[CN: anti-gay slurs everywhere]
THE SAVAGE DETECTIVES
Roberto Bolaño Trans. Natasha Wimmer
Bolaño the poet only stooped to writing prose fiction when he knew he was dying and needed to get money for his family. I flew through the first part of SD, certainly enjoying myself, but wishing I liked it more than I did. It’s fast. Every sentence scrupulously avoids predication or unnecessary details: it’s all action. There’s no lyrical diction or abstract thought, ie the kind of writing I enjoy most (and from what I’ve read of his poetry, it’s largely the same thing but with line breaks).
The first part, “Mexicans Lost in Mexico,” is a diary by Garcia Maderos over the last two months of 1975. Bolaño makes wise storytelling decisions: Garcia Maderos is young, seventeen, so his writing on his own sexual experiences and encyclopedic knowledge of classical Spanish poetic forms make a little more sense than they would with an older narrator. He’s also green, and so he can transmit to us the bohemian “visceral realist” community of writers and actors in a Mexico City still haunted by the student massacres of 1968, like how Patrick O’Brian uses Stephen Maturin to introduce us to a naval ship.
It’s a loose, rambling, discursive novel full of smaller stories, which gradually reveal the context of visceral realism, and more broadly a world of woefully undertranslated Latin American literature and still more broadly world literature from the Tang dynasty poets to the 12th century Troubadours.
But it’s not an encyclopedic novel — it’s a directory. Obscure names are just dropped, which works because the text is made out of speech. There are two pages in part two made entirely out of names, the “Directory of the Avant-Garde” from the magazine Actual No. 1. You could slow down and check every single name against Wikipedia, if you like, or take the names as givens of a story of a countercultural community where literature is life to the extent that Arturo Belano can’t get hard without it. (The women in Garcia Maderos’s life are an exception.)
But there’s another wrinkle: some of the names are fictitious, like Hans Reiter, of main concern in 2666. And many of the characters are fictional versions of real historical people.
So there’s multiple layers of mythologizing: Bolaño mythologizing his youth in Mexico City (he’s cast as Arturo Belano and Mario Santiago is Ulises Lima, my favorite character I think), then Garcia Maderos mythologizing in his diary, since he too wants to shape how this scene will be remembered in a way that suits him — it’d take a very credulous reader to accept that many of the scenes went down exactly how he recounts them, or if so many events happened in one day. And in the second part, made of scraps of oral history from a huge cast of individuals, the same questions of myth apply, with many cast members trying to correct the record.
An example of the name dropping is in the diary entry for November 22 with the young gay poet Ernesto San Epifanio, who
had said that all literature could be classified as heterosexual, homosexual, or bisexual. Novels, in general, were heterosexual, whereas poetry was completely homosexual; I guess short stories were bisexual, although he didn’t say so.
Within the vast ocean of poetry he identified various currents: faggots, queers, sissies, freak, butches, fairies, nymphs, and philenes. But the two major currents were faggots and queers. Walt Whitman, for example, was a faggot poet. Pablo Neruda, a queer. William Blake was definitely a faggot. Octavio Paz was a queer. Borges was a philene, or in other words he might be a faggot one minute and simply asexual the next. Ruben Dario was a freak, in fact, the queen freak, the prototypical freak.
“In our language, of course,” he clarified. “In the wider world the reining freak is still Verlaine the Generous.”
Freaks, according to San Epifanio, were closer to madhouse flamboyances and naked hallucination, while faggots and queers wandered in stagger-step from ethics to aesthetics and back again. Cernuda, dear Cernuda, was a nymph, and at moments of great bitterness, a faggot, whereas Guillen, Aleixandre, and Alberti could be considered a sissy, a butch, and a queer, respectively. As a general rule, poets like Carlos Pellicer were butches, while poets like Tablada, Novo, and Renato Leduc were sissies. In fact, there was a dearth of faggots in Mexican poetry, although some optimists might point to Lopez Velarde or Efrain Huerta. There were lots of queers, on the other hand, from the mauler (although for a second I heard mobster) Diaz Miron to the illustrious Homero Aridjis. It was necessary to go all the way back to Amado Nervo (whistles) to find a real poet, a faggot poet, that is, and not a philene like the resurrected and now renowned Manuel Jose Othon from San Luis Potosi, a bore if ever there was one. And speaking of bores: Manuel Acuna was a fairy and Jose Joaquin Pesado was a Grecian wood nymph, both longtime pimps of a certain kind of Mexican lyrical verse.
“And Efren Rebolledo?” I asked.
“An extremely minor queer. His only virtue is that he was the first, if not the only, Mexican poet to publish a book in Tokyo: Japanese Poems, 1909. He was a diplomat, of course.” (80-1)
And so on for much longer, even getting into the Russians. Is it a substantial theory or just his way to riff? It speaks to the lit scene, where these folks seem to have read everything.
I guess Bolaño knew this book would get translated — it’s an international book in its way — and created a monument to world literature (it’s already made me interested in Heimito von Doderer). It’s depressing that at the same time that so much interesting literature goes untranslated, that a neoliberal market has opened where writers have to dumb down their work in order to get it translated in order to actually make sales.
Maybe I should just learn Spanish.