2666 II: Machine Reading

Posted on January 27, 2026 by Jon

Upon reaching the end of “The Part of the Crimes,” it is hard to see how it could have stood on its own. And yet, according to the note that prefaces the entire novel, that was Bolaño’s plan, communicated just “days before his death” to his publishers: that the various parts of the book should be published separately.

To me, at least, it does not feel as though things have really started getting going, even by page 207. Perhaps that is because I do not feel truly invested in what is the ostensible plot of this part of the book: the relations between the various critics, Pelletier, Espinoza, Norton, and Morini. I do not much care about the love triangle between the first three, nor do I feel there is much sense of resolution or even surprise when (it ultimately turns out) Norton picks Morini over either of the erstwhile rivals bidding for her bed.

Meanwhile, the other plot point, the search for the elusive writer, Archimboldi, which takes three of the four of them to Santa Teresa, in the northern Mexico state of Sonora, also leaves me cold. I did not expect them to find Archimboldi (and indeed, they do not), and always felt that at best the quest was what film director Alfred Hitchcock famously called a “macguffin”: “an object, event, or character in a film or story that serves to set and keep the plot in motion despite usually lacking intrinsic importance.” It was a gimmick that simply set the characters in motion. But it is not as though they found much else along the way: they stumble upon the femicides plaguing the city and its environs, but this theme has yet to be developed.

I am left still with the sensation that the key to this first part of the book may lie in one of the many smaller, apparently insignificant stories with which this part of the book is stuffed: the tale of the artist Edwin Johns, for instance, which recurs more than once. Johns’s obra maestra, we are told, is a piece in which he frames his own amputated right hand (his painting hand). At one point several of our critics, on a diversion from one of their unending workshops or conferences on Archimboldi, seek Johns out in the Swiss asylum in which he has been interned. Later, when Norton stumbles across a retrospective exhibition of Johns’s work, we discover that in the meantime he has apparently died. But it feels that this story of the self-mutilating artist, the artist who puts an end to the possibility of further art, still has more to give.

Or maybe the story that truly drives 2666 has gotten going elsewhere, for instance in one of the many dreams that the characters have. Certainly their conscious intentions and preoccupations hold relatively little interest, whether they revolve around hunting down Archimboldi or around finding a new partner with whom to share their otherwise (frankly) rather shallow lives. Perhaps instead it is to the unconscious, as revealed in dreams or mistakes, that we should look.

Or perhaps the error here is precisely the reader’s (this reader’s) own search for hidden meaning. For a “part” of critics, there is remarkably little said here on criticism, with one exception: a brief discussion of a Serbian critic’s proposal for a new approach to Archimboldi. He calls for an “ultraconcrete critical literature, a nonspeculative literature free of ideas, assertions, denials, doubts, free of any intent to serve as guide, neither pro nor con, just an eye seeking out the tangible elements, not judging them but simply displaying them coldly, archaeology of the facsimile, and, by the same token, of the photocopier” (79; translation, page 55).

The article in which the Serbian critic’s proposal comes catches the other critics’ eye: Pelletier sends copies to the other three. But what interests them is mostly a detail in which the Serb somehow tracks down an airline reservation in Archimboldi’s name, for a flight from Sicily to Morocco. They remain hung up on the biographical, and on their obsession to meet their author in flesh and blood.

But it may be worth pausing a little longer on this “ultraconcrete” and “nonspeculative [critical] literature free of ideas,” an “archaeology of the facsimile” and “of the photocopier.” Is this not the kind of criticism that AI might produce? Indeed, if we were to turn this suggestion away from the elusive texts of Archimboldi (about which we known next to nothing) and towards instead the very substantial text that we have in our hands: is Bolaño hinting (with a wink or otherwise) that his own work is best read not by a human, but by a machine?

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The Savage Detectives II: The Limits of Heteroglossia

Posted on January 27, 2026 by Jon

The second part of The Savage Detectives is itself entitled “The Savage Detectives,” with the addition of the dates: 1976–1996. What then is the relationship between this part and the book as a whole? Is this the core, the essence of the thing?

If so, then at first glance at least it’s a rather fragmented and even inconsistent (incoherent?) essence. We move from the monologue of García Madero’s diary entries in part one to an expansive crowd of voices. Characters featured in the first part seem to gain voice, while new characters are added, all to tell us more about the visceral realists, particularly about Arturo Belano and Ulises Lima, and where they came from and perhaps where they went next.

