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By Night in Chile
During the course of a single night, Father Sebastian Urrutia Lacroix, a Chilean priest, who is a member of Opus Dei, a literary critic and a mediocre poet, relives some of the crucial events of his life. He believes he is dying and in his feverish delirium various characters, both real and imaginary, appear to him as icy monsters.
118 pages, Paperback
First published November 1, 2000
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About the author
Roberto Bolaño
148 books6,578 followersFor most of his early adulthood, Bolaño was a vagabond, living at one time or another in Chile, Mexico, El Salvador, France and Spain. Bolaño moved to Europe in 1977, and finally made his way to Spain, where he married and settled on the Mediterranean coast near Barcelona, working as a dishwasher, a campground custodian, bellhop and garbage collector — working during the day and writing at night.
He continued with his poetry, before shifting to fiction in his early forties. In an interview Bolaño stated that he made this decision because he felt responsible for the future financial well-being of his family, which he knew he could never secure from the earnings of a poet. This was confirmed by Jorge Herralde, who explained that Bolaño "abandoned his parsimonious beatnik existence" because the birth of his son in 1990 made him "decide that he was responsible for his family's future and that it would be easier to earn a living by writing fiction." However, he continued to think of himself primarily as a poet, and a collection of his verse, spanning 20 years, was published in 2000 under the title The Romantic Dogs.
Regarding his native country Chile, which he visited just once after going into voluntary exile, Bolaño had conflicted feelings. He was notorious in Chile for his fierce attacks on Isabel Allende and other members of the literary establishment.
In 2003, after a long period of declining health, Bolaño passed away. Bolaño was survived by his Spanish wife and their two children, whom he once called "my only motherland."
Although deep down he always felt like a poet, his reputation ultimately rests on his novels, novellas and short story collections. Although Bolaño espoused the lifestyle of a bohemian poet and literary enfant terrible for all his adult life, he only began to produce substantial works of fiction in the 1990s. He almost immediately became a highly regarded figure in Spanish and Latin American letters.
In rapid succession, he published a series of critically acclaimed works, the most important of which are the novel Los detectives salvajes (The Savage Detectives), the novella Nocturno de Chile (By Night In Chile), and, posthumously, the novel 2666. His two collections of short stories Llamadas telefónicas and Putas asesinas were awarded literary prizes.
In 2009 a number of unpublished novels were discovered among the author's papers.
He continued with his poetry, before shifting to fiction in his early forties. In an interview Bolaño stated that he made this decision because he felt responsible for the future financial well-being of his family, which he knew he could never secure from the earnings of a poet. This was confirmed by Jorge Herralde, who explained that Bolaño "abandoned his parsimonious beatnik existence" because the birth of his son in 1990 made him "decide that he was responsible for his family's future and that it would be easier to earn a living by writing fiction." However, he continued to think of himself primarily as a poet, and a collection of his verse, spanning 20 years, was published in 2000 under the title The Romantic Dogs.
Regarding his native country Chile, which he visited just once after going into voluntary exile, Bolaño had conflicted feelings. He was notorious in Chile for his fierce attacks on Isabel Allende and other members of the literary establishment.
In 2003, after a long period of declining health, Bolaño passed away. Bolaño was survived by his Spanish wife and their two children, whom he once called "my only motherland."
Although deep down he always felt like a poet, his reputation ultimately rests on his novels, novellas and short story collections. Although Bolaño espoused the lifestyle of a bohemian poet and literary enfant terrible for all his adult life, he only began to produce substantial works of fiction in the 1990s. He almost immediately became a highly regarded figure in Spanish and Latin American letters.
In rapid succession, he published a series of critically acclaimed works, the most important of which are the novel Los detectives salvajes (The Savage Detectives), the novella Nocturno de Chile (By Night In Chile), and, posthumously, the novel 2666. His two collections of short stories Llamadas telefónicas and Putas asesinas were awarded literary prizes.
In 2009 a number of unpublished novels were discovered among the author's papers.
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September 11, 2024
Sordel, Sordello, which Sordello?
‘Literature is like phosphorus,’ wrote Roland Barthes, ‘it shines with its maximum brilliance at the moment when it attempts to die.’ This view of literature existing at the precipice of the posthumous comes alive through Roberto Bolaño's Father Sebastian Urrutia and his deathbed confessions that make up the long night of By Night in Chile. Told in a single continuous paragraph—a style that hints with the flavor of Thomas Bernhard—Bolaño keeps the pressure and tension of his politically charged satire to a controlled maximum as if it were a horror novel while Urrutia takes us room by room through his haunted house of Chilean history. From his early days as a fledgling literary critic and poet spending time along with Pablo Neruda at the estate of Chile’s foremost critic, to travels in Europe and teaching Marxism in secret classes to the new regime, Urrutia attempts to rationalize his life and battles with his shame before the judgement of the shadowy ‘wizened youth’ that haunts him and his memories. Behind every curtain may wait a new horror, in every basement a sinister torture scene, yet these unspeakable terrors lurk just outside the candle-light of narrative, making them all the more sinister as we step along in the warm and surprisingly comical blaze. A perfect blend of all things Bolaño, By Night in Chile is a dazzling display of narrative that culminates upon the association and juxtaposition of seemingly separate elements to plunge a sharp dagger deep into the heart of Chile’s political climate.
‘That is how literature is made in Chile.’
By Night in Chile is the blessed union of Bolaño’s prose and poetry. Each sentence coils and crawls smoothly and effortlessly like a satirical snake through gardens abloom in allegory and metaphor. The novel in a method similar to how a poem serves as a near-hallucinogenic impression of reality, residing in the Garden of comical and bizarre events that function like a translucent veil both masking and giving glimpses into the Fall and damnation lying just beyond our grasp. The episode of falcons being used to murder pigeons before they can cover the cathedrals in excrement is a masterpiece of situational comedy, but also a startling metaphor for the Pinochet regime hunting down and snuffing out any opposition to their own structure¹ Bolaño is an expert at embodying the essence of a place or person, often stacking details together that build towards an impression that takes the reader off-guard and instills a sense of bewilderment and wonder at the image being presented. Perhaps the most impressive aspect of Night, however, is the spirit of the short story—a form in which I find Bolaño to be at his best—and the episodic nature of the novel. Like walking through a nightmare, Urrutia recounts his life through swirling episodic reflections that blend into one the way a fever-dream seamlessly morphs from one notion to the next by riding a wave of emotion and produce a work greater than the parts of the whole through the way the episodes communicate and comment upon one another.
‘My silences are immaculate.’
While Urrutia, a member of a conservative priesthood Opus Dei which served fascist uprisings, has much to feel guilt over in his actions, it is his inactions that are most unbearable to him and the ‘wizened youth’.
Similar to Urrutia is the young novelist Maria Canales² who wishes to be a integral part of the literary scene, hosting salons and mingling with all the poets and politicians. Like Urrutia who was able to turn a blind eye to the horrors around him, Canales ignored the political interrogations and tortures going on in her very own basement during her salons. ‘I would have been able to speak out but I didn't see anything,’ Maria tells him, ‘I didn't know until it was too late.’ Willfully neglecting reality, we will all wind up bemoaning our fates, dismissing our responsibility, and realizing it is too late for all of us. By remaining silent, we are essentially condoning the horrors.
By Night in Chile is sure to haunt any reader who dare cross the threshold. A perfect elixer of all Bolaño's finest elements, this is a novel that dances and sways with the ethereal beauty of his poetry but punches with the raw intensity and eloquently abrasive power of his novels. History is making itself before our very eyes, and what are we doing to control the tides? Will we be a voice of reason, or simply march to the beat of whatever drum imposes itself. Will we get out alive, or will it be too late by the time we realize where we are. A frequent refrain echoing across the novel is critic Farewell’s line ‘Sordel, Sordello, which Sordello?’, dredging up Dante’s Sordello who was cast into purgatory for being unable to confess his sins before death. By Night in Chile is Urrutia’s feverish, disjointed confession, one that brings about the flames of hellfire in an attempt to avoid them. Bolaño's novel is full of pure rage and humor that never blinks or stands down.
