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It’s here!

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The first ever issue of 404 Ink has been released, and my short story, reboot, is published within. I haven’t fully digested the magazine yet, but from what I have seen and read, there is some fantastic work (not just fiction, but essays, poems, even illustrations and comics). It’s also really well put together. Editing, layout, print is all great. It feels ‘proper’.

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I’d encourage you to purchase it – not only to check out my writing, but to support the guys at 404 Ink. They have a lot of talent and passion and it would be great to see them do well. You can buy a printed version, or as an e-book, here. Cheers!

While hunting deer in the Texan desert Llewelyn Moss, a Vietnam war veteran, stumbles upon a drug deal gone south, with bullet ridden corpses and abandoned vehicles and a satchel containing two million dollars. In deciding to take the money he knows he has sealed an uncertain fate and changed his life forever. What follows is a cat-and-mouse chase as the county police department and drug dealers desperate for their money race to get to Moss first, while Moss himself desperately tries to stay one step ahead of an unfathomable and malevolent hitman who kills mercilessly to get what he needs.

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Stills taken from the theatrical adaptation of McCarthy’s novel.

I mentioned a cat-and-mouse chase, somewhat of a cliched description, but the plot of No Country For Old Men has been done hundreds of times before. Any originality to be found comes instead from the portrayal and viewpoint of the two central characters, and Llewyln Moss is not one of them. This book is about Ed Tom Bell, an ageing county sheriff who struggles to adapt and comprehend to the new brand of violence encroaching on the old West, and Anton Chigurh, a cold blooded and murderous entity whose nihilistic views on fate and choice are terrifyingly final and not up for dispute. The book contains several internal monologues from the point of view of Ed Tom, as he recalls law stories of days past and how it compares to what he sees and hears today. His clear romanticism of the past (Ed Tom recalls an older generation sheriff who never felt the need to even carry a weapon while on duty) and a fear of what he will have to do, and become, to continue to uphold the law in this turbulent and unforgiving climate, becomes all the more powerful when reading about the actions and mindset of Chigurh.

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Javier Bardem as the terrifying Anton Chigurh.

Chigurh is an incredible villain, up there with Judge Holden as an almost demonic entity completely incomprehensible to the poor men and women that find themselves in their path. Chigurh is a hitman, or a bounty hunter, and in No Country For Old Men his role is to reclaim the satchel stolen by Llewyln Moss. Little is known of his origins, his background, his nationality. What makes him terrifying is the way he views himself as a deliverer of fate. Chigurh kills with little remorse but will often deliberate before doing so. After inconsequential small talk with the owner of a gas station, he implores the owner to call on a coin toss, presumably for his life.

You’re asking that I make myself vulnerable and that I can never do. I have only one way to live. It doesn’t allow for special cases. A coin toss perhaps. In this case to small purpose. Most people don’t believe that there can be such a person. You see what a problem that must be for them. How to prevail over that which you refuse to acknowledge the existence of. Do you understand? When I came into your life your life was over. It had a beginning, a middle, and an end. This is the end. You can say that things could have turned out differently. That there could have been some other way. But what does that mean? They are not some other way. They are this way. You’re asking that I second say the world. Do you see?

I actually saw the film adaptation (superbly directed by the Coen Brothers) before I read McCarthy’s novel. While extremely faithful to the source material, Ed Tom, played by Tommy Lee Jones, is very much a backing character. The film focuses far more on Chigurh and his relentless pursuit of Moss, which works fantastically well. The film is tense but moments of action are generally few and far between. Yet it remains gripping due to haunting, menacing and inherently violent performance by Javier Bardem as Chigurh.

Somewhere out there is a true and living prophet of destruction and I dont want to confront him. I know he’s real. I have seen his work. I walked in front of those eyes once. I wont do it again. I wont push my chips forward and stand up and go out to meet him. It aint just bein older. I wish that it was. I cant say that it’s even what you are willin to do. Because I always knew that you had to be willin to die to even do this job. That was always true. Not to sound glorious about it or nothin but you do. If you aint they’ll know it. They’ll see it in a heartbeat. I think it is more like what you are willin to become. And I think a man would have to put his soul at hazard. And I wont do that.

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Tommy Lee Jones as the overwhelmed Sheriff Ed Tom Bell.

No Country For Old Men is a compelling, disturbing thriller, and yet some distance from the peak of McCarthy’s works. I see it as the perfect book to introduce yourself to McCarthy – hidden from the bleak nihilism of The Road, the rambling auto-bio-tragedy of Suttree and the brutal savagery of Blood Meridian.

TheOutsider

Albert Camus was a French writer and philosopher whose principal school of philosophy was absurdism, and the study of the Absurd. From my very basic understanding* the main conflict posed by absurdism was the human mind’s tendency to rationalise and assign meaning and value to the meaning of life, and the inability to do so. His works often explored man’s desire for significance and meaning in the face of the silent and cold existence of the universe. While many of his works and essays are linked to existentialism, Camus was always keen to point out that he was not an existentialist.

