RMST 495/520: Long Books

What “counts” as reading a book? I wonder if I did really read part 2 of Bolaño’s book. I have absolutely no idea what happened, what was the story. Somewhat. I actually went into the book’s Wikipedia page and read the summary for part 2 to try and make sense of what happened. I realized that I get lost too easily while reading something that has not caught my interest. Turns out my eyes and my arms and hand and my body keeps going through the motions of reading, while my brain is somewhere else, perhaps rethinking my life choices and wondering if I can still go back to a classical music career (spoiler: i can’t). The issue is that, when this happens in normal circumstances, I go back a reread the passage my brain decided to delete. But Bolaño’s book is so long. Maybe if there wasn’t a time limit, if I could read a page a day and take two or three years to read this book, I would enjoy it, but reading 400 or so pages in a week of something that feels like quick sand (not in the pulling you in and can’t stop kind of way, but in the “there’s sand in my lungs and can’t breathe” kind of way, feels like an impossible task.

Why is reading for school so different than reading for yourself? Is reading for school for yourself? I know that the lines can get blurry, my other book is somewhat an example of that (though the length of it and how slow we have been getting through it is getting annoying), but why is it that Bolaño feels like such an extreme to this? I remember when I had to read Flauebrt, both Madame Bobary and Sentimental Education, or La Maria, or Martín Fierro and the pain (yes, pain, both emotional and physical) was similar. I don’t have answers for this, I have no idea on how to change this, how to change my perspective. I hope part 3 can be a bit of fresh air, knowing is almost over. I think that’s actually the best way to get through these kinds of books: like torture it comes to a point where you just have to endure and hope the suffering, through mercy of life or mercy of death, ends soon.

I am a bit dramatic. I am going through some stuff lately and thinking about Bolaño makes me grumpy. But at least I can say

PART 2 IS OVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This week’s poem comes from Retrospective. It was written by Luz Elena (Sergio’s wife in the novel).

—Soldadito, dear soldier—whence have you come?

—From the war, Señorita—how can I serve thee?

—Have you seen my husband—ever, in the war?

—No, Señora, I haven’t seen him—nor do I know what he’ s like.

—My husband is tall, fair—tall and fair, from AragónAnd by the tip of his sword—he carries an embroidered cloth

I embroidered it when I was a girl—as a girl I embroidered,

Another one I am embroidering now—and another I shall.

—From the description you give—your husband is dead,

They took him to Zaragoza—to the house of a colonel.

—Seven years I’ve waited for him—another seven I’ll wait,

If after fourteen he has not come—I’ll become a nun.

—Hush, hush, Isabelita—hush, hush, Isabel,

I am your dear husband—you are my beloved.

I chose this poem as for me it resonates with current world affairs. Since I read it, it stayed with me.

