I used to think that Kafka’s “The Great Wall of China” was the best
book ever written. Of course, this is false. Yet I must say Roberto
Bolaño is the best Latin Amercian novelist of the last 30 years.
Henry Miller was his master. Books! I could go on and on. Let me
point a few.
"Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where
every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.
One evening I took Beauty in my arms - and I thought her bitter -
and I insulted her.I steeled myself against justice.
I fled. O witches, O misery, O hate, my treasure was left in your
I have withered within me all human hope. With the silent leap of a
sullen beast, I have downed and strangled every joy.
I have called for executioners; I want to perish chewing on their
gun butts. I have called for plagues, to suffocate in sand and
blood. Unhappiness has been my god. I have lain down in the mud,
and dried myself off in the crime-infested air. I have played the
fool to the point of madness.
And springtime brought me the frightful laugh of an idiot".
"Rage — Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles,
murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses,
hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls,
great fighters’ souls, but made their bodies carrion,
feasts for the dogs and birds..."
"I have dreamed of you so much that you are no longer real.
Is there still time for me to reach your breathing body, to kiss
your mouth and make
your dear voice come alive again?
I have dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown used to being
crossed on my
chest as I hugged your shadow, would perhaps not bend to the shape
of your body.
For faced with the real form of what has haunted me and governed me
for so many
days and years, I would surely become a shadow.
O scales of feeling.
I have dreamed of you so much that surely there is no more time for
me to wake up.
I sleep on my feet prey to all the forms of life and love, and you,
the only one who
counts for me today, I can no more touch your face and lips than
touch the lips and
face of some passerby.
I have dreamed of you so much, have walked so much, talked so much,
slept so much
with your phantom, that perhaps the only thing left for me is to
become a phantom
among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadow than the
moves and goes on moving, brightly, over the sundial of your
American T.V. shows are not very familiar to me. I love
In terms of music I am really open. On a Saturday night you would
find me hearing The Doors, Maria Callas, or even the most classic
Latin American “vallenato”, such as Carlos Vives.