The Last Book I Read

Over the past couple of years I've become a huge fan of the novels of Roberto Bolano, the Chilean poet who was very prolific before dying rather young. I recently completed another of his works entitled Monsieur Pain, which I found a bit less compelling than his other short novels (I'm working my way up to the longer Savage Detectives and 2666). I think part of that was because the other books I've read (including Nazi Literature in the Americas, Amulet, and By Night in Chile) had in common a powerful commentary on the subversive and redemptive powers of poetry, while Monsieur Pain's plot seems grounded in the far more mystical realms of hypnosis and surrealism. I think Bolano's idea was to demonstrate that the gap between those subjects is actually pretty narrow (that is, trying to tie this exploration of the subconscious to it's role in shaping the best poetry), but the story fails to bring the point clearly home. Stylistically, his prose style is just as compelling here as in the other books mentioned, and that was sufficient to keep me going-- the man truly had a gift for expression. But the story left me cold and unsatisfied, one of those cases where the sum falls short of the individual parts, many of which are fascinating in themselves. It's the first of Bolano's books that I didn't love, but I'm not holding that against him, as it's at least further proof of the kind of lively mind necessary to produce truly classic literature, even if he sometimes falls short of that standard.