*Having only read Camus’s The Plague and The Outsider, I am keen to pick up The Myth of Sisyphus next, in which Camus explains his understanding of the absurd in more detail. From the little I’ve read on the subject it seems fascinating.

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L’Étranger was published in France in 1942, and was later translated into English in 1946, published as The Outsider (or The Stranger in the US). A philosophical novel, its outlook centres on the Absurd, and an odd character named Mersault, the narrator of the book and the titular ‘outsider’. The very first line reads “Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can’t be sure.” Immediately Camus introduces us to a protagonist who is distant and does not conform to the same emotions one would expect a man in society to do.

The first part of the book details the funeral of Mersault’s mother, and Mersault’s general indifference and lack of grief is noted by several characters. Just days after the funeral he meets with a female colleague, Marie, who he begins a sexual relationship with, as well as becoming acquaintances with his volatile neighbour. On a weekend at another friends beach hut, Mersault carries out a spontaneous act of violence and shoots a man dead. The reasoning for this is never explained in certain terms by Mersault. The second half focuses on Mersault in prison and standing trial for his crimes. To his surprise the prosecutor focuses not on the murder itself but Mersault’s lack of empathy, his quietness, his passiveness. He believes this points to his guilt, and through further trials, accuses the defendant of lacking remorse. As such, he believes the only appropriate punishment is death.

Mostly, I could tell, I made him feel uncomfortable. He didn’t understand me, and he was sort of holding it against me. I felt the urge to reassure him that I was like everybody else, just like everybody else. But really there wasn’t much point, and I gave up the idea out of laziness.

Mersault is described in sparse detail. If he has opinions he keeps them to himself. His actions and the consequences of those actions have little affect on him. The overall plot is simplistic and at around 150 pages The Outsider isn’t a difficult read, but this gives the reader a canvas upon which to prescribe their own ideals. Depending on your morals and understandings of human nature, this book could disturb you, it could anger you, it could depress you. At times I was sympathising with Mersault, at others I despised him.

Less of a story and more of a fascinating character study, The Outsider is an interesting introduction into the philosophical dilemmas that Camus and the Absurd pose. If you have any interest in the Absurd and existentialism, take a look.

for whom the bell tolls

In 1937 Ernest Hemingway spent considerable time with republican forces as a journalist, covering the Spanish Civil War. His experiences formed the basis of For Whom The Bell Tolls, published in 1940. It centers on the American Robert Jordan, a dynamiter and demolitions expert in the International Brigades, fighting for the Republic against Spain’s fascist forces in the country’s civil war. Tasked with blowing up a key bridge behind enemy lines, he travels to the camp of a republican guerilla group based in a cave hidden in the hills near Segovia. The former leader of the guerillas, Pablo, has become a drunk and has lost the respect of his men. Pablo fears the repercussions from the fascist forces if they assist in blowing of the bridge, leading to a clash with Robert Jordan, but Pilar, Pablo’s wife, usurps him and pledge their allegiance to helping the American. It is here that Jordan also meets María, a young Spanish woman who has recently escaped from fascist forces who murdered her family and raped her.

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Hemingway’s trademark writing is present here. The prose is simple, perhaps deceptively so, when dealing with some powerful themes, and his syntax is uncomplicated for the most part. At times For Whom The Bell Tolls is slow and laborious, its dialogue awkward and antiquated (Hemingway chose to use words such as ‘thou’ and ‘thine’). But apart from some initially jarring conversations, Hemingway’s style is present here and as readable as ever. There are extended sequences from the point of view of Jordan, where he internally considers his role in the war, his future prospects, his love for María. These thoughts are among the highlights for me, with Hemingway delving into his characters and exploring their fears. Having only read The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway, For Whom The Bell Tolls is more powerful, broader in scope, and packs emotional punches throughout.

Death looms over everything and death and sacrifice are arguably the main themes present in the novel. A celebration of life and love, and the fear and acceptance of death. So frequently does the writing switch between describing beauty and violence, love and brutality. One outstanding chapter which highlights the cruelty where Pablo and his republican men have captured a group of fascist sympathisers in the village of Ronda, and form a line of men who beat the victims before they are forced to throw themselves off a cliff into a deep gorge. Another is the final stand of El Sordo, the leader of another nearby anti-fascist guerilla group, who fight with bravery and resolve before being killed by mortar fire.

‘You have killed?’ Robert Jordan asked in the intimacy of the dark and of their day together.
[Anselmo]’Yes. Several times. But not with pleasure. To me it is a sin to kill a man. Even Fascists whom we must kill. To me there is a great difference between the bear and the man and I do not believe the wizardry of the gypsies about the brotherhood with the animals. No. I am against the killing of men.’
‘Yet you have killed.’
‘Yes. And will again. But if I live later, I will try to live in such a way, doing no harm to any one, that it will be forgiven.’
‘By whom?’
‘Who knows? Since we do not have God here any more, neither His Son nor the Holy Ghost, who forgives? I do not know.
‘You have not God any more?’
‘No. Man. Certainly not. If there were God, never would he have permitted what I have seen with my eyes. Let them have God.’