As we might expect with this multiplication of perspectives, they do not necessarily see things the same way. Manuel Maples Arce, for instance, a venerable member of the avant-garde (and a historical figure, founder of stridentism) tells us of a visit from Belano, accompanied by two “two boys and a girl [. . .]. The girl was American” (180). From Maples Arce’s point of view, the visit went tolerably well: he wowed his young visitor with a reference to his friendship with Borges; Belano wrote down a list of questions, to which Maples Arce later responded, handing his answers over along with a couple of his own books. The elder poet sees this as a paternal gesture of care to a representative of the lost younger generation: “All poets, even the most avant-garde, need a father.” But the gesture goes unreciprocated or unnoticed: “He never came back.” Why not? Maples Arce can only conjecture: “these poets were meant to be orphans” (181).

Immediately we shift to the point of view of Barbara Patterson, who we soon realize is the unnamed American girl who had visited Maples Arce alongside Belano. She makes clear her disdain for the would-be father of the avant-garde: “Motherfucking hemorrhoid-licking old bastard, I saw the distrust in his pale, bored little monkey eyes right from the start” (181). He’s a “constipated grand old man of Mexican literature [. . .] Mr. Great Poet of the Pleistocene,” whom her companions (“ass kissers”) are wrong to give the time of day. So much for an appreciation of literary history . . . for Patterson, it seems, such history is bunk.

Belano and Lima, on the other hand, though they are not (yet, at least) among those to whom the novel now gives voice, are shown to be keener to explore the literary archive. They are particularly interested in learning about Cesárea Tinajero, another figure from the avant-garde of Maples Arce’s generation, about whom they quiz one Amadeo Salvatierra. What draws them to her, he asks. Because “she seemed to be the only woman” among that avant-garde group, “and there were a lot of references to her, all saying that she was a fine poet.” Salvatierra persists with his questions: “where did you read her work? We haven’t read anything she wrote, they said, not anywhere, and that got us interested. [. . .] no one published her” (165). A silent poet, then, has grabbed their attention.

Even as the number of voices multiplies, as The Savage Detectives proceeds, we are still reminded of the voices we do not hear, of the limits of what this novel that is increasingly tumultuous, ever more polyphonic or heteroglossic (to use Bakhtin’s terms), can possibly include. The Savage Detectives is getting longer and longer, with each passing page, but its essence (if it has one) remains elusive, and its gaps or fissures are starting to become more apparent.

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Additional Context

Posted on January 26, 2026 by simi2525

For my second blog on The Savage Detectives, it took me a moment to try and decide what an appropriate title could be for my post. I’ve called it “Additional Context” because as I was reading, especially with the characters we saw little glimpses of in the first part, more of the puzzle was starting to come together. The opinions on visceral realism and the ways in which everyone is somehow connected to each other was all starting to fall into place and make a bit more sense. To be honest, I found this format of many short stories or recollections from an array of perspectives less engaging than the first part, which focused on García Madero’s perspective. However, I think it is just a personal preference as I enjoy getting into details with characters, and I do think the format of the these following chapters was relevant for the novel.

I found that certain characters such as Luscious Skin, María Font, Alberto, Laura and others, were all portrayed in the second part of the novel quite differently than the first part. I don’t think this is too shocking, considering that in the first part of the book, what we initially learn about the people in García Madero’s life are purely from his point of view. One example of this difference in portrayal was with Luscious Skin, where he calls himself a “peace-loving person” and claims he never hit Belano, despite strongly disliking him. If I had only read the first part of the book, based on the depictions of his violent sexual behaviour, I wouldn’t use peace-loving as an adjective to describe him. María’s account of the events that transpired after García Madero and the others took her father’s Impala and escaped also demonstrates the differences of what we learn, compared to when the story is told from just García Madero’s point of view. In the first part of the novel, María is understood to be very sexually liberal, compared to her sister, but in her own account specifically on page 194 (of the Picador edition), she talks about how during one of her last conversations with Belano and Ulises, that we as readers know of, that she was supposedly tempted to sleep with both of them, but she stays silent. While the contrast between Angelíca and María in terms of their sexual experiences already reveals themes of misogyny and sexuality during this era, I think this also spoke to María’s agency, and her turmoil in not understanding how to navigate emotionally complex situations. Her situation is not unique however, this avoidance, escapism and redirection of emotions seems to manifest in almost every single character. Right before her account, we have another one from Jacinto, that overtly highlighted the visceral realism movement as a facade to distract from something much more serious and looming. Jacinto, who is having a child with Xóchitl, did not focus on finding a job to support his family, but instead spent every single day talking about poetry, and supposedly pouring his soul into the movement. However, I think the movement is also producing hierarchies, as Jacinto seemingly has jealous feelings towards Belano, not because he flirts with Xóchitl, but because he has authority over everyone else.

