So I have this friend who writes books. He used to read books too, until one day he found himself in a relationship and stopped. He told me once that I would probably like his last book, the conversation went something like:
Me: Bitch, when did you publish this last book, and why don't I have a copy?
M: A few months ago....
Me: What is it about?
M: You know, stream of consciousness...
Me: Man, you are so sick in the head, I don't ever want to read a book about your issues.
M: You'll love it.
But anyways, it's now last Saturday and, as usual, I am out hunting for something I need to buy. I end up buying Roberto Bolaño's By Night in Chile (Mike Puma says that you better start with it (sorry, Amulet, your day hasn't come yet)), I meet the said friend and he's like 'What the fuck is this book, Tina; you are stupid' and I'm like 'If I ever have to read your brain d***, I better have something sophisticated ready to repair my brain damage!'
I am dying now, but I still have many things to say.
Of course nothing of what I said so far makes any sense or is in any way connected to By Night in Chile, but if you're still reading this, then you must really be interested in what I have to say. What I can say about it is that I really enjoyed my first Bolaño, it was something new to me both literary- and story/history-wise, but one has to expand his horizons and here I am...expanding. I would recommend that you read this in one sitting, though, as the padre jumps from recollection to contemplation within the same sentence, and one can easily lose track (especially if are like me--drunk most of the time I was reading it). So, since this is nowhere near smart-reviews-land, I just want to show you something:
He was cute, right?
And then the storm of shit begins.
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