4.5/5
And then the storm of shit begins.
¹It is interesting to note the names of the two gentlemen that recruit Urrutia for this mission are Mr. Raef and Mr. Etah. A simple reversal of the letters reveals the truth hiding within their power.
² Maria Canales and her husband’s story finds inspiration in that of Michael Townley and Mariana Callejas, which bears a near resemlance to the version found in this book.
I am highly indebted to a good friend for the full novel experience.
‘Literature is like phosphorus,’ wrote Roland Barthes, ‘it shines with its maximum brilliance at the moment when it attempts to die.’ This view of literature existing at the precipice of the posthumous comes alive through Roberto Bolaño's Father Sebastian Urrutia and his deathbed confessions that make up the long night of By Night in Chile. Told in a single continuous paragraph—a style that hints with the flavor of Thomas Bernhard—Bolaño keeps the pressure and tension of his politically charged satire to a controlled maximum as if it were a horror novel while Urrutia takes us room by room through his haunted house of Chilean history. From his early days as a fledgling literary critic and poet spending time along with Pablo Neruda at the estate of Chile’s foremost critic, to travels in Europe and teaching Marxism in secret classes to the new regime, Urrutia attempts to rationalize his life and battles with his shame before the judgement of the shadowy ‘wizened youth’ that haunts him and his memories. Behind every curtain may wait a new horror, in every basement a sinister torture scene, yet these unspeakable terrors lurk just outside the candle-light of narrative, making them all the more sinister as we step along in the warm and surprisingly comical blaze. A perfect blend of all things Bolaño, By Night in Chile is a dazzling display of narrative that culminates upon the association and juxtaposition of seemingly separate elements to plunge a sharp dagger deep into the heart of Chile’s political climate.
‘That is how literature is made in Chile.’
By Night in Chile is the blessed union of Bolaño’s prose and poetry. Each sentence coils and crawls smoothly and effortlessly like a satirical snake through gardens abloom in allegory and metaphor. The novel in a method similar to how a poem serves as a near-hallucinogenic impression of reality, residing in the Garden of comical and bizarre events that function like a translucent veil both masking and giving glimpses into the Fall and damnation lying just beyond our grasp. The episode of falcons being used to murder pigeons before they can cover the cathedrals in excrement is a masterpiece of situational comedy, but also a startling metaphor for the Pinochet regime hunting down and snuffing out any opposition to their own structure¹ Bolaño is an expert at embodying the essence of a place or person, often stacking details together that build towards an impression that takes the reader off-guard and instills a sense of bewilderment and wonder at the image being presented. Perhaps the most impressive aspect of Night, however, is the spirit of the short story—a form in which I find Bolaño to be at his best—and the episodic nature of the novel. Like walking through a nightmare, Urrutia recounts his life through swirling episodic reflections that blend into one the way a fever-dream seamlessly morphs from one notion to the next by riding a wave of emotion and produce a work greater than the parts of the whole through the way the episodes communicate and comment upon one another.
‘My silences are immaculate.’
While Urrutia, a member of a conservative priesthood Opus Dei which served fascist uprisings, has much to feel guilt over in his actions, it is his inactions that are most unbearable to him and the ‘wizened youth’.
One has a moral obligation to take responsibilty for one’s actions, and that includes one’s words and silences, yes, one’s silences, because silences rise to heaven too, and God hears them, and only God understands and judges them, so one must be very careful with one’s silences. I am responsible in every way.The novel is much like jazz where the notes you don’t play are equally important to the ones that are played. Urrutia did his part, played his role and was never chastised for it. Even when he feared for his reputation after teaching the private lessons to Pinochet and his generals (a humorous sidenote is that the generals are far more concerned with the personal life of one attractive female theorist than her actual ideas), nobody seemed to care. However, it was his inability to stop it, to say no, to do anything to dam up the onslaught of history even for a moment that will serve as his everlasting personal tombstone.
Similar to Urrutia is the young novelist Maria Canales² who wishes to be a integral part of the literary scene, hosting salons and mingling with all the poets and politicians. Like Urrutia who was able to turn a blind eye to the horrors around him, Canales ignored the political interrogations and tortures going on in her very own basement during her salons. ‘I would have been able to speak out but I didn't see anything,’ Maria tells him, ‘I didn't know until it was too late.’ Willfully neglecting reality, we will all wind up bemoaning our fates, dismissing our responsibility, and realizing it is too late for all of us. By remaining silent, we are essentially condoning the horrors.
By Night in Chile is sure to haunt any reader who dare cross the threshold. A perfect elixer of all Bolaño's finest elements, this is a novel that dances and sways with the ethereal beauty of his poetry but punches with the raw intensity and eloquently abrasive power of his novels. History is making itself before our very eyes, and what are we doing to control the tides? Will we be a voice of reason, or simply march to the beat of whatever drum imposes itself. Will we get out alive, or will it be too late by the time we realize where we are. A frequent refrain echoing across the novel is critic Farewell’s line ‘Sordel, Sordello, which Sordello?’, dredging up Dante’s Sordello who was cast into purgatory for being unable to confess his sins before death. By Night in Chile is Urrutia’s feverish, disjointed confession, one that brings about the flames of hellfire in an attempt to avoid them. Bolaño's novel is full of pure rage and humor that never blinks or stands down.
4.5/5
And then the storm of shit begins.
¹It is interesting to note the names of the two gentlemen that recruit Urrutia for this mission are Mr. Raef and Mr. Etah. A simple reversal of the letters reveals the truth hiding within their power.
² Maria Canales and her husband’s story finds inspiration in that of Michael Townley and Mariana Callejas, which bears a near resemlance to the version found in this book.
I am highly indebted to a good friend for the full novel experience.
June 28, 2021
“Lo importante era la vida, no la literatura.”Tenía una conocida que sufría de la jodida manía de argumentar sobre muchas cosas empezando con un "nosotros, los lectores...", incluyéndonos a ambos en esa clase especial y, naturalmente, varios grados superior, no sé bien en qué sentido, a la que conforma la clase de los no lectores. Era claramente una esnob de la lectura.
Yo también lo soy, aunque de otro tipo, de ese que se siente molesto cuando cierta gente da por sentado que somos del mismo tipo de lector, aunque, como le ocurriera a mi conocida, tenga unos gustos, no los llamaré literarios, más que cuestionables. Por el contrario, de su esnobismo estoy vacunado. No creo que la Literatura confiera ningún estatus especial a nadie, y mucho menos que mejore a las personas, más allá de los beneficios individuales que procura cualquier placer. No son los lectores ni los escritores, estos son con mucha frecuencia justo lo contrario, mejores personas que el resto de los mortales.
“… para qué sirven los libros, son sólo sombras"A alguno les parecerá raro todo esto que digo, y más por decirlo en un sitio como este y más por lo mucho que en él participo, y, en fin, pensarán que a cuento de qué esta diatriba contra la Literatura y sus cómplices. La razón es que mucho de esto que aquí digo tiene que ver con la novela de Bolaño, más allá del evidente tema de la culpa y el horror de una dictadura.
“… y después vino el golpe de Estado, el levantamiento, el pronunciamiento militar, y bombardearon La Moneda y cuando terminó el bombardeo el presidente se suicidó y acabó todo. Entonces yo me quedé quieto, con un dedo en la página que estaba leyendo, y pensé: qué paz. Me levanté y me asomé a la ventana: qué silencio.”Bolaño nos trae aquí la confesión en sus últimos momentos de un poeta mediocre, crítico literario y lector de buen juicio y sensibilidad, el sacerdote chileno Sebastián Urrutia Lacroix, representante de la intelectualidad chilena que colaboró con la dictadura o, al menos, guardó un silencio cómplice, algo que le persigue en sus momentos finales en forma de un joven envejecido.
