-haired man,
weak, half naked, barefoot,
with an enormous burden on his back,
up mountain and down valley,
over sharp rocks, across deep sands and bracken,
through wind and storm,
in burning, freezing weather,
runs on, running till he’s out of breath,
crosses rivers, wades through swamps,
falls and climbs and rushes on
ever faster, no rest or relief,
battered, bloodied; till at last he comes
to where his way
and all his effort led him:
terrible, immense abyss
into which he falls, forgetting everything.
This, O virgin moon,
is human life.

Man is born by labor,
and birth itself means risking death.
The first thing that he feels
is pain and torment, and from the start
mother and father
seek to comfort him for being born.
As he grows,
they nurture him,
and constantly by word and deed
seek to instill courage,
consoling him for being human.
Parents can do no more loving
thing for their children.
But why bring to light,
why educate
someone we’ll console for living later?
If life is misery,
why do we endure it?
This, unblemished moon,
is mortal nature.
But you’re not mortal,
and what I say may matter little to you.

Yet you, eternal solitary wanderer,
you who are so pensive,
understand this life on earth, perhaps,
what our suffering and sighing is,
what this death is, this last
paling of the face,
and leaving earth behind, deserting
all familiar, loving company.
And certainly you comprehend
the why of things, and see the usefulness
of morning, evening,
and the silent, endless pace of time.
Certainly you know for whose sweet love
spring smiles,
who enjoys the heat,
and what winter and its ice are for.
You know and understand a thousand things
that are hidden to a simple shepherd.
Often, when I watch you
standing still above the empty plain
whose last horizon closes with the sky,
or moving with me step by step
as I wander with my flock,
or when I see the stars burn up in heaven,
I ask myself:
Why all these lights?
What does the endless air do, and that deep
eternal blue? What is the meaning of
this enormous solitude? And what am I?
I ask myself: about this boundless,
wondrous space
and its numberless inhabitants,
and all these works and all this movement
of all heavenly and earthly things,
resolving without rest,
only to return to where they started;
any purpose, any usefulness
I cannot see. But you, immortal maiden,
surely understand it all.
This I know and feel:
that from the eternal motions,
from my fragile being,
others may derive
some good or gladness; life for me is wrong.

O resting flock of mine, you blessed beings,
who don’t, I think, know your own misery!
How I envy you!
Not just because you travel
as if nearly trouble-free
and soon forget each need, each pain,
each deathly fear,
but more because you’re never bored.
When you lie down in the shade,
on the grass, you’re calm, content,
and so you spend the great part of the year
and feel no boredom.
I sit on the grass, too, in the shade,
but an anxiousness invades my mind
as if a thorn were pricking me,
so that sitting there I’m even further
from finding peace or resting place.
Yet I want nothing, and so far
I have no reason for complaint.
What you enjoy or how,
I can’t say, but you’re so fortunate.
I enjoy much less, O flock of mine,
but it’s not only this I mourn.
If you could speak, I’d ask you:
Tell me why it is
all animals are happy
resting, at ease, while I, if I lie down,
am plagued with tedium?

Maybe if I had wings
to fly above the clouds
and count the stars out one by one,
or, like thunder, graze from peak to peak,
I’d be happier, my gentle flock,
happier, bright moon.
Or maybe my mind’s straying from the truth,
imagining the destinies of others.
Maybe in whatever form or state,
be it in stall or cradle,
the day we’re born is cause for mourning.