I was behind my reading for Savage Detectives. A reading slump. Then I read 150 pages’ in a day, and I feel my love for reading coming back. There is a small “testimonio” (or novella) that caught my attention. I loved reading it. It is Mary Wattson’s story — She goes to Oxford and then gets in a van going on a road trip with strangers and eventually meets the “night watchman”. I presume that this night watchman is Arturo Belano? The prose’s maturity heals something in me. In fact, I feel more engaged with this part of the novel. Moreover, I am interested in Ulises Lima’ travels to Isr**l. So far, the prose has not mentioned any of there history of the region…. and yet, it subtly approaches geopolitical subjects within dialogue. I had thought Ulises’ travels to Isr**l would be spiritually motivated. I had thought it would culminate in Ulises’ going to Zion and receiving some sort of epiphany that would change the entire plot. Perhaps a deus ex machina? It appears that I am wrong. It was all for Claudia’s love! And talk about San Epifiano, his death was unexpected, and felt sad as Angelica recounts his death. I think this text is teaching me to process emotions. I have laughed, shed tears, felt anxiety, felt happy and re-explored the joys of reading. When reading Maria Font’s entry (as she affairs an affair with Jacinto) I felt sad. Are we humans really sad creatures? I felt sad that Jacinto betrayed Xochitl, especially with his son in the house unit….. how dare he? Perhaps, the text is making me explore or deconstruct how my own beliefs are clashed with others. I like to think that it is a healing experience. That reading this novel, is giving me new perspectives on things. And it also helps me keep things off my mind. I remember, my dream was to do ArtsOne. I always wanted to read those fancy philosophy books and the novels each week. I did not have that opportunity, yet, I have RMST 202 and RMST 495. In its own way, this semester is my own ArtsOne, and I had been stupid to waste it away. This is my dream come true! Reading a novel a week at least. I thought, I always wanted to get paid for reading. (Especially for reading Bolano…) but instead I am getting an education of myself, an exploration of how reading constructs and shapes my identity as a reader. I realize, I have an emotional attachment to some characters now. To Ulises, to Cesarea Tinajero, to Belano, to the way others characters behave. Reading is the hope, the deus ex machina I needed in my life. I think slowly and carefully reading the characters’ “testimonios” holistically portray a bigger picture — and I am interested in uncovering it. I think that once I see the bigger picture, I will get Revelations. The entries then might not be a “ragamuffin” but a tactic from Bolano for delayed revelation for the reader.

I am now at the part wherein Ulises is lost in Nicaragua and am genuinely interested in how the narrative will unfold.

At this point in my reading of The Savage Detectives, the best way I can find to define how I see this novel is the one given by Amadeo Salvatierra about the men who entered the revolution, al torbellino de la Historia (the whirlwind of history) (438, Kindle version), and that is that this story has been a bit like that, NOT because of the agitación, turmoil of events, NOR because the plot is envolvente, compelling, but rather because it is a place that drags everything within its perimeter along with it: leaves, logs, fish, names, poetry?, lists of books and poets, everything is swept up in a whirlwind, there is no distinction (except for French poetry?) in this, everything is confused in the same movement that is swept away. Where to? To Nicaragua, Paris, Mexico City, Luanda, Estredentópolis?

On the other hand, I find that the way this second part was presented, rather than resembling interviews, is closer to a serialised publication in a newspaper (printed newspaper), a literary supplement or “Sunday supplements in the capital’s press” (682, Kindle version), where the stories may well be connected or remain independent. Even if one or more of these interviews are omitted, does this alter the narrative construction of The Savage Detectives? This leads me to wonder if there is such a thing as narrative unity in this novel by Bolaño, beyond Belano (or Bolaño?) himself and Cesárea Tinajero, who seem more like an excuse, a leitmotiv that attempts to hold the development of this narrative together. Perhaps an amalgam that maintains the idea of a novel together in The Savage Detectives? I don’t know and I’m not sure about it, it’s just my experience of reading this series of stories brought together under one title, a title that seems to me to be a speculation, a reflection constructed on the distortion of something that appears to be: streets, cities, characters, “rooms, windows, faces of people who I didn’t really know what they were doing in that film” (573, Kindle version), in that novel. This reminds me of the particular practice in the plastic and visual arts of avoiding naming a work, which then ends up with the label untitled … en fin … just a thought out loud, which I associate with my reading experience.

A reading experience that makes me consider the place of the reader of literature and how approaching a novel or any other literary work, or text (yes, because I believe there are different types of texts and readings) is not only determined by the length of the text, it is also guided by the relationship established with the universe it constructs, a universe in which, as a reader, I may feel comfortable or decide that it is not the place I want to inhabit.