“En aquellos años de acero y silencio, al contrario, muchos alabaron mi obstinación en seguir publicando reseñas y críticas. ¡Muchos alabaron mi poesía! … todos éramos razonables … todos éramos chilenos, todos éramos gente corriente, discreta, lógica, moderada, prudente, sensata, todos sabíamos que había que hacer algo, que había cosas que eran necesarias, una época de sacrificios y otra de sana reflexión.”Bolaño delibera en torno al oficio de escritor, su para qué más allá de la necesidad personal de escribir y de sobrevivir si no se sabe/puede hacer otra cosa; sobre la profesión, muchas veces encerrada en una burbuja egocéntrica en la que “el populacho” y sus circunstancias son indiferentes cuando no directamente despreciados; sobre el mismo hecho de leer como una actividad que se agota en sí misma. Todo enmarcado y resaltado por el horror de la dictadura chilena.
“Después vinieron las elecciones y ganó Allende… Que sea lo que Dios quiera, me dije. Yo voy a releer a los griegos. Empecé con Homero, como manda la tradición, y seguí con Tales de Mileto y Jenófanes de Colofón… y mataron al ex ministro de la Democracia Cristiana Pérez Zujovic y Lafourcade publicó Palomita blanca y yo le hice una buena crítica, casi una glosa triunfal, aunque en el fondo sabía que era una novelita que no valía nada, y se organizó la primera marcha de las cacerolas en contra de Allende y yo leí a Esquilo y a Sófocles y a Eurípides…”Hay varios momentos especialmente terribles en la novela. Uno es la visita que Salvador Reyes, escritor y agregado cultural en la embajada chilena en París, y Ernst Jünger, miembro del ejército nazi, —dos intelectuales, uno testigo pasivo de la ocupación y el otro soldado perteneciente a las fuerzas de ocupación— hacen a un pintor guatemalteco que literalmente se está muriendo de debilidad en su pobre habitación parisina mientras sus visitantes hablan amigablemente de arte y literatura.
“Jünger dijo que no creía que el guatemalteco llegara vivo hasta el invierno siguiente, algo que sonaba raro proviniendo de sus labios, pues a nadie se le escapaba entonces que muchos miles de personas no iban a llegar vivas al invierno siguiente, la mayoría de ellas mucho más sanas que el guatemalteco, la mayoría más alegres, la mayoría con una disposición para la vida notablemente superior a la del guatemalteco, pero Jünger igual lo dijo, tal vez sin pensar, o manteniendo cada cosa en su estricto lugar.”Otro es el viaje que el padre Urrutia, seleccionado por sus superiores Odeim y Oido (léanlos al revés), hace por Europa con el fin de estudiar posibles soluciones al deterioro que las palomas provocan en los edificios religiosos.
Y, por último, el más impactante, aquel con el que se cierra la novela y que también me cuidaré mucho de contar aquí, se produce en la casa de María Canales, una escritora anodina, casada con el empresario estadounidense Jimmy Thomson y organizadora de veladas literarias sorprendentemente permitidas por el régimen a pesar del toque de queda.
“Vinieron épocas duras y épocas confusas, pero sobre todo vinieron épocas terribles, en las que se aunaba lo duro y lo confuso con lo cruel. Los escritores siguieron llamando a sus musas. Murió el Emperador. Vino una guerra y murió el Imperio. Los músicos siguieron componiendo y la gente acudiendo a los conciertos.”Una pequeña gran novela.
March 23, 2018
Bolano gives us the stream of consciousness of a Jesuit priest reflecting on his life while he lies on his death bed in Chile. The priest was also a poet and a literary critic. Throughout his life he hung out with art-loving wealthy aristocrats. The priest even met the famous Chilean poet Neruda at a soiree and later attended his funeral. The aristocrat had his estate confiscated under Allende but then returned under Pinochet – and the priest is glad for him.
The priest also hangs out with a beautiful Chilean woman who runs a literary salon. We learn later that her American husband is a CIA type who tortures leftist prisoners in his basement. (Although the priest did not know it at the time.) The priest is hired to teach the right-wing junta generals about Marxism.
Clearly the theme is that artistic intellectuals cannot hide their heads in the sand during times of social turmoil. And priests like this one need to switch sides. The priest shies away from those who truly need him --- peasant folks with folkloric beliefs who even want to physically touch him. Instead the priest runs back to the wine and the literary discussions. He also spent a good deal of time in Europe learning about techniques to preserve church buildings from damage from pigeons.
The author knew first-hand of the era and the social turmoil he was writing about. Bolano was born in Chile, but left to live in Mexico. He returned to Chile in a flush of socialist enthusiasm when Allende was elected. He was in Chile only one month before a military junta took power back and installed Pinochet, a right-wing dictator. Bolano was imprisoned and when released, went back to Mexico, then Paris, and finally Barcelona where he died in 2003 at age 50.
A couple of passages that I liked:
We will serve a good Chilean supper “…so [a foreign guest] could see for himself how well we live in Chile, in case he thought that over here we were still walking around wearing feathers…”
The priest receives a letter “…a ridiculous letter but somehow it seemed to conceal another, invisible letter, more serious in content, and this hidden letter, although I couldn’t tell what it said or even be sure it existed, worried me deeply.”
It’s a short book – 130 pages -- but seems longer at times because it is written as a single paragraph. In the literary discussions we also learn a bit about Bolano’s opinions of Chilean poets and writers and how they stand up to those of Spain. I liked it but it’s not my favorite Bolano – I still prefer Savage Detectives or The Skating Rink.
Top photo: Salvador Allende from the-untermatron.wikia.com
Middle: Augusto Pinochet from bdnews24.com
Bottom: Roberto Bolano from ndnotebook.com
The priest also hangs out with a beautiful Chilean woman who runs a literary salon. We learn later that her American husband is a CIA type who tortures leftist prisoners in his basement. (Although the priest did not know it at the time.) The priest is hired to teach the right-wing junta generals about Marxism.
Clearly the theme is that artistic intellectuals cannot hide their heads in the sand during times of social turmoil. And priests like this one need to switch sides. The priest shies away from those who truly need him --- peasant folks with folkloric beliefs who even want to physically touch him. Instead the priest runs back to the wine and the literary discussions. He also spent a good deal of time in Europe learning about techniques to preserve church buildings from damage from pigeons.
The author knew first-hand of the era and the social turmoil he was writing about. Bolano was born in Chile, but left to live in Mexico. He returned to Chile in a flush of socialist enthusiasm when Allende was elected. He was in Chile only one month before a military junta took power back and installed Pinochet, a right-wing dictator. Bolano was imprisoned and when released, went back to Mexico, then Paris, and finally Barcelona where he died in 2003 at age 50.
A couple of passages that I liked:
We will serve a good Chilean supper “…so [a foreign guest] could see for himself how well we live in Chile, in case he thought that over here we were still walking around wearing feathers…”
The priest receives a letter “…a ridiculous letter but somehow it seemed to conceal another, invisible letter, more serious in content, and this hidden letter, although I couldn’t tell what it said or even be sure it existed, worried me deeply.”
It’s a short book – 130 pages -- but seems longer at times because it is written as a single paragraph. In the literary discussions we also learn a bit about Bolano’s opinions of Chilean poets and writers and how they stand up to those of Spain. I liked it but it’s not my favorite Bolano – I still prefer Savage Detectives or The Skating Rink.
Top photo: Salvador Allende from the-untermatron.wikia.com
Middle: Augusto Pinochet from bdnews24.com
Bottom: Roberto Bolano from ndnotebook.com
August 19, 2022
You might ask: what could possibly be more mind-blowingly life-changing than stumbling upon a barrelful of gold? (The Limitless Library you could endeavour, perhaps in vain, to assemble with it!) I have only one answer to that question of questions. It is: stumbling upon Your Author.
I first read Bolaño in 2014. Today, at the dawn of 2022, I am in no 'shadow' of doubt - shadows being a constant feature in this book - that Bolaño is My Author, and The Author of our time.
On the scale of brilliance, this shorter text is no different from its counterparts. Rather, more impressive for it. Palpable is its intelligent inventiveness and insightfulness - on every page, in every amassed sentence.