Finally, my thoughts on Auxilio’s piece at the very end of this section. I really enjoyed her point of view. It was dramatic and it had me wondering if a soldier or someone else was going to find her in the bathrooms. She spoke of the university being violated multiple times, which I think explains why she finds such solace and importance in poetry, because it gives her an avenue to grapple with traumatic or painful events. If anything, I understand and believe she has a genuine connection to poetry the most out of anyone we’ve been introduced to so far. This has left me excited to read Amulet in the coming weeks.

Thank you for reading my post this week!

 

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The interviews… (I’m assuming)

Posted on January 26, 2026 by aburke09

Just as I said that I liked the journal-style writing in the first part of the book, I also really like the writing style of the second part. I am assuming that all the different voices talking are to represent these people being interviewed. In the first paragraph of section two we see:

“Amadeo Salvatierra, Calle República de Venezuela, near the Palacio de la Inquisición, Mexico City, DF, January 1976. My dear boys, I said to them, I’m so glad to see you, come right in, make yourselves at home, and as they filed down the hall, or rather felt their way, because the hall is dark and the bulb had burned out and I hadn’t changed it…” (Bolaño 143).

It reminds me very much of the way that someone would speak, as we tend to ramble or have side conversations sometimes, when telling a story. They are also mentioning not only the speaker but where the conversation took place. I liked having a backstory to some of the characters mentioned in the first part though I have to admit I was starting to lose track of who all the people were. I had to keep flipping back to previous chapters to remember who everyone was. Was Perla Avilés the one who went horseback riding with him? Or was that another woman?

I got really confused when I got to chapter 4 and started reading about Auxilio Lacouture (it sounds like this is the story we’ll read in Amulet?) It was definitely a much longer interview and I didn’t quite understand why she had her own designated chapter, unless she becomes a more central character later in the book. 

The interview that I found the most interesting was the one with María Font. I had been waiting to find out what exactly happen to Lupe and the visceral realists who had fled the city with her so I was eager to read what she had to say, about a year later. As you all know, we aren’t privy to that information yet but it was still interesting to read that her father is now in an asylum, and that Ulises and Arturo had gone to Sonora. Is this where they took Lupe? And what exactly happened to García Madero? When we were given backstory on the older visceral realists, it made sense why García Madero wasn’t included in these stories but why did María Font still not mention him? Did he stay behind with Lupe? I liked also getting inside of María Font’s head, since all information we had of her before was from García Madero’s perspective. It was interesting to read that having sex and/or being nude with others provides her with comfort, security and tranquility (pg. 194).

I feel much more interested in the story now and I am looking forward to continuing in a couple weeks.

I also find it interesting and I am sure I am not the only one who noticed a new connection between Arturo Belano and Roberto Bolaño, since Belano is apparently moving to Spain (and the same happened for Bolaño). 

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Echoes of a past Juli

Posted on January 26, 2026 by julsanta

Wow, incredible title, I know.

I was trying to figure out what to write about for this post. It’s such a hard exercise. Finding things that interest me in Bolaño’s book feels like an impossible task. I am trying though, I really am. I think my hate and anger towards Garcia Madero has died down now that we don’t have his arrogant point of view to read through, but I find myself with another kind of feeling; apathy, boredom, disinterest. Its incredibly hard to pay attention to the what feels like hundreds of names, different voices and point of views, confusing timelines and the overall feeling that still, after 270 pages, nothing is happening. Reading Bolaño makes me feel like a mediocre reader.

However some things have popped up. Ever since starting the book I’ve been finding little notes left by a past me about a year and a half ago. Turns out that, for some stupid reason (I think it was between reading this and Facundo or something) I chose Los detectives salvajes as one of the novels I would prepare for an interview to join a masters program back home (long story). Written in different kinds of ink —highlighter, colored pen, some pencil— the passages that I found interesting back then and the comments about them pop up from time to time. Some make me smile, some make me cringe, some confuse me as I don’t understand my own handwriting. I can remember the feeling I had back then reading this book because it is exactly the same I am having now.

The contents of this marginalia is not important. It’s mainly a desperate Juli trying to find interesting things to talk about in an interview. There’s stuff about how poetry is like sex (thank you, Garcia Madero) or how Bolaño’s writing sometimes feels journalistic (as in newspapers, not in the “my dear diary” way). But it does make me think about the physicality of books and how you can have a kind of conversation with yourself when you are reading them.

I am more excited to see the progress of that past Juli in the comments left behind in the horrible purple highlighter I was using back them that I am excited to know what happens to the real viceralistas. We’ll see what happens. For now, I guess, this reading must continue and I must draw on the times I was made to run the beep test, as reading Bolaño is, for better or for worse, a test of endurance.