And we are back to The Savage Detectives this week! I was very much looking forward to continuing reading the novel after the teaser at the end of chapter 17, where we had the opportunity to read Cesárea Tinajero’s poem (I’m not sure if that word is the most apt for describing how one experiences this poem, but since it’s a poem, I’m not sure what word to use other than “read”). In chapter 19, we are brought back to the scene where Amadeo is discussing the poem with the group of young men, as they make an effort to interpret it in a similar manner to how we attempted to decipher the poem when we discussed it in class. And you know what? No one in our class stated that they perceived the little rectangle as a boat, however, I do see some similarities between my (French) group’s interpretation of the poem, in which we thought the rectangle looked like a “cute little guy” on a journey that begins as calm and easy, then becomes significantly more challenging, before progressing into a treacherous journey. We still didn’t get it right, but perhaps we were on the right path? Either way, I will put forth the argument that “Sión” is very much a poem, even if I didn’t like it that much when I first read it. It is an expression of Cesárea’s thoughts and ideas, presented in an artistic, dare I say “poetic”, fashion. Therefore it is a poem! (Although what I described there isn’t the dictionary definition of a poem) What else should we call “Sión” if one refuses to refer to it as a poem? Visual art? Nah. It is a poem. And I was reminded of it when Andrés Ramírez states “When I would get to Diagonal, that was always the end of my walk, which sometimes followed a straight line and other times an endless series of zigzags” (p. 413). When I read this part, I saw an image in my mind that looked very similar to Cesárea’s poem. In fact, surprisingly I’ve been thinking quite a bit about “Sión” since we had our discussion about it in class. It’s interesting how a discussion about a piece of art can make someone appreciate it so much more.

Xosé Lendoiro’s part of this section of the book was one that left an impression on me. His constant use of Latin was an interesting choice. It made me laugh, although I couldn’t understand most of it (I need to brush up on my Latin). I think Bolaño captured the lawyer’s pretentiousness quite well, such as when he’s describing the smell of Arturo Belano and states “[…] except for Belano, who buried himself in a world where everything stank of shit and urine and rot and poverty and sickness, a world where the stink was suffocating and numbing […]” (p. 467). He even insists that his daughter has also began to smell the same way, which he highly disapproves of. On the previous page, he mentions the “smell of money”, which seems much more pleasing to him than the smell of Belano. This part of the chapter made me think about how marginalized groups, such as those living in poverty, are so often stigmatized by society due to how they look, or in this case, how they smell. I was reminded of Xosé’s statement when Julio Martínez Morales states “A writer, we’ve established, shouldn’t look like a writer. He should look like a banker, a rich kid who grows up without a care in the world, a mathematics professor, a prison official” (p. 515-516). Once again, we are reminded that having the appearance of high-class social standing is what is deemed to be ideal. Lastly, I was also reminded of Xosé and Julio’s comments when Pablo del Valle mentions that he left his girlfriend, who was a mailwoman, to be with a woman who is studying English literature, which is followed by “I think we make a wonderful couple: people look at us and nod their heads” (p. 518). Pablo is looking for the approval of society. Image matters. Appearance matters. Xosé, Julio and Pablo’s criticism of the lower-class made me greatly appreciate Pere Ordóñez’s section on page 514, where he indicates the shift in the social standing of the majority of Spanish and Latin American writers at the time. He doesn’t describe the “proletariat” with disgust or disdain. Instead, he expresses acceptance and even appreciation for the diversity of social class in the world of Spanish-speaking writers. “And so literature is what it is”.

Question for the class: Did our discussion in class also make you appreciate the poem “Sión” more than you did before?

I started noticing something weird about this book a while back but I decided to be patient and see how things developed.

It is interesting that somehow both of my books address this place from a different lens.

I was not sure how to address this and I am not sure if someone already did it. However, it is something that has been impacting my reading of this book a lot.

I am going to say it…

What is this obsession of Bolaño with Israel?

I won’t deny it, but at this point of the book the constant mention of Israel without any mention of Palestine, is starting to feel to some extent like propaganda.