I confess: I went into it prepared to find that it was no match for his other literary feats. Thinking: 'well, James Wood would define this as his "greatest work", would he not?' That makes sense. But, me, heading into it with a Woolfian spirit - "there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind" - mostly wondered about how exactly Bolaño would pull off or get away with amalgamating his idiosyncrasies with the Bernhardian rant, or, rather, when seeming to navigate through that form?
But, of course, Bolaño is to be found in every sentence. And this, here, is a Literary Monument like no other. Funny that I should say that, too: because the most glorified, canonical writers of all time - Dante, Shakespeare - are placed alongside many a poet (Neruda features prominently), the Greeks, (Plato in particular), and the greatest minds of the past century (Freud and Marx). There is much to unpack. A labyrinth of allusions, at the very least. Because underlying the compact prose, teeming with stories, is a constant tremor, exploding haphazardly from time to time. It is the story of human vitality, desperation, and hubris. Defeatedness. The essential finitude of everything and all. A tribute to the sentiment of all that is lost in time, and lost to "time's giant meat grinder". With Shakespeare, we could say:
"And Time that gave doth now his gift confound
[...]
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow".
(Shakespeare)
The 'night' is the Dantesque "selva oscura", but it is also the 'night' of contemporary life and history and culture. The night during which, Father Urrutia Lacroix, lays bare the double standards that make up his life on earth. 'Doubled over'. Doubled, I mean, not only in deed, but in thought, and name, too. For he is also Ibacache, the literary critic, hailed from the desire to have, in turn, the liberty to effusively comment on his own poetic endeavours. Not to mention, also, the ubiquitous "wizened youth" devoted - throughout the novel - to torturing him with his transparent presence, until, he disappears?
"The wizened youth has always been alone, and I have always been on history’s side."
What does it mean to be on history's side? What are the stakes? The implied compromise(s). "Is there a solution?" Where does this leave history, and literature? Crawling curiously in the mud, perhaps.
That, however, is hardly scratching the surface. As Bolaño keeps harping on the nuances of lived moments and perception (the Van Gogh blue streets that too readily reveal the lingering yellow beneath), he too crafts a complex understanding of the incongruences underpinning 'civilisation'. This is an immeasurably political text, irreverent and provocative, but serious and passionately invested in fixing its gaze on the fate of the world.
When recruited by a pair of import-export entrepreneurs to go on a mission, our Lacroix jumps at the opportunity: he tours Europe and its churches, observant and absolutely non-judgemental about the curious means by which the fundamental issue of the churches' degradation is being addressed. A teaser, and honorary mention here: Othello the falcon!
What kind of practices, exactly, does Father Lacroix endorse? What, on his self-fabricated deathbed - for we know, the illness he laments, is a phantom sickness - troubles him, if indeed it does?
Bolaño's fervently political vision comes to the forefront when Lacroix is entrusted with an operation that requires absolute discretion: teaching Marxism to the Chilean Junta...(Imagine that!, my friends). He brutally exposes the horrors of history, but grants no simplistic conclusions. Distance from oneself and from all things, yet eye-glittering awe and complicity, too. A cry, echoed in uncontrollable laughter.
This writer certainly expects much from his reader. Including being well informed about political dynamics in Chile. And yet, I hardly think it possible not to be swept away by his poetry. The poetry of the marvellously immortalised moment. His prose penetrates the world and presents it to you anew, like you have never seen it before. It is a knowing world, and yet not immune to its unceasing and rapturous vibrations. To the beauty of the landscape that oversees human devastation, the sense of the ridiculous in human nature.
***
I cannot recommend this book enough! It is magnificently mesmerising!
"Literature is literature."
Thank you, Bolaño, for being my first glorious read of the year, and for finding me when in the throes of despondency!
I also wish to thank my excellent Goodreads friend S.penkevich for referring me to this book while we were discussing Bernhard. He too is an avid reader of Bolaño!
5 solid stars.
I first read Bolaño in 2014. Today, at the dawn of 2022, I am in no 'shadow' of doubt - shadows being a constant feature in this book - that Bolaño is My Author, and The Author of our time.
On the scale of brilliance, this shorter text is no different from its counterparts. Rather, more impressive for it. Palpable is its intelligent inventiveness and insightfulness - on every page, in every amassed sentence.
I confess: I went into it prepared to find that it was no match for his other literary feats. Thinking: 'well, James Wood would define this as his "greatest work", would he not?' That makes sense. But, me, heading into it with a Woolfian spirit - "there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind" - mostly wondered about how exactly Bolaño would pull off or get away with amalgamating his idiosyncrasies with the Bernhardian rant, or, rather, when seeming to navigate through that form?
But, of course, Bolaño is to be found in every sentence. And this, here, is a Literary Monument like no other. Funny that I should say that, too: because the most glorified, canonical writers of all time - Dante, Shakespeare - are placed alongside many a poet (Neruda features prominently), the Greeks, (Plato in particular), and the greatest minds of the past century (Freud and Marx). There is much to unpack. A labyrinth of allusions, at the very least. Because underlying the compact prose, teeming with stories, is a constant tremor, exploding haphazardly from time to time. It is the story of human vitality, desperation, and hubris. Defeatedness. The essential finitude of everything and all. A tribute to the sentiment of all that is lost in time, and lost to "time's giant meat grinder". With Shakespeare, we could say:
"And Time that gave doth now his gift confound
[...]
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow".
(Shakespeare)
The 'night' is the Dantesque "selva oscura", but it is also the 'night' of contemporary life and history and culture. The night during which, Father Urrutia Lacroix, lays bare the double standards that make up his life on earth. 'Doubled over'. Doubled, I mean, not only in deed, but in thought, and name, too. For he is also Ibacache, the literary critic, hailed from the desire to have, in turn, the liberty to effusively comment on his own poetic endeavours. Not to mention, also, the ubiquitous "wizened youth" devoted - throughout the novel - to torturing him with his transparent presence, until, he disappears?
"The wizened youth has always been alone, and I have always been on history’s side."
What does it mean to be on history's side? What are the stakes? The implied compromise(s). "Is there a solution?" Where does this leave history, and literature? Crawling curiously in the mud, perhaps.
That, however, is hardly scratching the surface. As Bolaño keeps harping on the nuances of lived moments and perception (the Van Gogh blue streets that too readily reveal the lingering yellow beneath), he too crafts a complex understanding of the incongruences underpinning 'civilisation'. This is an immeasurably political text, irreverent and provocative, but serious and passionately invested in fixing its gaze on the fate of the world.
When recruited by a pair of import-export entrepreneurs to go on a mission, our Lacroix jumps at the opportunity: he tours Europe and its churches, observant and absolutely non-judgemental about the curious means by which the fundamental issue of the churches' degradation is being addressed. A teaser, and honorary mention here: Othello the falcon!
What kind of practices, exactly, does Father Lacroix endorse? What, on his self-fabricated deathbed - for we know, the illness he laments, is a phantom sickness - troubles him, if indeed it does?
Bolaño's fervently political vision comes to the forefront when Lacroix is entrusted with an operation that requires absolute discretion: teaching Marxism to the Chilean Junta...(Imagine that!, my friends). He brutally exposes the horrors of history, but grants no simplistic conclusions. Distance from oneself and from all things, yet eye-glittering awe and complicity, too. A cry, echoed in uncontrollable laughter.
This writer certainly expects much from his reader. Including being well informed about political dynamics in Chile. And yet, I hardly think it possible not to be swept away by his poetry. The poetry of the marvellously immortalised moment. His prose penetrates the world and presents it to you anew, like you have never seen it before. It is a knowing world, and yet not immune to its unceasing and rapturous vibrations. To the beauty of the landscape that oversees human devastation, the sense of the ridiculous in human nature.
***
I cannot recommend this book enough! It is magnificently mesmerising!
"Literature is literature."
Thank you, Bolaño, for being my first glorious read of the year, and for finding me when in the throes of despondency!
I also wish to thank my excellent Goodreads friend S.penkevich for referring me to this book while we were discussing Bernhard. He too is an avid reader of Bolaño!