The finale is tense and a (welcomed) change of pace to the rest of the novel. Considering the story only covers Robert Jordan’s four days and three nights with the guerilla group, the emotional weight I felt towards the end was considerable. As so often is the case, there are no happy endings in war and Jordan is forced to say goodbye to María and the rest of the guerillas who have a great deal of respect and camaraderie for the American. For Whom The Bell Tolls is a compelling account of a dark but important era in Spanish history, and while not perfect, its slow and meticulous build up to its thrilling, beautiful finale wrought with emotion, is a more than worthy payoff.

pedro paramo

At times during Pedro Páramo it is difficult to know if the person to which Juan Preciado is speaking is alive or dead. Or at which point the story is being told from Preciado’s point of view, or from one of the many ghosts that still haunt the town of Comala. Or, whether the characters in this book know they are dead or alive, or that they still exist in the present, or if they are in some kind of  purgatory resigned to retell their tragic and mythical pasts.

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Published in 1955 Pedro Páramo is written by Mexican writer Juan Rulfo and remained his only true novel. Yet its impact and legacy on literature, particularly the magical realism movement often associated with Latin America, is clear to this day. Gabriel García Márquez, renown Colombian novelist (and author of one of my favourite books of all time, One Hundred Years of Solitude) famously said of Pedro Páramo that he could recite the whole book, forwards and backwards. And in my copy of Pedro Páramo (1994, translated by Margaret Sayers Peden) is a foreword by García Márquez, a sincere and adoring homage to Rulfo and his novel, in which he writes “That night I couldn’t sleep until I had read it twice. Not since Kafka’s Metamorphosis in a down-at-the-heels student boarding house in Bogotá – almost ten years earlier – had I been so overcome.” High praise indeed, even more so that he so openly admits that “my profound exploration of Juan Rulfo’s work was what finally showed me the way to continue with my writing”.

This town is filled with echoes. It’s like they were trapped behind the walls, or beneath the cobblestones. When you walk you feel like someone’s behind you, stepping in your footsteps. You hear rustling. And people laughing. Laughter that sounds used up. And voices worn away by the years. Sounds like that. But I think the day will come when those sounds fade away.

The premise is simple enough; to fulfil his mother’s dying wish, Juan Preciado sets off to Comala to meet his father, a certain Pedro Páramo, of whom he has never met. But upon arriving across the barren Mexican plains, Preciado discovers a ghost town ruined by the reign of his infamous father, hearing whispered tales of the past and present between the worlds of the living and the dead. In all honesty the novel did not seem to have a plot to me, or at least not in a traditional sense. Pedro Páramo is more a series of memories, experiences and streams of consciousness. On first read (at least I found so) it may be difficult to place who is speaking, and at what time, but once adjusted to the dream-like flow of Rulfo’s story-telling Pedro Páramo becomes a beautiful, mysterious nightmare. A short tale that will not take long to read but its haunting ideals will linger with you with its profound messages from the dead. A wonderful little book.

The sky was filled with fat stars, swollen from the long night. The moon had risen briefly and then slipped out of sight. It was one of those sad moons that no one looks at or pays attention to. It had hung there a while, misshapen, not shedding any light, and then gone to hide behind the hills.

Annihilation is the first part of American author Jeff Vandermeer’s Southern Reach Trilogy, focusing on the mysterious region known as Area X. It’s been awhile since I’ve read any science-fiction, reviews had been mostly positive and the book was released in 2014 (it occurred to me recently that I haven’t actually read that many books from the 21st century).

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The trilogy focuses on a dystopian future in the location known as Area X, a quarantine zone cut off from the rest of the continent. Within is a wild and thriving ecosystem filled with scientific anomalies, unusual wildlife and unexplainable, almost supernatural, events. Little is known of what caused this catastrophic change in the environment, but the government has been sending expeditions to the area to document and record their findings. Each expedition has ended in disaster; one group ended up shooting each other to pieces, another came back with aggressive forms of cancer and died, another all committed suicide. The narrative focuses on the twelfth expedition, an all female group consisting of a surveyor, an anthropologist, a psychologist and a biologist. It is from the biologist that the perspective of the story is told.

It really is a fascinating premise. VanderMeer does well to create a scenario where a chunk of the world is now unchartered, due to circumstances not explained to the reader (at least, not yet), eliciting wonder and tension and unknowing. And Area X is a bizarre world. There are a few science-fiction cliches to be found, but generally I found the concept to be original and was key to drawing me towards the book in the first place.

But unfortunately I was disappointed. VanderMeer can clearly write – his descriptions of the events transpiring in Area X are creepy and suspenseful for the most part. My biggest gripe was that the protagonist, or point of view, was never particularly interesting. She is not even underdeveloped – there is a lot (maybe too much) that is spelled out to us about her as a person, about her past, the links between Area X and her husband (who was part of the previous expedition and eventually returned a changed man). Nothing about the biologist gripped me to read on. As I was reading I considered other narrative styles that may have worked better. Perhaps switching between members of the team, focusing on their increasing paranoia towards each other, but ultimately the angle VanderMeer went for could have worked so much better if the protagonist was a little more compelling.

