Three books and about two-hundred-fifty pages into Roberto Bolaño's 2666 has me feeling uneasy. This book is downright creepy, the pages suffused with a dreadful atmosphere, despite the total normalcy of the events it depicts. 2666 is very digressive, with Bolaño, like a literary fisherman, stringing out multiple storylines and baiting me with seemingly unrelated events, with hints and foreshadowing: a reclusive writer gone missing, a college professor apparently losing his mind, a serial killer raping and murdering women. Revel in Bolaño's storytelling: like a Latin James Joyce, Bolaño gleefully mixes different writing styles and breaks almost every rule novelists are supposed to follow. He doesn't offer or even hint at a satisfying resolution--in fact, I get the feeling 2666 is going to end disastrously, perhaps even abruptly--but Bolaño's writing is so organic that I don't feel like I'm reading, or that he's forcing the pieces to fit. (At this stage, they don't--and 2666 reads much better for it.) And this, I think, is the true genius of Bolaño: the man can tell a damned good story--and tell is the key word--but his words flow naturally and beautifully, despite the inherent ugliness of his style. (Admittedly, with few exceptions, I've never much enjoyed refined writing.) 2666 is like a dirty, uncut diamond: there are a lot of rough edges, but you know this isn't a cubic zirconia. It cuts deeply.

Comments

[Danielle]

My curiosity got the better of me. I had to get this--I bought the paperback boxed set. I'm a little afraid to start it, but it sounds like it will be worth the work.