2666 by Roberto Bolaño
It’s obvious: these are certainly not the very mediocre articles of the so-called French literary press, with the exception, perhaps, of Philippe Lançon’s review in Libération (itself making a pretty poor showing alongside the meditation on the impossibility of writing a review of 2666, rather than a review, signed by Roger Fresán in El País), which can teach us something, whatever that may be, about 2666.
At best they allow us to read, without our holding the book in our hands, a quarter of its dust-jacket, and perhaps even, in the case of the finest of these journalistic essayasters, the press kit that came in the mail with Bolaño’s novel. Thus the reader who has read on the Web the cloned texts devoted to the posthumous novel of this magnificent Chilean writer will have been astonished to learn that his last book is: big, even very big, that it mixes together all the literary genres (not true), that it is an epic, that it is colorful, that it is apocalyptic (not true, since it reveals nothing), that it evokes love, sex, corruption, fear, solitude, death and evil, like practically every book ever written or even dreamt about since the invention of writing, and that, even so, since it is big and even very big, nay, positively imposing, this was the minimum that he was entitled to expect of such a massive tome.
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