I have absolutely no problem with the open ending, the scores of unanswered questions and unsolved mysteries of Area X; it is a trilogy after all, and some aspects are all the more intriguing the less we know of them. Overall, my desire to uncover the mysteries of Area X was undermined by a bland and meandering cast. Some highlights for sure, but I don’t think Annihilation did enough to make me want to continue with the Southern Reach Trilogy – not any time soon at least.

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Between 1980 and 1991, the comic anthology magazine Raw serially published a piece of work titled Maus. Soon after it was released in its entirety as a graphic novel, and in 1992, Maus by Art Spiegelman (the joint editor of Raw at the time) became the first graphic novel to receive the Pulitzer Prize. Spiegelman was born not long after the end of Second World War, in 1948, to his Polish Jewish parents Vladek and Anja, survivors of the Second World War and the Holocaust, the genocide of over six million Jews by Adolf Hitler’s Nazi Germany. The family emigrated to the US in 1951, where Spiegelman grew up with a keen interest in comics, eventually becoming a cartoonist. His mother committed suicide in his teenage years and his relationship with his father was strained, to put it mildly.

Maus will go down as one of the most important graphic novels of all time. With its delicate subject matter it manages to inject raw emotion, sensitivity, love and humour into one of the most horrific and despicable events in the history of mankind. Spiegelman depicts the Jews as mice, and the Nazis as cats, and the cartoon-ism the animals give the story highlights the unreal situation millions of Jews found themselves in. For the most part the book covers two narratives; the first, scenes in New York focusing on the relationship between Spiegelman and his estranged father Vladek, and the second, Vladek’s tales and recollections from Poland during the war, including attempts to evade and hide from the Nazis, their inevitable capture and subsequent incarceration in Auschwitz, and finally their eventual escape.

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The art style of Maus is simple and high contrast, with little more than black and white being used in the panels. This can give a feeling of heaviness, of weight. Sometimes, when the dialogue is squeezed into frames, things get a little claustrophobic. Other frames have no text at all, leaving the images to do the talking. Both are done with purpose and for maximum emotional effect.

While Maus makes some references to the ‘bigger picture’ of events in Poland, Germany and the rest of Europe, for the most part it is a tale of Vladek and his own experience and survival. Running in parallel to this are scenes with Spiegelman and his now elderly father Vladek, as he shares his memories for Spiegelman to record in an attempt to write Maus. We also meet characters like Vladek’s second wife Mala (Vladek’s wife during the War, and Art’s mother, committed suicide in 1968) and Spiegelman’s wife Françoise. These scenes are incredibly deeply moving and personal when intersected with Vladek’s recollections of the treatment of the Jews. Spiegelman’s relationship with his father is complex, with Vladek is often painted in a negative light: his reluctance to part with his money, his racist views and a constant and unfair comparison of Mala to his deceased wife Anja. His miserly and stubborn traits, while being key to his survival in the camps, are what annoy Art decades later. But overall there is love and respect between the two, even if their father-son relationship is not an orthodox one (but when one has been through what Vladek went through, how can there be?)

There are also touching moments where an older Spiegelman, working on the later Maus comics presumably after his fathers death, is weighed down by guilt after the success of the first issues. A poignant frame shows a depressed Spiegelman working away on top of a pile of dead Jews. How can his problems possibly compare to what Vladek had to endure? It was around this time that I had to put the book down for a few days. It should go without saying, but Maus isn’t an easy read.

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In the final few pages Spiegelman includes a polaroid of Vladek. It genuinely affected me – not just the jarring contrast between illustration and photograph, but the reminder that this was a real man, not a cartoon mouse, that faced and survived these unbelievable ordeals.

Maus is a difficult piece of work to define. Part biography, part memoir, part historical non-fiction. In truth it doesn’t require such labels. In bridging the gap between history, art and story-telling, Maus is one of the most important pieces of literature of the last century. It remains vital that such atrocities are never repeated, and while the inherent violence of the world continues, hate should never be allowed to prosper as it did during one of the darkest periods of human history.

2666 part5

2666 is a postmodernist epic written by the late Chilean author Roberto Bolaño. Written in the years leading up to his death, the novel was published in 2004, released posthumously a year after Bolaño’s death, and for a relatively modern book it carries the weight and renown that Bolaño’s legacy demands.