Have you heard the ways that Hollywood subtly introduces Israel in shows, where a character casually mentions going there, working with Israeli intelligence, or having family there? It is rarely the main point of the plot, but it appears often enough that it becomes normalized in the background of the story. Over time, these references create a sense of familiarity and legitimacy without ever really engaging with the political context of the place.

There is a good video that explains this:

While reading Detectives Salvajes, I started to notice something similar. Israel appears repeatedly, sometimes almost casually, as if it were simply another cultural or intellectual reference point. Like in the story of Edith Oster, when she casually just mentions that her brother was in the IDF! (page 438). Yet what stands out to me is not just its presence, but the absence of any mention of Palestine or of the historical conflict that shapes the region. That absence becomes noticeable the more the references accumulate.

As a reader/student/human in the present moment, it is difficult not to read these references through the lens of contemporary politics and media discourse. Every time it gets mention, I am expecting something to make sense out of it. The repetition starts to feel less neutral and more like a narrative pattern that privileges one perspective while rendering another invisible.

I am not necessarily claiming that Bolaño is intentionally producing propaganda, but the effect of the repeated references is still worth questioning. Literature often reflects the geopolitical assumptions of the time in which it was written, and sometimes those assumptions appear most clearly in what is left unsaid.

So I am curious how others read these moments. Do you see these references as simply part of Bolaño’s global literary universe, or do they also feel politically charged? And how does the absence of Palestine affect your reading of the text?

For instance, comparing to the other book I am reading, Monje adds historical moments to his mother’s stories to bring Palestine into conversation, for instance by mentioning when :

“que se creó el Estado de Israel —donde, semanas después, un francotirador asesinó a un primer niño palestino—” (p.61)

Translation: “that the State of Israel was created—where, weeks later, a sniper killed the first Palestinian child.”

or later:

“que, en Gaza, el ejército israelí mató a un total de sesenta y dos ciudadanos palestinos, entre los cuales había mujeres, mujeres embarazadas, niños y ancianos en cinco eventos diferentes, además de que dio inicio la mayor campaña de destrucción de viviendas, mediante la utilización de buldóceres, que hasta entonces se hubiera suscitado en la Franja”

Translation: “that, in Gaza, the Israeli army killed a total of sixty-two Palestinian citizens, among them women, pregnant women, children, and elderly people in five different events, and also began the largest campaign of home destruction, using bulldozers, that had occurred in the Strip up to that point.”

What I find interesting here is not only the information itself, but the narrative gesture. In the work of Monje, these historical inputs interrupts the flow of personal storytelling. They force the reader to position intimate family memories within a broader history of violence and dispossession. Palestine is not a distant geopolitical abstraction; it becomes something that shapes the emotional and historical landscape of the narrative, of the book.

Why Bolaño chose silence? Did I miss/skip something?

I’ve sort of avoided saying this in my blogs because I feel bad, but I can’t hold it in any longer: if The Savage Detectives were not for class, I would have stopped reading around page 200. Which I do not usually do – my mom calls it “book martyring” where we both have to finish a book once we’ve started (she’s been trying to get through Braiding Sweetgrass for the last six months or so). I almost always finish a book, but sometimes it’s a battle. But I would not have even book martyred by way through this. If we think back to Cesarea Tinajera’s one poem – the rectangle on the lines – I started off my reading Part I as going along the strait line, then slowing my reading became the wavy line and last I left off it was certainly the jagged line. This week, I was really dreading going back to Bolaño.

However, I decided to try to refresh my mindset. Which, with Bolaño’s style is pretty easy to do – if you don’t like one story or perspective, pretty soon you’ll get another one. And if you don’t like the next one, well, maybe then you’re out of luck. But usually there is something for everyone as they say.

I felt like the stories in the section for this week were longer, which made them easier to follow, for example the lottery winner, or the lawyer who kept saying things in latin (?). I felt like I got a clearer picture of both Arturo Belano and Cesarea Tinajera, and that the perspectives were more clear about explaining the whole who/what/where/when than previous sections, which helped me focalise my understanding of the book better through these common threads. I have struggled most with The Savage Detectives during the stories that I just cannot connect to my understanding of the plot: why is this here? Why do I have to read this? I find myself asking heatedly. Having these two touchstones helped guide this reading into more enjoyable waters.