5 solid stars.
May 24, 2021
edited on 21.02.2020
I am dying now, but I still have many things to say. I used to be at peace with myself. Quiet and at peace. But it all blew up unexpectedly. That wizened youth is to blame. I was at peace. I am no longer at peace. There are a couple of points that have to be cleared up. So, propped up on one elbow, I will lift my noble, trembling head and rummage through my memories to turn up the deeds that shall vindicate me and belie the slanderous rumors the wizened youth spread in a single-lit night to sully my name.
I read a lot about Bolano but never really attempted any books by him, about his prose, his ability to conjure up magic out of ordinary which led to a sort of build up before taking it up. When chance and intent met, I finally decided to read him, I found myself pleasantly surprised, for he was better than what I thought in all aspects. By Night in Chile is a staunch critic of Church and State in Chile wherein Roberto Bolaño produces a brilliant analysis of Chilean literature amidst the turbulent socio-political scenario of the country. Satire is one of the trickiest genres to write, for you have to convey your message clearly yet, for the highest form, you have to maintain anonymity and keep it engaging. We have masters there such as Orwell for that. But could it poetic too? Sounds strange, but that is what this little gem is. A savage commentary on Chilean history profuse with tapestry of poetic beauty which plunge in allegory, metaphors. The novel could be said to a long prose poem.
The book may look short in length but certainly not in its scope and impact, it satirizes the elites and religious institutions, which in charge during the fascist regime in the country, over their apparent failure to fight it. Bolaño, being a poet and writer himself, was highly critical of Pablo Neruda who makes the visit in this novel but not in a commendable light. Having said that, Bolaño’s satire mainly targetted the poet-critic-priest Urrutia, who did not act upon anything despite being a representative of church and elites
Occasionally I had nightmares, but in those days just about everyday had nightmares from time to time, though some more often than others.
Urrutia believes he is dying and in his feverish delirium various characters, both real and imaginary, appear to him as icy monsters, as if in sequence from a horror film. He leaves the poor farmhands on Farewell's area who search for the guide and comfort of a priest. Be that as it may, he notwithstanding everything wears his blessed cassock when he feels it might benefit or verify him, as while teaching Marxism to the junta of authorities who lead Chile's police state. Urrutia is more aggressive than devout. He tries to turn into an extraordinary artistic pundit like his golden calf Farewell. His craving to be acknowledged into Farewell's highbrow scholarly circle drives Urrutia to sell out in both body and soul. Later in the novel, Bolaño condemns Urrutia and Farewell, as well as other members of their elite circle, for failing to use their voices to criticize the Pinochet regime.
One afternoon, as I was signing away to myself, I had a glimpse of what it meant: Chile itself, the whole country, had become the Judas Tree, a lifeless, dead-looking tree, but still deeply rooted in the black earth, our rich black earth with its famous 40-centimetre worms.
Bolaño (who had spent his high school a very long time in Mexico City) came back to his local Chile to help Marxist-Socialist President Salvador Allende, who had started radical changes that would redistribute land possessed by the Church and the well off to poor ranchers. Be that as it may, a month after Bolaño showed up, Allende was dead. General Augusto Pinochet had assumed control over the legislature in a grisly overthrow sorted out by the CIA. Normally, many Church pioneers and elites upheld Pinochet, who had forestalled Allende from taking their property. In any case, the military system caused a ridiculous bad dream for Chile, as somewhere in the range of 30,000 individuals accepted to be supporters of Allende were detained and tormented by Pinochet's operators. In excess of 3,000 residents were slaughtered or vanished, their bodies dumped into mass graves. Several individuals fled into oust. Presently the Church and the elites had blood on their hands. This frightful truth is the focal point of By Night in Chile, as the artist cleric Urrutia faces his snapshot of reckoning.
Sometimes at night, I would sit on a chair in the dark and ask myself what difference there was between fascist and rebel. Just a pair of words. Two words, that’s all. And sometimes either one will do!
The writing style is remarkably accessible despite itself and the story of his life intact as it is woven into Chile's political history despite progressively more delirious and compromised powers of recollection. The prose is condensed into a long poetic narrative which has taken birth among allegory and metaphors. The continuous paragraphs without line-breaks reminds me of Thomas Bernhard and Samuel Beckett, which adds to the effect of satirical impact of the narrative. The prose style also gives you feel that book is actually long than 125 odd pages. The book is not like a typical novel, it’s more like a recount of nightmarish churning through sharp but seamless transitions which throws entirely unique pictures of Chilean elites amidst socio-political situation of the country. It may be categorized under some intertextual literary commentary in which the author expresses himself through nom de plume of the narrator.
My country was not in healthy state. There is no time to dream, I said to myself, I must act on my principles. This is no time to go chasing rainbows, I said, I must be patriot. In Chile things were not going well. For me things had been going well, but not for my country. I am a fanatical nationalist, but I do sincerely love the land of my birth. Chile, my Chile. What on earth has come over you?
We often become conniver in the things, which we may not support, however, our non-action or complacency plays into the hands of those who in power, the book analyses our complacency and how do we try to reason with it to make peace with ourselves and hence, no one rises the voice. However, Bolano has other ideas, the book quite masterfully explores and addresses this very question. Bolaño uses this to illustrate the supine nature of the Chilean literary establishment under the dictatorship. It’s a wonderful and beautifully written book by a writer who has enviable control over every beat, every change of tempo, every image. The prose is constantly exciting and challenging - at times lyrical and allusive, at others filled with a biting wit.
One has a moral obligation to take responsibility for one’s actions, and that includes one’s words and silences, yes, one’s silences, because silences rise to heaven too, and God hears them, and only God understands and judges them, so one must be very careful with one’s silences.
April 20, 2024
What a powerful and complex work. It is the narrator's (who is a Catholic priest, a poet and a literary critic) ironic deathbed monologue, his life story. The story of a person who is not vile by nature but who is tormented by inner conflicts and is used to making personal compromises. Like other Chilean intellectuals around him in 1970s and 1980s. People's personal stories, their behaviour, their moral choices reflect the political reality in Chile during Pinochet's dictatorship. The writers, poets, actors who have not left the country prefer not to notice the hell around them and go on with their life and work. 'By Night in Chile' is a story of conformism and escapism (including reading the works by ancient Greek authors) which are the survival skills resorted to by the terrified intellectuals who pretend they live a normal life under the military authoritarian dictatorship. The author and and the narrator ask if the price of the conpromise is not too high.
'As time goes by, as time goes by, the whip-crack of the years, the precipice of illusions, the ravine that swallows up all human endeavour except the struggle to survive.'
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
'Sometimes I come across farmers speaking another language. I stop them. I ask how things are on the land. But they tell me they don’t work on the land. They tell me they work in factories or building sites in the city, they have never worked on the land.
Is there a solution? Sometimes the earth shakes. The epicenter of the quake is somewhere in the north or the south, but I can hear the earth shaking. Sometimes I feel dizzy. Sometimes the quake goes on for longer than usual, and people take shelter in doorways or under stairs or they rush out into the street. Is there a solution? I see people running in the streets. I see people going into the Metro or into movie theaters. I see people buying newspapers. And sometimes it all shakes and everything stops for a moment. And then I ask myself: Where is the wizened youth? Why has he gone away?
And little by little the truth begins to rise like a dead body. A dead body rising from the bottom of the sea or from the bottom of a gully. I can see its shadow rising. Its flickering shadow. Its shadow rising as if it were climbing a hill on a fossil planet. And then, in the half-light of my sickness, I see his fierce, his gentle face, and I ask myself: Am I that wizened youth? Is that the true, the supreme terror, to discover that I am the wizened youth whose cries no one can hear? And that the poor wizened youth is me? And then faces flash before my eyes at a vertiginous speed, the faces I admired, those I loved, hated, envied and despised. The faces I protected, those I attacked, the faces I hardened myself against and those I sought in vain.
And then the storm of shit begins.'