Challenging the very definition of a novel and story-telling, 2666 is sprawling, vast, intimidating, overwhelming, and as such, it would be an farcical to attempt to cover how each part made me feel, in the space of one post. In addition, I feel much of the book may become more clearer (or more complex?) over time, much like peeling back layers of an onion, shielding one’s eyes in an attempt not to weep. So over the next couple of months I will share my thoughts on each part of Bolaño’s final statement on the subtle goods and inherent evils in the world, as he saw it.

the part about archimboldi

The Part about Archimboldi is the final chapter of 2666 and follows the life of Hans Reiter, who from humble beginnings in Prussia goes on to fight in the Second World War, before turning to writing and transforming into the elusive Benno von Archimboldi. The very same, Nobel Prize nominated Archimboldi that the academics from The Part about the Critics travelled to Santa Teresa in the hope of finding.

Once again Bolaño delivers the unexpected. After The Part about the Crimes the reader may have expected to continue in Santa Teresa, perhaps getting closer to the reason behind the violence, or to the identity of the perpetrators. But no, and now, having read the chapter and had time to reflect, I am completely fine with that. At first I was disappointed that the final chapter we have for 2666 focuses solely on the life of Hans Reiter. While there are some fascinating and beautiful pieces of Bolaño prose, it does not initially address (at least, not directly) the events in Santa Teresa. But is that a problem? Given the sprawling nature of 2666, would it have been naive to expect answers to the questions; what is the truth behind the killings? what is wrong in Santa Teresa? who is responsible? Perhaps these questions are too narrow, too focused. Are these the questions Bolaño really wants us to ask?

Literature is a vast forest and the masterpieces are the lakes, the towering trees or strange trees, the lovely, eloquent flowers, the hidden caves, but a forest is also made up of ordinary trees, patches of grass, puddles, clinging vines, mushrooms, and little wildflowers.

Some stories don’t need answers, or can’t be answered. Some problems can’t be solved. In fact I’m sure I wasn’t alone in a sense of relief and peace of the beginnings of the life of Hans Reiter; a far cry from the horror and bleakness that the previous chapter had inflicted. Sure, there are some dark and ominous overtones that are present throughout each part of 2666.

But the introduction to Hans Reiter is an almost pleasant change of pace after the bludgeoning Part about the Crimes. The Part about Archimboldi reads like a fairy-tale (or perhaps a more accurate term I’ve seen used for this part, a bildungsroman, a coming-of-age tale of German origins). We are introduced to the strange child of a one-legged man and a one-eyed woman, taller than boys twice his age and obsessed with seaweed, feeling more at ease underwater than on land. As time passes Bolaño fills Reiter’s life with a plethora of strange and fascinating characters and relationships (some indirect).

Healthy people flee contact with the diseased. This rule applies to almost everyone. Hans Reiter was an exception. He feared neither the healthy nor the diseased. He never got bored. He was always eager to help and he greatly valued the notion — so vague, so malleable, so warped — of friendship. The diseased, anyway, are more interesting than the healthy. The words of the diseased, even those who can manage only a murmur, carry more weight than those of the healthy. Then, too, all healthy people will in the future know disease. That sense of time, ah, the diseased man’s sense of time, what treasure hidden in a desert cave. Then, too, the diseased truly bite, whereas the healthy pretend to bite but really only snap at the air. Then, too, then, too, then, too.

A friendship with the son of a lord, whose manor is full of collected paintings of dead women. The readings of the journal of a Soviet writer, Ansky, and in turn, Ansky’s friendship with Soviet science-fiction writer, Ivanov. The intense, sexually charged, terminally-ill Ingeborg, the love of Reiter’s life. Mr. Bubis, the owner of a publishing house and Archimboldi’s editor (once Reiter turns to writing after several disturbing and haunting experiences at war). The Baroness Von Zumpe (later Mrs. Bubis), with whom Archimboldi shares a relationship once Ingeborg passes, and whom continues to support and publish Archimboldi when Bubis dies (his prolific and expansive body of work eventually gains him a nomination for a Nobel Prize, and of course a critical following).

Yes, there are frequently stories within anecdotes within spiralling narratives that allow Reiter/Archimboldi/Bolaño to speak in depth on literary circles, publishing, history and politics in particular during and after the Second World War, what role if any can art and literature play in tolerating this inherently evil world. In tones satircal and philisophical. It’s difficult to tell which is which at times. And are there moments when it is all overblown, it can be too much, where we start to wonder if Bolaño is showing off? Maybe. But few and far between. In all honesty Bolaño’s prose often leaves me with a big grin.

Reiter said the first thing that came into his head.
“My name is Benno von Archimboldi.”
The old man looked him in the eye and said don’t play games with me, what’s your real name?
“My name is Benno von Archimboldi, sir,” said Reiter, “and if you think I’m joking I’d better go.”
For a few seconds both were silent. The old man’s eyes were dark brown, although in the dim light of his study they looked black. Archimboldi’s eyes were blue and to the old man they looked like the eyes of a young poet, tired, strained, reddened, but young and in a certain sense pure, although it had been a long time since the old man stopped believing in purity.
“This country,” he said to Reiter, who that afternoon, perhaps, became Archimboldi, “has tried to topple any number of countries into the abyss in the name of purity and will. As far as I’m concerned, you understand, purity and will are utter tripe. Thanks to purity and will we’ve all, every one of us, hear me you, become cowards and thugs, which in the end are one and the same. Now we sob and moan and say we didn’t know! we had no idea! it was the Nazis! we never would have done such a thing! We know how to whimper. We know how to drum up sympathy. We don’t care whether we’re mocked so long as they pity us and forgive us. They’ll be plenty of time for us to embark on a long holiday of forgetting. Do you understand me?”