I think my favourite chapter of this section was that of Edith Oster, I can’t really say why other than I was just the most entertained. I have found throughout the narrative a pull towards female characters. I was sad when Edith lost her cat – for a character who self-reportedly cries all the time, she didn’t seem too sad about it. Reading the scene about horse riding conjured up a passage from the beginning of the book that I had totally forgot about – something about another girl and Belano with horses. Reading that passage at the start of this (very tiring) semester feels so long ago now that the memory has mushed and blurred and I almost wasn’t able to place the horse scene from earlier in this book. On page 445 she also mentions a nurse named Rosarío from Mexico City – could this be the same Rosarío from García Madero’s narration? I hoped so – she’d be doing better now.

Though the timeline expands outward on one end – we make it into the 1990s, and does conversely closes in on 1975 and Cesarea Tinajera. I enjoyed how the analysis of her poem (or not poem) mirrored our own discussion in class, looking at the title, the rectangle as taking a journey over the waves, other interpretations too. It felt like the book predicted what we would say pretty well! And, the final chapter revealing what I have long been hoping for: a directive of what the driving force of this whole narration is. Let’s find Cesarea!

GARCIA MADERO ALERT. I was wondering if we would ever hear about him again, until the very final pages of this section when Ernesto Garciaz, the only living expert on visceral realists in the world, says…”Juan Garcia Madero? No the name doesn’t ring a bell. He never belonged to the group.” (585)

“Of course I’m sure,” he says next, anticipating perhaps the reader’s surprise at this. Who then, was Garcia Madero? The other 17-year-old that Ernesto names? Someone else? Anyway, for my sake I really appreciate both the return to the beginning as well as the more direct plotline for the next section.

Discussion question: perhaps we’ve talked about this in class, but would you prefer a more “direct” plot in The Savage Detectives, or do you like the style in which it is written?

I’m starting to feel a bit less “fond” of The Savage Detectives (I was barely ever but). Even though I am usually less excited to read The Savage Detectives than Conversation in the Cathedral, this time around it really took me out. I usually read the book in one sitting or over a couple of days but this time I read parts last week and then the remainder over yesterday and today, and I genuinely believe that made it more intolerable for me. But I could not be more content with the fact that we are finally close to the finish line. I was quite tempted to read the final part. That is all I have been waiting for.

In this blog, I do not wish to reflect on the many characters discussed, as they contributed to me not being able to enjoy my reading this week. However, Belano is an exception. He is interesting. I have grown to like him over the past couple of months. His relationships, his words, and his behaviour are strange, but not strange like Ulises’s or the rest of the visceral realists. He has a numbness to him. Like he cares but he does not at the same time (if that makes sense).

I wish I could meet these characters not because they inspire me or they are fascinating but because I am tired of imagining what they look like. I want to get a visual sense of what they look like (I am a visual person, what can I say). There should be a movie based on The Savage Detectives. I would absolutely watch it. Though I must say, that movie would be quite weird, maybe interesting, and engaging because of how weird and strange it would turn out to be… It is something to think about. As I have said before, the characters in this book and their relationships can all serve as case studies for psychology students. There is so much to unpack about each character (though we do a fairly good job during our seminar). The book leaves me numb, but then it turns into frustration each time, feeling as if I need to take a walk to clear my head or grab coffee or both. From pages 490-512, I kept wondering once again… how did we get here? A duel? Arturo? Really? Going back to what happened to visceral realists and their members… some dead, some alive, some disappeared and no one knows what happened to Arturo, and worse than that, no one ever knows or has any account of who García Madero was (His name was Bustamante?). and Lastly…the search for Cesárea continues…. “doing it for Mexico, for Latin America.” I think we will hear more about Cesárea or I mean we must. Will she be found?