Mind you, she had something to say on the subject. Of the thousands of books she had read, among them books on the history of Mexico, the history of Spain, the history of Columbia, the history of religion, the history of the popes of Rome, the advances of NASA, she had come across only a few pages that depicted with complete faithfulness, utter faithfulness, what the boy Benito Juárez must have felt, more than thought, when he went out to pasture with his flock and was sometimes gone for several days and nights, as is the way of these things. Inside that book with a yellow cover everything was expressed so clearly that sometimes Florita Almada thought the author must have been a friend of Benito Juárez and that Benito Juárez had confided all his childhood experiences in the man’s ear. If such a thing were possible. If it were possible to convey what one feels when night falls and the stars come out and one is alone in the vastness, and life’s truths (night truths) begin to march past one by one, somehow swooning or as if the person out in the open were swooning or as if a strange sickness were circulating in the blood unnoticed. What are you doing, moon, up in the sky? asks the little shepherd in the poem. What are you doing, tell me, silent moon? Aren’t you tired of plying the eternal byways? The shepherd’s life is like your life. He rises at first light and moves his flock across the field. Then, weary, he rests at evening and hopes for nothing more. What good is the shepherd’s life to him or yours to you? Tell me, the shepherd muses, said Florita Almada in a transported voice, where is it heading, my brief wandering, your immortal journey? Man is born into pain, and being born itself means risking death, said the poem. And also: But why bring to light, why educate someone we’ll console for living later? And also: If life is misery, why do we endure it? And also: This, unblemished moon, is the mortal condition. But you’re not mortal, and what I say may matter little to you. And also, and on the contrary: You, eternal solitary wanderer, you who are so pensive, it may be you understand this life on earth, what our suffering and sighing is, what this death is, this last paling of the face, and leaving Earth behind, abandoning all familiar, loving company. What does this enormous solitude portend? And what am I? And also: This is what I know and feel: that from the eternal motions, from my fragile being, others may derive some good or happiness. And also: But life for me is wrong. And also: Old, white haired, weak, barefoot, bearing an enormous burden, up mountain and down valley, over sharp rocks, across deep sands and bracken, through wind and storm, when it’s hot and later when it freezes, running on, running faster, no rest or relief, battered and bloody, at last coming to where the way and all effort has led: terrible, immense abyss into which, upon falling, all is forgotten. And also: This, O virgin moon, is human life. And also: O resting flock, who don’t, I think, know your own misery! How I envy you! Not just because you travel as if trouble free and soon forget each need, each hurt, each deathly fear, but more because you’re never bored. And also: When you lie in the shade, on the grass, you’re calm and happy, and you spend the great part of the year this way and feel no boredom. And also: I sit on the grass, too, in the shade, but an anxiousness invades my mind as if a thorn is pricking me. And also: Yet I desire nothing, and till now I have no reason for complaint. And at this point, after sighing deeply, Florita Almada would say that several conclusions could be drawn: (1) that the thoughts that seize a shepherd can easily gallop away with him because it’s human nature; (2) that facing boredom head-on was an act of bravery and Benito Juárez had done it and she had done it too and both had seen terrible things in the face of boredom, things she would rather not recall; (3) that the poem, now she remembered, was about an Asian shepherd, not a Mexican shepherd, but it made no difference, since shepherds are the same everywhere; (4) that if it was true that all effort led to a vast abyss, she had two recommendations to begin with, first, not to cheat people, and, second, to treat them properly. Beyond that, there was room for discussion.
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Postby helix krull » Wed Sep 16, 2020 3:14 pm

a gift for you:

Image
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Postby helix krull » Wed Sep 16, 2020 3:18 pm

another gift:

Image
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Postby helix krull » Wed Sep 16, 2020 3:25 pm

Sobieski wrote:
Sobieski wrote:also I just realized that The Stridentists really existed, I always thought bolano just made them up!

manuel maples arce is a real person! damn

Stridentism shares some characteristics with Cubism, Dadaism, Futurism and Ultraism, but it developed a specific social dimension, taken from the Mexican Revolution, and a concern for action and its own present. Stridentists were part of the political avant-garde, in contrast to the "elitist" modernism of Los Contemporáneos.


bump


my whole life has been a series of these epiphanies !! blest infinite books
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Postby screw » Wed Sep 16, 2020 3:28 pm

read 2666 in march during lockdown and probably think about it every day still. craving a re-read of the amalfitano section soon
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Postby Sobieski » Wed Sep 16, 2020 6:53 pm

helix krull wrote:a project i want to complete before my most likely untimely death is to catalogue a bibliography of bolaño's babel , all of the poets and gangsters and idiots and queers and guerillas and UFOs and bars and presses and prints and scenes and fights and flights and flesh and viscera , but as a work of fiction itself , even tho bolaño's fiction is itself only bibliography , trans: writing th ebook ? ,so many late night conversations about how bolaño writes as if circling an abyss , never entering or ending , but defining its outside from the outside (que hay detras de la ventana ?) , which makes of it a tangible darkness , if not known , then there , and the libraries and the poetry / crime scenes and the unknown university and the never-ending bibliographies and the names and the names and the names , do something similar , never the work , only the name , and some kind of terrifying poetics results from such refractory fragments , and it's always at his most matter-of-fact listlessness that the refrains soar , listing names , listing murders , listing books , each as if they had an unutterable significance scrawled in or scavenged from a detective's notebook or a dead manic's journal , i think it was borges who wrote stories , who couldn't write stories , who actually wrote poems , bolaño , himself , too , never called himself a novelist , only a poet , but they both wrote stories , who couldn't write stories , by imagining a book in an infinite library outside of the world , and then summarized it , wrote on top of it , in the margins , ancestral incestual palimpsest of "Cut it out with this bullshit text! she screams. The kaleidoscope assumes the look of solitude. Crack, goes your heart." , maybe it would just be a list of titles , maybe it would be don quixote , maybe it's entirely unnecessary