But going back to those loose ends; towards the end of The Part about Archimboldi, and the conclusion of 2666, Benno von Archimboldi is an old man in his eighties, and his sister Lotte calls on him for help. For Lotte’s son, and Archimboldi’s nephew, is none other than Klaus Haas, the German living in Santa Teresa whom has been accused of the rape and murder of several women. And it’s here I remind myself of an earlier confrontation between Haas and his cellmate, a rancher.

Don’t cover your head, he said aloud and in a booming voice, you’re still going to die. And who’s going to kill me you gringo son of a bitch? You? Not me, motherfucker, said Haas, a giant is coming and the giant is going to kill you. A giant? asked the rancher. You heard me right, motherfucker, said Haas. A giant. A big man, very big, and he’s going to kill you and everybody else. You crazy-ass gringo son of a bitch, said the rancher. . .A little while later, however, Haas, called out to say he heard footsteps. The giant was coming. He was covered in blood from head to toe and he was coming now.

Foreshadowing in the form of a gangly and tall Reiter, a man who fought in the war, killed and murdered, a man who is capable of incredible violence.

“It’s me,” said Archimboldi, “your brother.”
That night they talked until dawn. Lotte talked about Klaus’s dreams, the dreams in which he saw a giant who would rescue him from prison, although you, she said to Archimboldi, don’t look like a giant anymore.
“I never was a giant,” said Archimboldi as he paced Lotte’s living room and dining room and stopped next to a shelf that held more than a dozen of his books.
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” said Lotte after a long silence. “I don’t have the strength. I don’t understand anything and the little I do frightens me. Nothing makes sense,” said Lotte.

In part one Archimboldi was almost mythical. His story builds him into a figure of unearthly power, and yet here we are at the end of the book, with an eighty year old man. A brilliant writer yes, but what kind of a man is he? What kind of a life has he lead? And what will he be able to do in Santa Teresa (which he does at the end of the novel, confirming his presence in the country in part one), that the rest of the world can not? Is he going to free his nephew? Or does he hold a much larger role to play, in the stopping of the crimes?

“Look, the sun is coming up. Would you like some tea, coffee, a glass of water?”
Archimboldi sat down and stretched his legs. The bones cracked.
“Will you take care of it all?”
“A beer,” he said.
“I don’t have a beer,” said Lotte. “Will you take care of it all?”

…Soon afterward he left the park and the next morning he was on his way to Mexico.

I expect the obliqueness of a piece of work like 2666 will not appeal to all and The Part about Archimboldi is no different in its certainty to divide readers. Some may expect a novel that hits nearly 900 pages to deliver a little more in terms of definitive answers. In a piece of work this diverse I don’t believe answers are necessary, nor would they add to the novel in any meaningful way. Truthfully they would change the very essence of the story Bolaño is trying to tell. It’s taken the best part of six months since finishing the novel to fully absorb this novel, and even then I feel the surface has barely been scratched, and nor am I under any illusion that justice has been done. 2666 showcases Bolaño’s obscenely gifted imagination, remarkable grasp of language, and a willingness to create a piece of literature that is not bound by accord or expectation, but instead will have the power to challenge and induce debate for decades to come. In other words, 2666 is a masterpiece.

2666 part4

2666 is a postmodernist epic written by the late Chilean author Roberto Bolaño. Written in the years leading up to his death, the novel was published in 2004, released posthumously a year after Bolaño’s death, and for a relatively modern book it carries the weight and renown that Bolaño’s legacy demands.

Challenging the very definition of a novel and story-telling, 2666 is sprawling, vast, intimidating, overwhelming, and as such, it would be an farcical to attempt to cover how each part made me feel, in the space of one post. In addition, I feel much of the book may become more clearer (or more complex?) over time, much like peeling back layers of an onion, shielding one’s eyes in an attempt not to weep. So over the next couple of months I will share my thoughts on each part of Bolaño’s final statement on the subtle goods and inherent evils in the world, as he saw it.

the part about the crimes

Between reading 2666 for the first time (I finished the book in January 16) and revisiting each part months later, it has become clear to me that this book is one of the most challenging, multi-layered, indescribable pieces of literature I’ve experienced. In the three parts that proceed The Part about the Crimes (The Critics, Amalfitano, Fate), going back to these characters and narratives has been a hugely rewarding experience. There is so much more to gain, things I have missed, subtleties recognised. Crimes has been a little more difficult to revisit. Given the chapter focuses, in detail, on the titular crimes that are taking place in Santa Teresa – the murders of hundreds of women – it is harrowing and brutal in a way the previous chapters were not. They disturbed, or rather, they unsettled the reader with untold dread and unseen violence. Now they are unavoidable, the crimes, they are here. They are catalogued explicitly and in depth, and Bolaño’s delivery behind this technique is something that has caused a lot of debate.

