RMST 495/520: Long Books

Hi everyone, I can’t believe we are approaching the end of the course so fast, which means all of us will have read both The Savage Detectives and our self-selected book. I am really happy with my choice, as I have enjoyed most of the book, and am anticipating a very funny and ironic psycho-analysis from the doctor for my last chunk of reading.

The part I read in the book for this blog post is titled “The Story of a Business Partnership”. This part of the book delves into the relationship Zeno has with a man Guido, who can be understood as a business rival, but there is more to it than that. Around 150 or so pages ago when Zeno was still pining over Ada (who is not his wife) and was determined to marry her, Ada met another suitor, who was much more charming and charismatic. Therefore, Guido is not just a business rival, Zeno is very envious of Guido because he also married the woman he intended to marry. Then why do I call them best frenemies… well because Zeno acts like his friend. Of course he does. In fact, Zeno goes as far to seek Guido out to become his business partner, which was a doomed idea from the start, but he agrees. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer I guess. The business partnership is flawed and doomed because even though Guido has more charisma and is more likeable, he is disorganized, and spends excessively. You would think that Zeno would see this and intervene, or try to get out of the arrangement, but he does not. Instead, he quietly observes, constantly noting throughout the book that he believes he is more capable, yet does not do much to change what is happening. Yet another example of Zeno’s crippling passivity. Zeno would likely not see it as crippling or destructive, but it certainly is for the average person. Zeno lets things happen to him and then restructures events and realities to fit what he believes to be true, as I have mentioned in previous blog posts. I have to question the degree of his awareness. Does he know he is doing this, is he extremely mentally ill and has no sense of his actions, or a bit of both. Either way, it is kind of fascinating to read because I feel like I am getting one of the most different perspectives I have ever gotten from a book.

That was quite a long blurb, but I found the nature of their relationship to be very interesting. I will summarize a couple other key events that happened during this chapter. Guido begins to experience financial ruin and simultaneously, Ada’s appearances begin to change due to illness, and she is described to become less attractive. You can imagine Zeno is sitting back and enjoying this, there is sense of revenge being served in his eyes, which is quite cruel. Guido, becoming more distraught decides to stage suicide to make Ada feel sorry for him, and it works. So Guido thinks, “hm that was great let me do it again” and does, but dies trying to fake his suicide. It was a big misunderstanding, one that Ada blames on Zeno because he is the one who explained the difference between sodium veronal (fatal) and veronal (not fatal). It seems like anyone who enters Zeno’s life is worse off because of it, but that is a general observation. His death being accidental is very on brand with Zeno’s life and the rest of the book; that being that apparently us humans do not have much volition to do as we please and instead we are almost victims of the rest of the world.

Thank you for reading, I can’t imagine what type of diagnosis a doctor would give Zeno.

This week I read parts four and five of Our Share of Night. These two sections cover events that take place before and after the events of previous sections.

There were some interesting reveals related to the “empty house” episode from part three: in part four (1960-76, Rosario’s perspective) we learn how Juan Peterson discovered that he could open doors to a bone- and body part-littered realm that he, Rosario and their friends called the Other Place; and in part five (1993, perspective of a journalist named Olga Gallardo), we learn that Juan was responsible for the disappearance of Gaspar’s friend (and cousin) Adela inside the house — that he “sacrificed” her in order to protect Gaspar. I still don’t see what’s wrong with empty houses in general; I think the only thing wrong with this one was the door to skeleton hell that Juan must have opened.

On another note, I’ve been trying to formulate something that feels like a real answer to the question of what this book is about. In a back-cover blurb sense, Our Share of Night is the story of members of a wealthy family that worships a destructive otherworldly force and engages in horrifying cult activities with the goal of achieving a form of immortality. It’s also a story that deals with the military dictatorship and the mark it left on Argentina. But I’m not satisfied with the back-cover blurb answer, and I’m not too convinced that Mariana Enriquez wrote a 600-page work of fiction solely for the purpose of emphasizing how bad the dictatorship was. I want to be able to explain in a good sentence or two that there’s something deeper here.

One thing I’ve been reflecting on is how Our Share of Night doesn’t present the main Darkness-worshipping cult family as particularly different from the “regular” capitalists of 1960s-90s Argentina. The Bradfords own a yerba plantation; they torture babies; they threaten journalists; they offer up their land when the military needs to dispose of the corpses of the disappeared; they are brutal parasites, preoccupied with legacy and inheritance, concerned only with their own self-preservation. I think I would have to say that legacy and inheritance are the key elements in this story. More on that next time, perhaps.

My question(s) of the week: Have you found it difficult to define what your chosen book is really about? Has your understanding of its themes changed at all?

While I still have about 90 pages left to read, I can tell that the book is starting to wrap up. I had a feeling that the famous author Julián Carax was not dead, and while this hasn’t actually been confirmed yet, we did find out that on the night that everyone thought Carax died, his best friend (Miquel Moliner) switched identities with him and died that night instead. We will find out shortly if Carax is still alive, or died in another way at a later point. 