always startled by the by the fragments of mimesis and life that emerge sometimes out of the cycles of irony and stories
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Postby Sobieski » Wed Sep 16, 2020 6:54 pm

oooh i definitely gotta check that AG Porta
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Postby Jerry Lundegaard » Wed Sep 16, 2020 7:42 pm

is 2666 good? I nearly finished book 1 but wasn't hooked.

it did feel like it was going somewhere, but i didn't stick around to find out. if someone tells me so, i will
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Postby big zorb » Wed Sep 16, 2020 7:44 pm

2666 is absolutely incredible
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Postby mondrary » Wed Sep 16, 2020 7:46 pm

i read 2666 for the first time recently and honestly i would call it "my favorite book" at the moment if i were asked. i'd suggest going on, the other books are different enough where it's entirely possible you'll get something out of later ones even if you didn't like the first, especially if you felt like you were edging closer to enjoying it more.
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Postby Jerry Lundegaard » Wed Sep 16, 2020 7:54 pm

anyone got it on mobi?
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Postby helix krull » Wed Sep 16, 2020 8:03 pm

Jerry Lundegaard wrote:anyone got it on mobi?
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Postby inmate » Wed Sep 16, 2020 8:21 pm

i have 2666 on my bookshelf at home and i'll read it at some point, i swear
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Postby Sobieski » Wed Sep 16, 2020 8:43 pm

2666 is good but don’t have that much desire to reread it

last evenings on earth and savage detectives are the the type of bolano i stand for. savage detectives takes a huge experimental narrative risk and it actually pays off and works, it feels well-rounded but sprawling, a good book imo.

there’s a lot of bolano that’s apprentice work or stuff he never finished before he died, but the savage detectives and some of those short stories, he was able to sort of close the circle and make a finished work
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2005/12/26/last-evenings-on-earth
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Postby blab » Wed Sep 16, 2020 11:36 pm

helix that post is SICK
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Postby blab » Wed Sep 16, 2020 11:37 pm

i pick up savage dets almost every day n flip to a rando page n read it like it’s a bible and i’m getting my verse for the day
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Postby mondrary » Wed Sep 16, 2020 11:43 pm

god savage detectives is so great too yeah ... those are the only two things of his i've read and i'm really excited to someday dig into more. they feel so different yet of a piece in many ways.
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Postby helix krull » Thu Sep 17, 2020 7:08 pm

i started reading the spirit of science fiction today and , these letters , oh my god:

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Postby David Lobster Wallets » Thu Sep 17, 2020 10:48 pm

helix krull wrote:a project i want to complete before my most likely untimely death is to catalogue a bibliography of bolaño's babel , all of the poets and gangsters and idiots and queers and guerillas and UFOs and bars and presses and prints and scenes and fights and flights and flesh and viscera , but as a work of fiction itself , even tho bolaño's fiction is itself only bibliography , trans: writing th ebook ? ,so many late night conversations about how bolaño writes as if circling an abyss , never entering or ending , but defining its outside from the outside (que hay detras de la ventana ?) , which makes of it a tangible darkness , if not known , then there , and the libraries and the poetry / crime scenes and the unknown university and the never-ending bibliographies and the names and the names and the names , do something similar , never the work , only the name , and some kind of terrifying poetics results from such refractory fragments , and it's always at his most matter-of-fact listlessness that the refrains soar , listing names , listing murders , listing books , each as if they had an unutterable significance scrawled in or scavenged from a detective's notebook or a dead manic's journal , i think it was borges who wrote stories , who couldn't write stories , who actually wrote poems , bolaño , himself , too , never called himself a novelist , only a poet , but they both wrote stories , who couldn't write stories , by imagining a book in an infinite library outside of the world , and then summarized it , wrote on top of it , in the margins , ancestral incestual palimpsest of "Cut it out with this bullshit text! she screams. The kaleidoscope assumes the look of solitude. Crack, goes your heart." , maybe it would just be a list of titles , maybe it would be don quixote , maybe it's entirely unnecessary


i dont know if this helps, but years ago, i tried to write down every single author, poet, or book mentioned in The Savage Detectives:

Edit: the images were huge, here's a link to the album - https://imgur.com/a/I6qykPf
Last edited by David Lobster Wallets on Thu Sep 17, 2020 10:55 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Postby Sobieski » Thu Sep 17, 2020 10:49 pm

woah hell yeah
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Postby helix krull » Thu Sep 17, 2020 10:50 pm

oh my god !
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Postby helix krull » Thu Sep 17, 2020 11:00 pm

i read this sentence in the sci fi book and sort of think this is what he's doing with those names

“Boys,” he said, “I fail to understand why you’re so interested in a perfectly ordinary phenomenon.”
“Don’t you think it’s odd, to say the least, that there are more than six hundred literary magazines in Mexico City?”
Dr. Carvajal smiled benevolently.
“Let’s not exaggerate. My esteemed friend Ubaldo, always so seismic, has gotten himself all worked up about nothing. Six hundred literary magazines? It depends on what you call a magazine and how you define literature. More than a quarter of these magazines are really a few sheets of paper, photocopied and stapled in runs of twenty at best, sometimes fewer. Literature? According to me, yes; according to Octavio Paz, for example, no; scribbles, shadows, diary entries, sentences as mysterious as a telephone directory; from a professor’s perspective, they’re a distant jet trail, the faint echo of a nameless failure; from a policeman’s perspective, they’re not even anything subversive. No matter who you ask, they’re essentially texts outside the realm of literary history."
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Postby Pokemon Mastah » Fri Sep 18, 2020 2:31 am

David Lobster Wallets wrote:
helix krull wrote:a project i want to complete before my most likely untimely death is to catalogue a bibliography of bolaño's babel , all of the poets and gangsters and idiots and queers and guerillas and UFOs and bars and presses and prints and scenes and fights and flights and flesh and viscera , but as a work of fiction itself , even tho bolaño's fiction is itself only bibliography , trans: writing th ebook ? ,so many late night conversations about how bolaño writes as if circling an abyss , never entering or ending , but defining its outside from the outside (que hay detras de la ventana ?) , which makes of it a tangible darkness , if not known , then there , and the libraries and the poetry / crime scenes and the unknown university and the never-ending bibliographies and the names and the names and the names , do something similar , never the work , only the name , and some kind of terrifying poetics results from such refractory fragments , and it's always at his most matter-of-fact listlessness that the refrains soar , listing names , listing murders , listing books , each as if they had an unutterable significance scrawled in or scavenged from a detective's notebook or a dead manic's journal , i think it was borges who wrote stories , who couldn't write stories , who actually wrote poems , bolaño , himself , too , never called himself a novelist , only a poet , but they both wrote stories , who couldn't write stories , by imagining a book in an infinite library outside of the world , and then summarized it , wrote on top of it , in the margins , ancestral incestual palimpsest of "Cut it out with this bullshit text! she screams. The kaleidoscope assumes the look of solitude. Crack, goes your heart." , maybe it would just be a list of titles , maybe it would be don quixote , maybe it's entirely unnecessary


i dont know if this helps, but years ago, i tried to write down every single author, poet, or book mentioned in The Savage Detectives:

Edit: the images were huge, here's a link to the album - https://imgur.com/a/I6qykPf


Nice! :)
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Postby helix krull » Sat Sep 19, 2020 6:34 pm

i remembered this poem today

Listen carefully, my son: bombs were falling
over Mexico City
but no one even noticed.
The air carried poison through
the streets and open windows.
You'd just finished eating and were watching
cartoons on TV.
I was reading in the bedroom next door
when I realized we were going to die.
Despite the dizziness and nausea I dragged myself
to the kitchen and found you on the floor.
We hugged. You asked what was happening
and I didn't tell you we were on death's program
but instead that we were going on a journey,
one more, together, and that you shouldn't be afraid.
When it left, death didn't even
close our eyes.
What are we? you asked a week or year later,
ants, bees, wrong numbers
in the big rotten soup of chance?
We're human beings, my son, almost birds,
public heroes and secrets.
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Postby walt whitman » Sat Sep 19, 2020 8:29 pm

Jerry Lundegaard wrote:is 2666 good?

it may be the last good novel.

the first part is killer. if you didn't like that, you probably won't make it through the harder sections
“Short film, Long film, It’s ALL film!” - Walt Whitman
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Postby vivian darko » Sat Sep 19, 2020 10:15 pm

2666 is amazing but there have been many great novels after it, some even perhaps better

but yes do read 2666 please
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