Santa Teresa is Bolaño’s fictional portrayal of the northern Mexican city Ciudad Juarez. The events of 2666 are somewhat based on reality; a reality where hundreds of women have being violently killed since 1993 (from what I gather, the overall murder rate in the city, and the percentage of which are female victims, has declined steadily since 2010). The chapter marks a change in content and tone as Bolaño systematically delivers the murders of 112 woman in Santa Teresa between 1993 to 1997.

…January 1993. From then on, the killings of women began to be counted. But it’s likely there had been other deaths before. The name of the first victim was Esperanza Gómez Saldaña and she was thirteen. Maybe for the sake of convenience, maybe because she was the first to be killed in 1993, she heads the list. Although surely there were other girls and women who died in 1992. Other girls and women who didn’t make it onto the list or were never found, who were buried in unmarked graves in the desert or whose ashes were scattered in the middle of the night, when not even the person scattering them knew where he was, what place he had come to.

Bolaño shocks the reader with the repetition of the discovered bodies, which read like police reports: forensic, detailed, frequently explicit. They feel detached and indifferent and seems to mirror the frightening lack of action being taken in Santa Teresa to combat the murders. It’s an incredibly difficult chapter to read. Hundreds of women (and many young girls) are found in various states of decay, having been shot or stabbed or strangled and their bodies discarded in Santa Teresa or the surrounding desert. Often raped. Sometimes tortured.

A week after the discovery of the corpse of the thirteen-year-old girl on the outskirts of El Obelisco, the body of a girl about sixteen was found in the Cananea highway. The dead girl was a little under five foot four and slightly built, and she had long black hair. She had been stabbed only once, in the abdomen, a stab so deep that the blade had literally pierced her through. But her death, according to the medical examiner, was caused by strangulation and a fracture of the hyoid bone. The victim, according to the police, was probably a hitchhiker who had been raped on her way to Santa Teresa. All attempts to identify her were in vain and the case was closed.

There are few patterns to the killings. The victims are female – generally, they are young, and often have long dark hair (but, as someone says, that fits the profile for many women in Santa Teresa), and many of the victims work in low-income jobs at the numerous maquiladoras across the city. But establishing motives and culprits is more difficult. Most, but not all, are raped, vaginally and anally. Most are strangled, but some are stabbed. Some of the killings exhibit common traits, many do not. The killings do not make sense, no matter how hard the police or the reader tries to link them – an effort which might go some way to making some sort of sense, and therefore an explanation, from the crimes. Some of the murders are by husbands or boyfriends, results of domestic violence, but the vast majority are carried out by unknown killers and remain unsolved. What is clear is the life of women here in Santa Teresa is cheap and violence is nothing out of the ordinary.

On November 16 the body of another woman was found on the back lot of the Kusai maquiladora, in Colonia San Bartolomé. According to the initial examination, the victim was between eighteen and twenty-two and the cause of death, according to the forensic report, was asphyxiation due to strangulation. She was completely naked and her clothes were found five yards away, hidden in the bushes. Actually, not all of her clothes were found, just a pair of black leggings and red panties. Two days later, she was identified by her parents as Rosario Marquina, nineteen, who disappeared on November 12 while she was out dancing at Salon Montana on Avenida Carranza, not far from Colonia Veracruz, where they lived. It just so happened that both the victim and her parents worked at the Kusai maquiladora. According to the medical examiners the victim was raped several times before she died.

Throughout the 300+ pages of the chapter the reports continued to have a profound effect on me. I would have imagined the repetition of the reports would start to lose their effect somewhat, but they do not. Perhaps the shock wears off – perhaps a sense of numbness to the reports of rape and murder – but that blunt trauma is replaced by an equally unpleasant anger and frustration at the inevitability of it all. Questions begin to be raised. When did this start? Is there a pattern? Who is responsible? What is being done to prevent this? Is the world watching? Does it even care? But one thing is certain; the murders continue to plague the city.

In The Part about the Crimes, the central characters are the crimes and the dead victims themselves. Bolaño intersects several narratives, following an ensemble cast that support and contextualise the chapter rather than drive it. Juan de Dios Martínez is one of the many police detectives in the city tasked with investigating the femicide as well as a serial church desecrator, and is romantically involved with the director of an insane asylum. Florita Almada, a seer and psychic who makes an appearance on local television to speak of the crimes. Harry Magaña, a US sheriff who arrives in Santa Teresa after a woman from his town becomes one of the victims, and becomes overwhelmed himself by the darkness.