'As time goes by, as time goes by, the whip-crack of the years, the precipice of illusions, the ravine that swallows up all human endeavour except the struggle to survive.'
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
'Sometimes I come across farmers speaking another language. I stop them. I ask how things are on the land. But they tell me they don’t work on the land. They tell me they work in factories or building sites in the city, they have never worked on the land.
Is there a solution? Sometimes the earth shakes. The epicenter of the quake is somewhere in the north or the south, but I can hear the earth shaking. Sometimes I feel dizzy. Sometimes the quake goes on for longer than usual, and people take shelter in doorways or under stairs or they rush out into the street. Is there a solution? I see people running in the streets. I see people going into the Metro or into movie theaters. I see people buying newspapers. And sometimes it all shakes and everything stops for a moment. And then I ask myself: Where is the wizened youth? Why has he gone away?
And little by little the truth begins to rise like a dead body. A dead body rising from the bottom of the sea or from the bottom of a gully. I can see its shadow rising. Its flickering shadow. Its shadow rising as if it were climbing a hill on a fossil planet. And then, in the half-light of my sickness, I see his fierce, his gentle face, and I ask myself: Am I that wizened youth? Is that the true, the supreme terror, to discover that I am the wizened youth whose cries no one can hear? And that the poor wizened youth is me? And then faces flash before my eyes at a vertiginous speed, the faces I admired, those I loved, hated, envied and despised. The faces I protected, those I attacked, the faces I hardened myself against and those I sought in vain.
And then the storm of shit begins.'
August 24, 2025
And then the storm of shit begins.
By Night in Chile ~~~ Roberto Bolaño
Random thought ~~ it appears that Bolaño himself is speaking to us in the very first line, I am dying now, but I still have many things to say.
By Night in Chile is an unusual novel in Bolaño’s. universe. In its merely two paragraphs ~~ the second and last is comprise of only 7 words ~~ we sit with a dying man, one single night ~~ somewhere in Chile ~~ listening to his life’s story ~~ of which he claims to still have many things to say. That man is Father Sebastian Urrutia ~~ renowned literary critic, failed poet and, as we soon come to find out, a coward. However, Bolaño’s novella is not only the story of one cowardly individual, but more generally a satire on a whole generation of Chilean intellectuals who chose to put their heads down when their country was suffering through the atrocities of the Pinochet regime.
By Night in Chile is Bolaño's clearest vision of the savage politics of the last century, particularly of Latin America. Bolaño has a way of presenting the politics in an almost farcical way ~~ for a while ~~ until taking a turn to the horrific climax.
This monologue of the dying right-wing priest/poet/critic is not only an indictment out of his own mouth of a clerical fascist but is also a examination of literature’s essential complicity with authority and terror.
Bolaño can create the most uncanny effects ~~ the shadows of the hurrying citizens on a café wall, the narrator’s various visions of a wizened youth, the priest’s whole long account of church falconry in Europe, the climactic story of the literary evenings where everything feels slightly wrong ~~ and we soon find out why.
There are four main stories Father Sebastián Urrutia Lacroix remembers on his deathbed: the first encounter with his mentor, Farewell, who will test both his literary and sexual talents, the trip to Europe with the mission entrusted to him by his superiors to try and save European churches menaced with decay by pigeon shit, the nine Marxist lessons given to Pinochet and his generals and the literary meetings in María Canales’s house, house that was secretly used by the secret police for imprisonment and torture. These four stories, subtly interconnected, offer not only a dramatic image of Chilean literature under the dictatorship but also a dramatic image of the intellectual’s behavior under the terror.
Sebastian is haunted throughout his telling by a wizened youth who seems determined to undermine his narration. This youth can be seen as a figment of Sebastian’s fevered imagination, a real person with secret knowledge of Sebastian’s affairs, or, an embodiment of Sebastian’s own repressed moral conscience. The reader is led to believe that Sebastian had no choice in how his life unfolded, and that he was simply a victim of circumstance. This calls his reliability into question.
In Sebastian’s telling of events, he told his companion, Farewell, about these lessons after an attack of conscience ~~ even though he was explicitly forbidden to speak of them. In this, his narrative betrays itself I shrugged my shoulders, as people do in novels, but never in real life, and later I shrugged my shoulders again. It is possible that while Sebastian felt an attack of conscience, he never actually acted upon it. The discussion with Farewell may be a fiction, as is suggested by these shrugs that only happen in novels.
In addition to the perpetual presence of the wizened youth and the self-betraying narration, Sebastian’s story struggles through his various fadings of memory ~~ some of which appear extremely convenient. Early in the novel, Sebastian strips any sense of his own agency from allusions to a homosexual encounter. He describes his companion’s actions, and the banal conversation between them, but leaves out certain moments, moments that we must suspect implicate him in encouraging, or at least being aware of, the direction of the interaction.
Sebastian’s memory likewise fades when he is describing how he came to stop attending the literary soirees of Maria Canales. He tells the story of how one night, a guest roaming the house found himself in the basement, where he discovered a room set up for interrogation and torture. It is not clear who this guest was, but the evasions and gaps in the narrative point to Sebastian as the discoverer. His words, I was not afraid. I would have been able to speak out, but I didn’t know anything until it was too late, ring with the desperation of a guilty falsehood. In Canales’s house, the writers drink and hold intellectual conversations, while beneath them, people are being tortured. This image is laden with the imperative to speak out, yet Sebastian distances himself from such things almost to the last. The torturing presence of the wizened youth is the only indication that he is troubled by his dissemblance.
By Night in Chile is among Bolaño’s shorter works, but it packs a lot into its pages. As a psychological study of guilt and repressed memories, and as a novella with a political imperative, By Night in Chile is a quietly powerful work. It also contains a lot of humor and knowing self-effacement regarding the position of writers and critics ~~ and the aggrandized view they may have of themselves ~~ which is always enjoyable to read.
By Night in Chile ~~~ Roberto Bolaño
Random thought ~~ it appears that Bolaño himself is speaking to us in the very first line, I am dying now, but I still have many things to say.
By Night in Chile is an unusual novel in Bolaño’s. universe. In its merely two paragraphs ~~ the second and last is comprise of only 7 words ~~ we sit with a dying man, one single night ~~ somewhere in Chile ~~ listening to his life’s story ~~ of which he claims to still have many things to say. That man is Father Sebastian Urrutia ~~ renowned literary critic, failed poet and, as we soon come to find out, a coward. However, Bolaño’s novella is not only the story of one cowardly individual, but more generally a satire on a whole generation of Chilean intellectuals who chose to put their heads down when their country was suffering through the atrocities of the Pinochet regime.
By Night in Chile is Bolaño's clearest vision of the savage politics of the last century, particularly of Latin America. Bolaño has a way of presenting the politics in an almost farcical way ~~ for a while ~~ until taking a turn to the horrific climax.
This monologue of the dying right-wing priest/poet/critic is not only an indictment out of his own mouth of a clerical fascist but is also a examination of literature’s essential complicity with authority and terror.
Bolaño can create the most uncanny effects ~~ the shadows of the hurrying citizens on a café wall, the narrator’s various visions of a wizened youth, the priest’s whole long account of church falconry in Europe, the climactic story of the literary evenings where everything feels slightly wrong ~~ and we soon find out why.
There are four main stories Father Sebastián Urrutia Lacroix remembers on his deathbed: the first encounter with his mentor, Farewell, who will test both his literary and sexual talents, the trip to Europe with the mission entrusted to him by his superiors to try and save European churches menaced with decay by pigeon shit, the nine Marxist lessons given to Pinochet and his generals and the literary meetings in María Canales’s house, house that was secretly used by the secret police for imprisonment and torture. These four stories, subtly interconnected, offer not only a dramatic image of Chilean literature under the dictatorship but also a dramatic image of the intellectual’s behavior under the terror.
Sebastian is haunted throughout his telling by a wizened youth who seems determined to undermine his narration. This youth can be seen as a figment of Sebastian’s fevered imagination, a real person with secret knowledge of Sebastian’s affairs, or, an embodiment of Sebastian’s own repressed moral conscience. The reader is led to believe that Sebastian had no choice in how his life unfolded, and that he was simply a victim of circumstance. This calls his reliability into question.