For a part (Feria Del Libro Madrid, July 1994) one after another, the interviews ended with a similar statement each time, and that got me going back and forth between the interviews and rereading them every time I got to the end of each, realizing that they are similar. After the third one, I believe, I first read the line at the end of the interviews and then read the interview itself. I’m sure we will talk about this in great detail in class (Or I hope so), but which one resonates with you? Which one is correct? Is there one that is correct? Does this have any meaning to you, or does it depend on the context?

-Everything that begins as comedy ends in tragedy-

-Everything that begins as comedy inevitably ends as comedy-

-Everything that begins as a comedy ends as a cryptic exercise-

-Everything that begins as comedy ends as a horror movie-

-What begins as comedy ends as a triumphal march-

-Everything that begins as comedy inevitably ends as mystery-

-Everything that begins as comedy ends as a dirge in the void-

-Everything that begins as comedy ends as a comic monologue-

“I never met a Mexican who knew how to rig a phone, maybe because we weren’t ready for the modern world.” — Edith Oster

In this week’s reading, I’ve completely lost track of the characters. This was a perfect example of “form” reinforcing “content”. The form becomes so polyphonic that we cannot help but lose track of the characters and forget the names of old friends, reflecting Arturo and Ulises’ venture into new worlds, but also a symptom of modernity, a theme that became prominent in this section.

This section has many surreal stories, almost mythic. There’s André and the lottery numbers that came to him in a trance, the Devil is seen in a chasm behind a campsite in Galicia, Jacobo runs into Arturo three times in Africa out of chance, Ulises and Octavio Paz walk in circles in the park as if playing out an ancient ritual. Norman dies in a car accident only after a satisfactory telling of Ulises’ story — as though he’d done his job relaying this important message. Myth is almost the opposite of modernity. Myths have prehistoric colours. Every story has a hidden meaning and it’s better not to look into it too closely, just like André knows better to overdraft his luck with lotteries. All these poets and artists who aren’t ready for modernity started to tell stories shrouded in myth, going in the other direction, drawing swords and not guns on the hot empty beach reminiscent of the beach in Camus’s L’Étranger.

“Worst-case scenario, I’ll be bringing Pachuca into the modern age,” says Ernesto García Grajales, the only expert on visceral realists in Mexico. What is the despicable “modernity” they are talking about? Why do the visceral realists fear or loath or just aren’t ready for it?— this is my question of the week, and I will try to answer it too.

I think we can find examples of so-called “modern” writers in Chapter 23 — successful writers. One abandons his mailwoman girlfriend who supported him financially for years, as soon as he wins a prize. Another thinks all day about how to suck up to the big names in literature and not offend their friends — phoney! These harshly realistic and methodical ways of making a name for oneself in literature is the complete opposite of the free-spirited visceral realists who do not know what a plan is — though visceral realists also leech off of women.

Have a clear goal, move forwards towards happiness, that’s modernity. ““I think we make a wonderful couple: people look at us and nod their heads. We embody optimism and the future in a certain way, a way that’s pragmatic and thoughtful too.” Says Pablo de Valle, the jerk who abandoned his mailwoman girlfriend at the first sight of fame.

The visceral realists do not have a goal and are definitely not headed for happiness. Here’s where Amadeo gets it wrong:

–       Stridentism and visceral realism are just two masks to get us to where we really want to go.

–       And where is that? she said.

–       To modernity, Cesárea, I said, to goddamned modernity.

–       And Cesárea gave me a look, a brief little sideways glance, and said that the search for a place to live and a place to work was the common fate of all mankind.

The visceral realists are in constant stage of searching — for belonging, for happiness, whatever. Like a reciprocal function that will never reach the axis.

This could be one of Cesárea’s poems, right?

Maybe to constantly search is to be constantly lost.