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Week 3 – Reading Not the Assigned

Posted on January 22, 2026 by dleoar

WEEK 3. This week’s post reflects on Esperanza’s search for identity in The House on Mango Street, alongside my current and extracurricular reading, which continues to shape how I think about voice, writing, and lyricism.

This week’s poem is an excerpt from The House on Mango Street (1984) by Sandra Cisneros. The poem is penned by protagonist, Esperanza.

I want to be 

like the waves on the sea,

like the clouds in the wind.

but I’m me. 

One day I’ll jump 

out of my skin

I’ll shake the sky

like a hundred violins. 

Reflection: Esperanza’s story is a coming-of-consciousness portrait of a writer, a young girl exploring the Hispanic quarter of Chicago, Illinois, through a lens shaped by disillusionment, happiness and tenderness. Naturally, I felt connected with her mindset. Her story makes me think about identity shaped by experiences, shaped by landscapes, shaped by emotional progressions. But I have also heard people say the mycelium doesn’t forget where it originally roots (Interpret that as you wish). The pains of diaspora as it forces a state of liminality, in the here and the there, in a hybrid of landscapes, languages.

__

Now, about the reading of my second choice book. I am afraid I have not advanced past what I shared in class last week. I would like to point out, however, that the course description says we can take it slowly! *Face palm emoji* I will catch up next week….

This is partly because I have a life outside of school, and reading for leisure is an act that fulfills me with joy. Thus, my readings for other classes and reading outside of school have taken much of my time. That, and learning how to be an adult by washing my clothes, doing my bed, and cooking meals. To make up for it, I will write about things I have been reading outside of school.

Lately, I have been revisiting the works of Argentine novelist, Pola Oloixarac.

I read Pola two nights after I turned 18. Now, I revisit it through involuntary memory. Last time I remembered: washing the dishes, in a train of thought of end-of-world fiction, feels bare cold on the wooden floor.

Thinking about its plot leaves me shocked every time. So, I pick up a hardcover at the library (my original paperback was circulated through a friend group and eventually extraviado, lost). Mona is a Peruvian novelist in the midst of writing a second novel. Her debut takes the literary world by stardom. Race is heavily emphasized: Mona is “Indigenous, Hispanic, Inca” as she writes on her Stanford college application for her doctorate’s degree.

 

She is a student at Stanford and receives her nomination letter for an important literary prize in Sweden. Thus, we follow Mona’s journey as she meets her nominated peers. Though, we as readers start to notice that something is eerily and uncanny about Mona’s behaviours. For she is not of sober mind. Throughout the novel, the literary harangue (each author given a perspective… One of them says AI will be writing the next best novels). Mona is seen fluctuating between coffee, valium, alcohol, and weed. Mona is disassociating. In Italics, text messages, which Mona ignores every time, abruptly disrupt the narrative. (Can we talk?….) Those texts become more aggressive. (I’m a part of your life. There’ s no denying it.)Mona still ignores. (You know you can’t just leave me like this.) Then there is a cathartic moment wherein Mona is forced to process what she has been dissociating from. As the award winner is about to be presented, the announcer starts a speech about writing. Writing as the ultimate act of vain words, the highest virtuosity of the Self. And the announcer seems to be entranced. The atmosphere is impending doom. Thus he summons, Jörmungandr, the colossal sea serpent, the ouroboros releasing its tail, a genesis of apocalypse: great deluge that kills all creation, as prophesied for Ragnarok. The twilight of the gods.

(art by Daniel Maldonado de la Rosa (2014) Ink on paper.

Thor, god of thunder in norse mythology, riding into battle against Jörmungandr, the Midgard Serpent.