In Sebastian’s telling of events, he told his companion, Farewell, about these lessons after an attack of conscience ~~ even though he was explicitly forbidden to speak of them. In this, his narrative betrays itself I shrugged my shoulders, as people do in novels, but never in real life, and later I shrugged my shoulders again. It is possible that while Sebastian felt an attack of conscience, he never actually acted upon it. The discussion with Farewell may be a fiction, as is suggested by these shrugs that only happen in novels.
In addition to the perpetual presence of the wizened youth and the self-betraying narration, Sebastian’s story struggles through his various fadings of memory ~~ some of which appear extremely convenient. Early in the novel, Sebastian strips any sense of his own agency from allusions to a homosexual encounter. He describes his companion’s actions, and the banal conversation between them, but leaves out certain moments, moments that we must suspect implicate him in encouraging, or at least being aware of, the direction of the interaction.
Sebastian’s memory likewise fades when he is describing how he came to stop attending the literary soirees of Maria Canales. He tells the story of how one night, a guest roaming the house found himself in the basement, where he discovered a room set up for interrogation and torture. It is not clear who this guest was, but the evasions and gaps in the narrative point to Sebastian as the discoverer. His words, I was not afraid. I would have been able to speak out, but I didn’t know anything until it was too late, ring with the desperation of a guilty falsehood. In Canales’s house, the writers drink and hold intellectual conversations, while beneath them, people are being tortured. This image is laden with the imperative to speak out, yet Sebastian distances himself from such things almost to the last. The torturing presence of the wizened youth is the only indication that he is troubled by his dissemblance.
By Night in Chile is among Bolaño’s shorter works, but it packs a lot into its pages. As a psychological study of guilt and repressed memories, and as a novella with a political imperative, By Night in Chile is a quietly powerful work. It also contains a lot of humor and knowing self-effacement regarding the position of writers and critics ~~ and the aggrandized view they may have of themselves ~~ which is always enjoyable to read.
June 26, 2021
Este es el segundo libro que leo de Bolaño, el primero fue Detectives Salvajes, que es de mis libros favoritos. Este es completamente distinto en estilo, casi como si fuera escrito por otra persona, pero igual me encantó. Es el viaje en la memoria de un personaje que no sabes si te cae bien o mal, un sacerdote entusiasta de la literatura, la poesía. Es un viaje hacia todo tipo de recuerdos, pasan por ahí Neruda, Pinochet, analiza constantemente todo tipo de traumas chilenos, de caracter y de historia, tambien plantea preguntas como, el arte puede ser independiente de la visión politica? Muy bueno, me intriga leer mas libros suyos.
June 22, 2016
I am dying now, but I still have many things to say. I used to be at peace with myself. Quiet and at peace.
But it all blew up unexpectedly. That wizened youth is to blame. I was at peace.
The opening lines suggests this is a flashback sort of novel, a reinterpretation the past at the end of a long life and an appeal to the reader to hear the narrator's confession. His name is Sebastian Urrutia Lacroix, a Chilean of mixed Basque and French ancestry, a Jesuit priest, a poet, a literary critic, a teacher, a journalist ... an old man now plagued by ill health and by a heavy conscience.
Life is a succession of misunderstandings, leading us on to the final truth, the only truth.
This is the scope of the story, the challenge that Bolano sets out to prove he can capture the whole essence of life in a novella long confession, and this is what he spectacularly achieves imho. This is also my first foray into his universe, and I feel almost overwhelmed by the scope and the intensity of his vision. I thought I was prepared by the glowing remarks of some of my Goodreads friends, but Roberto Bolano surpassed my already high expectations. I feel now like I have only dipped one foot in to test the waters of the ocean, wondering if I have what it takes to pick up "The Savage Detectives" or "2666". I believe they will be both exhausting and life-altering experiences.
Sordello, which Sordello? Dante's Sordello, Pound's Sordello, the Sordello of the 'Ensenhamens d'onor', the Sordello of the 'planh' on the death of Blacatz? The one who rode with Raymond Berenger and Charles I of Anjou, Sordello who was not afraid, who was not afraid, who was not afraid.
Who is the wizened youth? Why is an early medieval troubadour so important to the story? I could give you what I think the answer is . It would be better though for each reader to try to come with his or her own answers, reconsidering their own youth and aspirations. The same could be said about all the rest of my commentaries here - attempts to decode the parables and the metaphors that so enrich the text. The poet Bolano suggests and asks questions, of our intelligence and of our hearts. It is up to us to fill in the blank spaces and to give or withhold absolution for Father Urrutia. I believe there will be as many interpretations as there are readers.
Some symbols are easier to understand than others, especially when they shine so brightly as the poet laureate Pablo Neruda. Urrutia meets him right after he comes out of the seminary, at the country farm of one of his mentors, the critic Farewell. Here is the night filled with stars over the Andes, here is the sensuality and the confusion and the endless possibility of youth. What would Urrutia do with the gift of the night?
Next symbol: a Paris saloon during the Nazi occupation. A diplomat and a German officer delight in intellectual conversations, as an exiled Guatemalan painter dies slowly of sorrow, gazing over colour drained Paris rooftops. What can it mean? The rewards of culture and of intelligent friends, but are they enough to built your whole life on?
Far from the idle but agitated and often indiscreet chatter of the Parisian salons, the Chilean writer and the German writer enjoyed a free-ranging conversation, touching on the human and the divine, war and peace, Italian painting and Nordic painting, the source of evil and the effects of evil that sometimes seem to be triggered by chance, the flora and fauna of Chile ...
In his middle age, Father Urrutia is a name to be reckoned with in the world of letters, and his friendship with the critic Farewel continues, but darker themes are now the subject of their conversation:
What's the use, what use are books, they're shadows, nothing but shadows. [...] I see whores stopping for a fraction of a second to contemplate something important, then heading off again like meteorites ... Whores coming and going, a river of tears ... There is no comfort in books ...
There is a hill in Austria called Heldenberg, a place of ghosts and misplaced ambitions, a monument to all the 'heroes' of war throughout history. Make what you will of it
And they saw neither statues nor tombs but only desolation and neglect, until at the very top of the hill they discovered a crypt that looked like a safe, with a sealed door, which they proceeded to open. Inside the crypt, sitting on a grand stone seat, they found the shoemaker's body, his eye sockets empty as if he were never to contemplate anything but the valley spread out below Heroes Hill, and his jaw hanging open, as if he were still laughing after having glimpsed immortality...
An emotionally drained Urrutia makes a pact with the Devil (taking the form of two shady characters with fateful nicknames, Mr. Raef and Mr. Etah). Urrutia accepts a sponsorship to take a long paid vacation through Europe, studying the old churches there. I see in this episode the narator's questioning his religious convictions, in particular the often brutally enforced supremacy of Catholicism . A old priest on his dying bed in Andaluzia, a Fra Antonio, is the catalyst of possible change in the narrator's worldview:
I have been thinking, he said, maybe this business with the falcons is not such a good idea, it's true they protect churches from the corrosive and, in the long term, destructive effects of pigeon shit, but one mustn't forget that pigeons or doves are the earthly symbol of the Holy Spirit, are they not?
After his trip to Europe, Urrutia decides to come back to Chile, as the political troubles surrounding Allende and Pinochet governments are heating up. This is by far the most important question that needs to be answered in an artist, in my humble opinion. Should Urrutia be a cold eye critic and passive oberver of history? Or should he burn up with passion and go out into the streets to make a difference? Should he keep quiet about the crimes and lies surrounding him, in order to preserve his life from the likes of Mr. Etah and Mr. Raef? Or should he risk it all for what is most probably a lost cause?
The section opens with a statement I have no trouble at all adopting for my own:
For me, things had been going well, but not for my country. I am not a fanatical nationalist, but I do sincerely love the land of my birth.