I have to say that I’m a little disappointed with the grand mystery of Julián Carax. I was expecting some bigger (and maybe more credible?) reason for why someone would want to kill him. Inspector Fumero is clearly evil, so the fact that he wanted to kill Carax just because Carax and Penélope were lovers (and Fumero loved her too, even though he never told anyone about this) could make sense but the fact that Jorge Aldaya (Penélope’s brother) wanted to kill Carax just because his father asked him years ago to do so? And that he blamed Carax for the reason why his family fell into poverty? It just seems too dramatic and unrealistic to me. Also that Nuria Monfort fell in love with Carax before she even met him? She loved him just because of stories she had heard about him? I don’t know about all of that. 

Having said all of that though, it is still a very engaging story. I was hooked from the beginning and have found it difficult to put down at every moment. I am still interested to find out if Carax is still alive and if Daniel (our main character and narrator) will get to meet him. What is the connection between Daniel and Carax? And what about what I read back on page 373, that Daniel would be dead in seven days? There are still some questions left unanswered so I hope they will be answered before the book ends. 

 You can feel the darkness of the Spanish Civil War, and the following dictatorship, throughout the book (especially in the second half of it). They do mention some things happening in the country but you can mostly feel it throughout the stories of the characters. It’s hard to read sometimes, especially because my family would have lived through some of it (they came to Canada in the 40s/50s). It’s impossible not to think of them, wherever I read about this time period, however it always surprises me that it somehow helps me understand myself better. It seems that each time I gather information about my family (including who they were, what they lived through, etc), it’s like I gain another piece of my very own puzzle of identity. 

A question for the class: Off the top of your head, are there any books you’ve read that led you to a deep reflection about life, and therefore felt like it changed your life as a result of it? Please share the name of the title and why, if you can think of any!  

This week’s section of my self selected book was really short, like 30 pages short. I read it in like 40 minutes by a friend’s fireplace. It was very pleasant; made me happy. This contrasts a lot with my frantic, “i might not finish reading this before class” experience of reading last Bolaño’s section. Following a little bit on my question about reading last blog I think that the context and experience of reading also affect how that section is percived. But I digress.

I’ve been told several times by Jon to actually talk about the book in these blogs. So I wanted to explore a little the idea of horror in Mariana Enriquez’s book. This question has been in my mind since the start, as is quite common that Latin American horror takes the position where the really horrific things are not the supernatural happenings or the gorey descriptions of cults and magic, but the real, tremendously violent events that stain our history crimson. This section, a little chronicle by a journalist, is a “entremés”, a break in the “main plot” of the book. She is investigating a newly revealed “fosa común”, a mass grave used during the military dictatorship. Here she meets with a person linked to one of the previous chapter, a mother of a child we saw disappearing in a non-natural horrific incident. The descriptions to the very real bones and violence does not stray for previous writing from the author, with the scenes being raw, direct, without anything covered by euphemisms. The bones, scattered, tangled, as they are uncovered are the real terrors the character suffer, those that exist in the world outside the book, in our very real, fleshy world. The journalist reflects on what horrors do we chose to focus on, implying heavily that the (in her eyes) fantastical horrors can be a cover, somehow, to the real world: “La imaginación del público se enamora de ciertos horrores y es indiferente a otros” [The public’s imagination falls for certain horrors and doesn’t care for others] (501). Even when the conversation turns supernatural, the journalist thinks that these are just metaphors used to process the very real trauma experienced: “Las metáforas que usaba para comprender la tragedia de su vida me conmovían, pero también me estremecían, especialmente esa especie de delirio místico sobre los poderes de la selva” [The metaphors she used to process her life’s tragedy moved me, but they also shook me, specially that mystical delirium on the jungle’s powers] (505). Empathy, however, is still present. The journalist doesn’t see this as a crazy woman. The journalist sees trauma and is able to relate to the horrors experienced by the interviewee being able to imagine the pain and terror that rules the land:

Aunque podía entender por qué podía enloquecer en ese sentido. Si uno viaja en auto por un camino que atraviesa la espesura, en Misiones, la selva es una prisión con muros a ambos lados, la tierra roja es un río de lava. Ahí, cerca de la laguna, la selva parecía más alejada. A lo mejor por eso elegían el pueblo los familiares, por su apertura. Imaginé los cuerpos en camiones, atravesando caminos embarrados, arroajdos a un pozo, los pájaros [506] nocturnos callados por el ruido de los motores. Había visto, más temprano, un altar a San la Muerte. Y el primer día, cuando llegábamos con el auto desde Posadas, el de San Güesito, un niño muerto y venerado, un animita, como los llaman en Chile. Pensé en los huesos secos que deja el calor, el calor que come la carne hasta que no queda nada.

[Though I could understand how she could go insane in that sense. If one is to drive a path that goes through the thicket, in Misiones, the jungle is a prison with walls on both sides, the red dirt is a river made of lava. There, near the lagoon, the jungle seemed to back up. Perhaps that’s why the families chose that town, for its openness. I imagined the corpses in trucks, traversing mud-ridden dirt roads, thrown into a pit, the nocturnal birds silenced by the motors. I had seen, earlier in the day, an altar to San la Muerte. And the first day, as we arrived by car from San Posadas, San Güesito’s, a dead and worshiped child, an animita, as they are called in Chile. I thought of the dry bones that the heat produces, the heat that eats the flesh until nothing is left] (505,6)

Anyways, what do you think of horror in a world that everyday seems more horrific than the stories we used to fear?

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?