***

MOREOVER, I HAVE been reading lyrical poetry again. In The Savage Detectives, Ernesto San Epifanio refers to Joaquín Pesado as “a certain kind of Mexican lyrical verse” (79). This line made me think of lyrical poetry as a branch of poetics. In the world we live in, a form of poetry is auditory (despite its commercial-driven soul), songs. Throughout my formative years, I enjoyed listening to music at every possible opportunity. I grew a habit of reading the lyrics of my favourite songs over and over. For English songs (the minority of English songs played on the radios being mainstream pops songs, same ones that stormed your life with memories, the same ones that everywhere on your hemisphere of the world, I’m sure). I’m talking 2010’s pop music. Do you recognize…. When I’m with you, there’s no place I’d rather be / No, no, no, no, no place I’d rather be? If so, consider to the temporality and emotional charge these lyrics have on you. The songs I listen to, they are hidden somewhere in my unconsciousness, neurons ready to fire at the slightest association with the song. A song is three things at its core: textual, sound (instruments), and background vocals. Though there are non-vocal songs too. And songs with unintelligible sounds. There is the meme that says, I’m just a notebook of notebooks with glued on lyrics. But the song and its lyrical component, if present, is a medium through which all kind of emotions are explored: if happy lyrics were sequins and lyrics of disillusionment, marked out X’s and pencil scratches, smudges and unintelligible writing, would my pages reflect a temporal state of mind if torn off and read as a sole loose leaf?  Rumour has it Shakira wrote her first English album, Laundry Service (2001) with an English dictionary. With a thesaurus on top of my nightstand, I take this as motivation. In a dream sequence, I was against the backdrop of a Yucatan sunset hovering Chichén Itzá. Amongst the cacophony of chachalacas, I heard, Writing, writing is the…., as the feathered serpent, Quetzalcoat danced eastwards towards Aztlán, his crocodilian, oscillating roars announced anger and inaugurated a new era. My dream avatar stood there, with a pen on hand writing.

 

***

Conclusion: As I did not read this week’s reading, I utilized this blog as thinking space to reflect on my acts of reading and how I engage with text, how the literatures I engage with have an effect on me as a person? The outcome: I need more discipline, to push myself to be balanced with time.

Question: How do you balance reading for leisure and reading for school alongside everyday necessities?

I end this assignment abstractly, with a translation of one of the best Spanish lyrical songs: Cruz de Navajas by Mecano. To me, this is the beautifulest language has ever sound.

At five the bar on 33 closes
But Mario isn’t out until six
And if it’s his turn to cashier, say goodbye
Almost always the day comes
While Maria is already on her feet
She’s made the house, she’s even made the coffee
And she awaits half naked 
Mario arrives tired and greets without much eagerness
he wants bed, but another variety 
 And Maria wets her desire in the coffee
Magdalenes  of convex sex
Then to work in a large warehouse
When she returns there’s not more than a bed base
Taciturn to use by turns
Cross of knives for a woman 
Deadly sparkles break out at dawn
Bloods that tint the dawn mauve
But today since there’s been a raid on 33
Mario returns at five minus ten
On his empty street, at a distance, he only sees 
A couple eating each other with kisses
Poor Mario wants to die
when he gets closer to discover
It's Maria with company
Cross of knives for a woman
Deadly sparkles break out at  dawn 
bloods that tint the dawn mauve
On Mario de Bruces, three crosses
one on the forehead, the one that hurt most
one on the chest, the one which killed him 
and another lies on the news
Two drug addicts in plain anxiety
Rob and kill Mario Postigo 
While his wife is witness from the portal
Instead of cross of knives for a woman
Deadly Sparkles break out at dawn
bloods that tint the dawn mauve
Ohh oh oh oh
Ohh oh oh oh
Ohh oh oh oh
Ohh oh oh oh
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Justo Antes del Final – Part 1: Between ghosts and contradictions

Posted on January 22, 2026 by Amada Libertad

Damn. Now I understand when Monge writes that no beginning is easy. I have no clue how to start to write about this book. It feels like a huge game, just like making a puzzle. Every word, every character and chapter is a little piece of information that you need to save for later. You know at the end everything will fit somewhere.

Just like a life or genealogical calendar, Monge builds each chapter around a year in the life of who seems her mother, however, in this case he uses “tu madre”(your mother) a confusing wording that destabilizes the reader’s position. Monge mixes the narrator, protagonist, and reader, forcing us into an uncomfortable closeness with the family history we will be submerged into.

We start with the year “tu madre” was born, 1949.

Throughout each year Monge seems to be collecting what looks like interviews snippets (that sometimes read more like confessions) with their relatives to build a more cohesive narrative about “tu madre” life history. Similar to her mother, none of the characters have a proper name, they all are either “tu abuela,” “tus tías,” “tú tío mediano,” etc. Throughout these interviews we see different themes (like silence, abandonment, mental illness, motherhood, which I will later comment on) come up as the “tu madre” history mutates into a more general story of what looks like Monge’s generational family trajectory.

Monge’s use of language purposefully makes everything confusing, long, and tiring to read. He drags you into the reality of trying to understand, as a Latin American, where the hell do you come from: a nightmare of missing pieces, contradictory stories, lies, violence, cover-ups, machismo, and traumas. I find myself re-reading paragraphs 2 to 4 times to try to understand who he is referring to, organizing the order and sequence of events, and connecting a story from one chapter to a previous one.