Arguably the most intriguing subplot in Crimes revolves around Klaus Haas, the tall German inmate we were introduced to at the end of The Part about Fate. Haas becomes a suspect when a girl who once visited his computer store is murdered, and despite a lack of evidence is incarcerated in the Santa Teresa prison. The media celebrate and many believe that Haas had been involved in many more of the deaths, yet despite Haas being locked up, the crimes continue like before. Haas is a fascinating character, one that could be analysed in more depth, as so much is left open and unconfirmed by Bolaño. We don’t know whether Haas was involved in any of the murders – I suspect not – but he is clearly ‘different’. He thrives in the prison, making allegiances, obtaining cell phones and organising press conferences for himself. He is unsettling, resourceful, mysterious; for me, Klaus Haas is the character that most embodies what 2666 is all about.

While Haas does some awful things while in prison, I don’t believe he can be called an antagonist. I don’t believe there is an antagonist personified, which makes the crimes all the more hard to take – there is no one for the reader to hate, to detest, to pin the blame on. Let the catharsis of hate absolve them of the pain. The sense of injustice and inevitability is exhausting. On the whole, the lack police force appear corrupt and rotten to the core. Former bodyguard turned policeman, young Lalo Cura’s professionalism, honesty and dedication to the job is mocked by his peers. Fellow officers who reel off sexist jokes, gang rape incarcerated prostitutes, and are incapable of halting the never-ending string of death.

Even on the poorest streets people could be heard laughing. Some of these streets were completely dark, like black holes, and the laughter that came from who knows where was the only sign, the only beacon that kept residents and strangers from getting lost.

 

The Part about the Crimes is the dark, horrifying heart of 2666, the epicentre of all that has been whispered of, alluded to, seen through disturbing visions and vidid nightmares, overheard on the streets and seen in violent patches. Frightening but absolutely necessary, for without the crimes there is no book. Despite that it reveals next to nothing of the possible culprits, nor their motives. What can we understand of Bolaño’s cryptic and mystical personal view on the world? Is there anything positive we can extrapolate from such a view, when the book is concerned almost entirely by violence and death? After reading Crimes it’s hard to be optimistic.

fear and loathing

 

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream was written by Hunter S. Thompson, originally for Rolling Stone magazine in 1971, but was published as a book in ‘72. The novel was received a somewhat mild reception upon release but has since achieved cult status, for two main reasons; Thompson’s ‘gonzo’ style of writing, and the commentary of the extravagant but ultimately doomed, drug culture of the 60s. One of my favourite authors, Cormac McCarthy, was a big fan of the book, recognising it as one of the great, modern novels and a classic of our time.

The story is narrated by journalist Raoul Duke, and his attorney, the heavyset Samoan Dr. Gonzo (The plot is loosely based on real trips taken by Hunter S. Thompson and his attorney and friend Oscar Zeta Acosta; as such, we can safely assume that Thompson is Raoul Duke and Acosta is the Samoan attorney) as they travel to Las Vegas for Duke to report on the Mint 400 motorcycle race. In the trunk of their car sits a stash of illegal substances, including but not limited to: cocaine, mescaline, LSD, ether, marijuana. And a lot of rum too.

As a member of the press Duke and his attorney are able to stumble with relative ease, via hotel bars and motel rooms, from the desert heat of the Mint 400 to a police conference for the war on drugs (the audacity of attending is not lost on Duke), but due to the volume and variety of drugs they ingest, are often in some mental distress. Vomiting, damage to property, confrontations and distorted, twisted visions of their environments are present and described with vivid and hilarious detail.

But our trip was different. It was a classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent in the national character. It was a gross, physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country-but only for those with true grit. And we were chock full of that.

They drive from place to place in a hallucinatory, surreal haze and the pair represent a counter-culture from the commercialism and consumerism that is rife in America. Las Vegas centralises this mainstream American culture, and the duo try their damnedest to stretch and scratch at the glossed and shiny facade of American insincerity, their private and internal commentary both twisted and painfully honest.

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The book is illustrated by British cartoonist Ralph Steadman, often depicting the protagonists (and their surroundings) as monstrous and grotesque. ‘The plastic torn away…’

“The wave” has become known as a speech synonymous with Thompson’s work. The book had served largely as a wacky and hilarious, over-the-top road trip for me, but when I read ‘the wave’ I found it both beautiful and tragic. The shared feeling of achievement and hope for the future, the depression and sadness to find it quashed before it could begin.

My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights—or very early mornings—when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder’s jacket… booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change)… but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that…

There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Lost Altos or La Honda.… You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning.…

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave.…

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.

Fear and Loathing also introduced the literary world to gonzo journalism and was popularised by Hunter S. Thompson himself. From what I’ve read, the gonzo style is generally narrated in the first person, the narrator often a journalist or similar, and is filled with observations, experiences and emotions (rather than facts) and usually incorporates humour, sarcasm and profanity. Throughout the book potentially serious events are interspersed with humour and it can be tough to identify between the fact and the fiction.

An over-the-top, outrageous book. The absurd insanity will disgust and entertain but there is a surprisingly touching and profound commentary of a generation of broken (American) dreams and the hippy zeitgeist of the 60s.