The Last Book I Read

I wish I had the time to read more novels than I do, especially those as striking as the one I just finished, which is remarkable in ways I know I'll fall short of expressing. I read a review of Roberto Bolano's Savage Detectives and added it to my reading list several months ago, but before I got to it, I came across an excerpt of his earlier work Nazi Literature in the Americas in Harper's Magazine and thought I'd start with that shorter work. I found it totally engrossing, both in its structure (essentially an annotated catalog of fictional literary figures) and in the way it gathers momentum as one advances through the sections, leading to a final chapter that packs quite a wallop. As there is no plot, as we typically use the term, the reader becomes an accomplice in constructing a narrative-- one that Bolano facilitates but does not really dictate (at least in a way consistent with other story-tellers). In the end, he provides a series of somewhat open-ended incidents that compel the reader to draw their own conclusions; that is, we're allowed to participate in ending the story in a manner that essentially puts us in the same "creative" position as many of the various writers whose careers are briefly sketched through out the book. No doubt most all those readers will gravitate toward an ending that suggests at least a tacit affinity for the violence and moral superiority that define the "Nazi" components of Bolano's rogues gallery of poets and novelists. Beyond that, it's also impressive for the author's ability to make poetry seem central to everything from politics to soccer: as his literary subjects move in ever intersecting circles of cultural interchange, it is through their poetry (or the support of others' work) that they define themselves, their social and political positions, and their visions for change. It really is a stunning book, and now I'm even more anxious to get to Savage Detectives and Bolano's last novel 2666.