Amidst the challenge of weaving this family history, Monge contraposes in each chapter the family history (first part of the chapter) to what seems more of a Global/Political/Cultural general history of the world (second part of the chapter). For instance, in 1951, “tu madre” not only discovered that she was invisible but she also discovered that his dad was having affairs with different women, and in that same year Israel created the Mossad which will disappear a group of Palestinians for the first time, and in that same year the first oral contraceptive was invented.

Through these contrapositions, Monge shows how both histories are not isolated but feeding into each other: the familial shapes the way the world is understood, its inventions, and its politics, and vice-versa. This happens to a point where the borders or the margins of each history blurs or fades into each other. For example, those same 1951 first oral contraceptives will be the ones that “tu madre” will be taking years later, and which she will decide to stop taking to be able to conceive “you”.

There is SO MUCH in this novel that it is impossible to not feel overwhelmed about the vast amount of possible metaphors and connections that can help you understand the ways that generational trauma is lived among both millennials and gen z in Latin America. The novel is filled with gems hidden in kids boggers, closed curtains, shoe boxes, scissors, walls, and psychology books.

In this novel your compass is your own lived memories.

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2666 I

Posted on January 22, 2026 by Jon

This blog post is something of a placeholder… I admit that for various reasons I have yet to get fully into Bolaño’s novel. I am a little past page 100, almost exactly halfway through the first of the five “parts” that comprise the novel as a whole: “The Part of the Critics.”

The first part of the novel features four critics, university professors, from four countries: Jean-Claude Pelletier, from France; Piero Morini, from Italy; Manuel Espinoza, from Spain; and Liz Norton, from England.

What these four critics have in common is that each is a specialist in an elusive, but apparently highly-regarded, German writer who goes by the name of Benno von Archimboldi. Of Archimboldi, little is known but much is (it seems) said, as Pelletier, Morini, Espinoza, and Norton are endlessly meeting up at conferences and seminars across Europe (Bologna, Paris, Stuttgart…) to discuss his work, at times to take issue with rival Achimboldists whose interpretation of the object of their obsession differs in some way from their own.

Archimboldi is, we are told, a pseudonym, and at various points some of our critics try to track down the man behind the literary mask, for instance by visiting the offices of his publisher, but to no avail. Peeking ahead in Bolaño’s novel, I see that the last of the books parts (from page 795 on) is “The Part of Archimboldi,” so here I am not exactly expecting many revelations. 2666 will, I assume, make me wait another 700 pages before Achimboldi’s face is revealed. (And perhaps not even then, if I have learned anything from the somewhat similar quest that structures Bolaño’s The Savage Detectives.)

In the meantime, then, the focus is on the relations between the critics more than what these critics may have to say about (or even see in) the object of their criticism.

These relations revolves around a sort of love triangle between Norton, Pelletier, and Espinoza. (Moroni is an occasional confidante of all three.) For some time, both the Frenchman and the Spaniard were sleeping with the Englishwoman. By this stage of the novel, both these affairs have been suspended while Norton is (perhaps) choosing between the two of them, who remain friends despite their mutual knowledge (and continual discussion) of their rivalry.

For the reader–or for this reader, at least–the problem is to discern what if anything is at stake in all this off-and-on bed-hopping, conducted for the most part with remarkably civilized equanimity by all concerned. There are certainly passions beneath the surface: in a rather shocking scene, the two men take out their frustrations on an unfortunate Pakistani taxi-driver in London, leaving him half-dead in an incident that is compared in erotic terms to a displaced ménage à trois.

A little knowledge is dangerous. What little I know about the book has to do mostly with its fourth part, “The Part of the Crimes” (pages 443-791), which is concerned, so I understand, with the femicides on the US/Mexico border. Should we then take this violence in London to be an anticipation of the violence (inflicted, however, on women rather than men) to which the novel will turn in another 300 or so pages? And what to make at this point of the very brief mention of “the Sonora murders” about which Morini reads in an article in Il Manifesto on page 64, but to which Bolaño’s novel has yet to return.

A long novel keeps you guessing. 

Similarly, what should we think of the brief stories that are embedded within the narrative, that seem at first sight to be digressions that take us nowhere in particular. The lengthy anecdote, for instance, about a husband and wife visiting an estancia in Argentina, that is told at a dinner at which Archimboldi was once present and relayed indirectly to the critics? Or the encounter between Morini and a London beggar who asks the Italian critic to read out the titles of recipes attributed to the Mexican poet Sor Juan de la Cruz?

Long books are inevitably simply full of stuff, and it can be hard to know what matters (or can it all really matter?) and where to pay attention (or can we pay attention to everything?). They pose a challenge of discernment and focus.

There is then perhaps an instance this problem that the book poses in the telephone calls that we are told at one stage Espinoza and Pelletier (separately, sequentially, “three or four times each afternoon” and “two of three times each morning” [49]) make to Norton. “Both were careful to dress these calls up with archimboldian pretexts” before going on “directly to address what they really wanted” (50). But even the conversations that follow on from the achimboldian pretexts seem to be circling the main point, as they concern variously the men’s problems with their colleagues or with noisy neighbors. They appear still to be postponing any real revelation of their real desires and anxieties.

Likewise with this novel: it appears to be taking some delight in stringing its readers along. Unless what matters has already been said, and we are (or I am) missing it.

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2666 – The Part About The Critics (pp. 3-159)

Posted on January 22, 2026 by lucas73

Wow, I believe this was a great start to this long book, and it’s left me thoroughly intrigued as to what comes next! Sadly, but not that sadly, I will restrain myself for another week, since this next week I’ll be returning to The Savage Detectives (which I also really enjoyed reading and the reason why I say “not that sadly”). If I had to pick, I would say so far I’ve enjoyed reading 2666 more and I’ll get into why a bit later. Before I get into my thoughts and impressions of 2666, I feel like I’ll have to give a little bit of background about what exactly is going on. I’ll try to keep it as brief as possible without missing any important details, but I’m sure I’ll miss a few and there will also most likely be some details that I will have left out thinking they were unimportant now, but realize that they were very important later. So please bear with me.

(SPOILER WARNING FOR THE FIRST PART OF 2666) As I mentioned in last week’s class, the book’s very beginning is a bit slow, simply introducing the group of four academics that our first part centers around: Pelletier, Morini, Espinoza, and Norton (from France, Italy, Spain, and England, respectively). They are all deeply invested in the works of a mysterious German author named Archimboldi and they all meet and become good friends while attending conferences and sharing their papers and research surrounding Archimboldi and his works (they have also translated many of Archimboldi’s works as well). Despite the initial slow start, things begin to pick up pace, Norton (who is the only woman of the group, again, bear with me please) begins separate sexual relationships with both Pelletier and Espinoza. A large portion of this first part of 2666 revolves around Pelletier and Espinoza’s love for Norton and their desire for a deeper relationship, however, Norton isn’t quite on the same page as them and of course it’s also quite complicated since she’s having relationships with both of them. Surprisingly, they all remain good friends despite knowing about each other’s relationships. Eventually Norton says she needs some time to think things over.

Besides all the love shenanigans, let’s take a moment to talk about Archimboldi, the author that our group is so very obsessed with, they’ve never met or even know what Archimboldi looks like besides a vague description of him being quite a tall, thin, old German man from his publishers. Despite Archimboldi’s (maybe some would describe as niche) popularity (he’s even been nominated for a Nobel), nobody has really ever met or seen him, until one day our group meets a Mexican who tells them that a friend has actually just met him not long ago. They were told that Archimboldi was going to the border city of Santa Teresa (important!). So the group of Pelletier, Espinoza, and Norton of course head down to Santa Teresa (not Morini who makes up a health excuse not to go, by the way, Morini has multiple sclerosis and is permanently wheelchair-bound, again, please bear with me) where they meet another Archimboldi fan (though nowhere near to the same extent), Amalfitano, in hopes of finally finding the mysterious author. However, their search leads to no avail, although Espinoza and Pelletier are both convinced that Archimboldi is there, just that they cannot find him. Also, Norton left Mexico earlier and emailed both Espinoza and Pelletier telling them that she and Morini actually love each other (Morini and their relationship is also quite interesting I must say)! (END OF SUMMARY)

Hoo boy, okay, after rereading my summary I can firmly say that I’m not that happy with it but it’ll have to do for now. I’m somehow already over the word count without giving my thoughts and impressions yet so let’s just say the summary doesn’t count, deal? Anyhow, I doubt that I’ll give such a long summary in future parts (even though I skipped a ton of details), but for the first part at least I feel like I kind of have to give you guys the gist of what’s going on. The very first thing that stuck out to me and I think basically anyone else who has read 2666 is the five-page long sentence. Yes, you heard me right, a sentence that is nearly five pages long from pages 18 to 22 in the English version. What was that sentence about you may ask? Well that leads into my next observation, 2666 contains many short stories within the larger narrative, which honestly, I’m kind of a fan of (although maybe not the five-page long sentence because that was a doozy). While maybe not all of these short stories told by some of the characters “move the plot forward”, it’s nice reading them and hey, who knows, maybe I’ll find some meaning to them later. Kind of like the epigraph which I really took a fancy to “An oasis of horror in a desert of boredom” by Charles Baudelaire.

Speaking of epigraphs and other parts of the book, just like The Savage Detectives, I basically went into this book blind except for what the professor mentioned about it being in five parts and the little blurb on the back of book. Now I will say that this blurb has kept me very intrigued, it reads “Three academics on the trail of a reclusive German author; a New York reporter on his first Mexican assignment; a widowed philosopher; a police detective in love with an elusive older woman–these are among the searches drawn to the border city of Santa Teresa where over the course of a decade hundreds of women have disappeared.” Well nothing about a New York reporter, widowed philosopher, or police detective yet, but bam, there it is, the border city of Santa Teresa. Oh boy, how I was grinning in anticipation of what was to come next when I read that this mysterious author Archimboldi was going to Santa Teresa. It’s that a-ha moment where you think “okay, okay, now we’re really getting started.” Which reminds me of another thought I had, Pelletier and Espinoza going to Santa Teresa gives me a slight whiff of the beginning of a “hero’s journey” where they just set off on their adventure. I do hope that when they return home they come out changed or transformed in some way because similarly to The Savage Detectives, they are by no means flawless characters (yeah…I may have left out a part where they nearly beat a taxi driver to death and then go on their own sexual escapade filled with prostitutes). Going back to the point at hand, the titles of the five parts of 2666 are also pretty interesting:

  1. The part about the critics
  2. The part about Amalfitano
  3. The part about fate
  4. The part about the crimes
  5. The part about Archimboldi

You may have noticed that I haven’t referred to our group of academics as “the critics” but yes, in fact, they are the critics, not sure exactly why though. Actually the first time I noticed they were referred to as the critics was on page 114 which is quite far out into the first part. Anyways, I really look forward to the future parts, the next part seeming to be about Amalfitano which I mentioned earlier. Fate, I really have no clue about. Crimes, I can guess will be about the women who have disappeared in Santa Teresa. And in the final part, the man, the myth, the legend, Benno von Archimboldi! As for my discussion question(s) this week, I want to ask you guys “What do you think about the little blurb on the back of books and the title of chapters/sections? Do you think reading them beforehand adds value as you read and do you find yourself enjoying  figuring out how/when they tie in? Or do they just spoil the surprises?” That’ll be it from me this week though because this blog post is way too long already, even longer than last week’s, but I hope not to continue this trend!

P.S. I also would have loved to get into how much I am enjoying the characters and how they interact with each other just like The Savage Detectives, but that’ll have to wait until next, next week at least!

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January 1981

Posted on January 22, 2026 by Eli

Reading the first chapter of the Nuestra parte de noche (Our share of night), by Mariana Enriquez, called Las garras del dios vivo, enero de 1981 (the claws of the living god, January 1981), has been an astonishing, impressive, experience accompanied by cosas imposibles (impossible things) while everyday life has to continue in the non-routinary life of the father and son, Juan and Gaspar, the main characters who, through a journey in Argentina, are learning to recognize themselves without the mother’s presence. 

In my first reading, it was the relationship between father (Juan) and son (Gaspar), the main element that captured my attention in this novel, which I have enjoyed. In their journey and relationship, their oppressive consanguinity challenges the paternity of a father who can read his son’s feelings: “Juan sintió el dolor de su hijo como una alarma que lo despertó y esa mañana pudo abrazarlo antes de que empezara a llorar…” (66) (My translation: “Juan felt his son’s pain as an alarm that woke him up, and that morning he was able to hug him before he started crying…” ). And although Juan can sense everyone’s feelings, the profound bond between him and his son makes up the essence of their path: “No podía dormir, pero podía pasar horas escuchando la voz de Gaspar: el chico entendía, hacía lo correcto, lo sostenía” (105). (My translation: He couldn’t sleep, but he could spend hours listening to Gaspar’s voice: the boy understood, did the right thing, supported him). 

Juan, who embodies a powerful god, is at once an imperfect father and a fragile human being who is falling apart, who suffers for his fatherhood and for his son’s fate, while around him, them (father and son), the violence claims his place and the dead are lost among the horrors of dictatorship and obscenities of Puerto Reyes: “En Argentina sobran los muertos anónimos y esta casa ha sido una cárcel clandestina por años” (147) 

The mixture of supernatural events, mystery, parenthood, and a child’s perspectives (Gaspar’s perspective) transforms into a particular way to represent a historic time, which merges with the fiction of  Nuestra parte de noche, where additionally, hopelessness could be the color of the darkness, or perhaps this is like a black hole that consumes all light, or like a dictadura (dictatorship) that devours those that are different and those that are similar, too. And like this is the dark god who talks through Juan.

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