But how can we practice what we preach when secret commandos are kidnapping and torturing people by their thousands, starting with the leaders of opinion? Most of us, myself included, will turn into chameleons or ostriches, hiding our heads in the sand and pretending that life goes on as usual. The governing symbol of the times for Father Urrutia is the Judas Tree, mostly referred to in connection with a literary salon he frequented during the times of trouble.
We were bored. we read and we were bored. We intellectuals.
Because you can't read all day and all night. Splendid isolation has never been our style, and back then, as now, Chilean artists and writers needed to gather and talk, ideally in a pleasant setting where they could find intelligent company.
After the political dillema what else is there to say? Urutia gets old and the only thing left for him to answer is what did he do with the gift of youth?
Figments of the imagination that throng unbidden as one goes into the night of one's destiny. My destiny. My Sordello.
On the one hand, Urrutia was all his life a champion of culture as the engine of social progress, praising young Chilean poets and novelists in the pages of his critical essays:
That is how literature is made. Or at least what we call literature, to keep ourselves from falling into the rubbish dump.
On the other hand, he has been living under the Judas Tree, and the choices he has made will one day haunt each of us, if we accept that we have a conscience and we are willing to listen to it:
We're all writers, and in the end we all have to walk a long and rocky road.
Bolano, through the voice of Father Urrutia, is sounding the horns of the Last Judgement, a terrible warning about the waste of our youth and of our energies in trivial pursuits, while the whole edifice of civilization crumbles over our heads. I am put in the mind of two literary references that I am a bit too lazy to track down, but I hope they are popular enough to ring a bell. First, there is the one about living in the gutter, but looking up at the stars. Culture representing the stars, I believe. Secondly, there's the one about stumbling over the truth from time to time on our journey through life, but most of the time dusting ourselves off and continuing the journey as if nothing of matter has happened. Bolano has done his duty. It is up to us what we do with his truth.
Is there a solution? Sometimes the earth shakes. The epicenter of the quake is somewhere in the north or the south, but I can hear the earth shaking. Sometimes I feel dizzy. Sometimes the quake goes on for longer than usual, and people take shelter in doorways or under stairs or they rush out into the street. Is there a solution? I see people running in the streets. I see people going into the Metro or into movie theaters. I see people buying newspapers. And sometimes it all shakes and everything stops for a moment. And then I ask myself: Where is the wizened youth? Why has he gone away?
dropped
January 28, 2012Oh shut up, Roberto. SHUT. UP. What is this cobblers? Why do you want me to read the rambling deathbed memoir of a Chilean priest who can’t let a sentence end and couldn’t find a paragraph break in a tower of cassocks? Why don’t you establish this character as an actual character? Why did you write a list of scenes or incidents that might be used in future novels instead of, to quote The Guardian—“a beautifully written analysis of Chilean literary life?” It gives me no pleasure to play devil’s advocate in a glistening ocean of five-star reviews, but I threw in the towel one-third through this petite cowfart in the Roberto canon. His work is better when it’s longer, i.e. 2666. Clearly.
July 29, 2019
“One has a moral obligation to take responsibility for one’s actions, and that includes one’s words and silences, yes, one’s silences, because silences rise to heaven too, and God hears them, and only God understands and judges them, so one must be very careful with one’s silences”--Roberto Bolaño
By Night in Chile is a novella, my second book by Roberto Bolaño after my reading last year of the 900 plus page 2666. It is tempting to say the former (an earlier) book is just a shorter version of 2666. Which is not to dismiss it in the least. There’s more “complexity” in 2666, which I loved, but at this moment I would recommend this book to any reader curious about Bolaño (Savage Detectives is next up for me from him). Both novels deal in similar ways with the responsibility of the writer to real events in the world. The first section of 2666 is a kind of satirical look at a bunch of fawning literary critics all writing about a reclusive novelist who may or may not be hiding out in Mexico, where there was the real-world killing of women in the nineties, known as the femicides, the murders (and usually rapes) of 112 young, poor, and mostly uneducated women in the Juarez area of Mexico, in the state of Sonora (though he calls the city Santa Teresa). The literary critics write about writers, not femicides, obviously!
Later in 2666 we meet an academic, a philosopher who is visiting Santa Teresa with his daughter. Again, he’s a writer but this is not his “area” to write about, though he is concerned about his daughter’s safety. Later we meet a journalist from an African American publication in NYC, sent to cover a boxing match there, even though sports is not his area. He becomes interested in the local coverage of the femicides, but his boss does not want him to write about it (not his area, again).
In By Night in Chile we have a first person death-bed rant by a flawed priest, Father Urrutia, who has written poetry and literary criticism but was conscripted to teach Marxism to Pinochet and his generals. Early on he meets Pablo Neruda, a very different Chilean poet who like Bolaño was an activist against dictatorships, both jailed for it.
And what of the responsibility of the Church to the real world? Father Urrutia tells of a trip to Europe where he meets with other priests interested in falconry. ‘Nuff said. Increasingly, the darkly satirical nature of this story becomes clear. It can also be funny in places, and pretty surreal at times. The priest is delusional self-justifying, twisting things to make himself look better than he is.
Cut to the chase: Both 2666 and By Night in Chile are about the purpose of writing; Bolaño urges us to write and read to save the planet, to change the direction from barbarism to humanism. He thinks that most writing is damagingly disconnected with the decline of western civilization, such as fascism and the murder of women and the neo-liberal capitalist creation of poverty and the world’s increasing and utter disregard for the poor, climate change, the fate of the planet, and so on. In the end Bolaño confronts us with devastating questions that anyone, anywhere should be asking of themselves right now: What does what is happening to the world and others have to do with me? What is my responsibility (or debt to be paid) for living on the planet?
By Night in Chile is a novella, my second book by Roberto Bolaño after my reading last year of the 900 plus page 2666. It is tempting to say the former (an earlier) book is just a shorter version of 2666. Which is not to dismiss it in the least. There’s more “complexity” in 2666, which I loved, but at this moment I would recommend this book to any reader curious about Bolaño (Savage Detectives is next up for me from him). Both novels deal in similar ways with the responsibility of the writer to real events in the world. The first section of 2666 is a kind of satirical look at a bunch of fawning literary critics all writing about a reclusive novelist who may or may not be hiding out in Mexico, where there was the real-world killing of women in the nineties, known as the femicides, the murders (and usually rapes) of 112 young, poor, and mostly uneducated women in the Juarez area of Mexico, in the state of Sonora (though he calls the city Santa Teresa). The literary critics write about writers, not femicides, obviously!
Later in 2666 we meet an academic, a philosopher who is visiting Santa Teresa with his daughter. Again, he’s a writer but this is not his “area” to write about, though he is concerned about his daughter’s safety. Later we meet a journalist from an African American publication in NYC, sent to cover a boxing match there, even though sports is not his area. He becomes interested in the local coverage of the femicides, but his boss does not want him to write about it (not his area, again).
In By Night in Chile we have a first person death-bed rant by a flawed priest, Father Urrutia, who has written poetry and literary criticism but was conscripted to teach Marxism to Pinochet and his generals. Early on he meets Pablo Neruda, a very different Chilean poet who like Bolaño was an activist against dictatorships, both jailed for it.
And what of the responsibility of the Church to the real world? Father Urrutia tells of a trip to Europe where he meets with other priests interested in falconry. ‘Nuff said. Increasingly, the darkly satirical nature of this story becomes clear. It can also be funny in places, and pretty surreal at times. The priest is delusional self-justifying, twisting things to make himself look better than he is.
Cut to the chase: Both 2666 and By Night in Chile are about the purpose of writing; Bolaño urges us to write and read to save the planet, to change the direction from barbarism to humanism. He thinks that most writing is damagingly disconnected with the decline of western civilization, such as fascism and the murder of women and the neo-liberal capitalist creation of poverty and the world’s increasing and utter disregard for the poor, climate change, the fate of the planet, and so on. In the end Bolaño confronts us with devastating questions that anyone, anywhere should be asking of themselves right now: What does what is happening to the world and others have to do with me? What is my responsibility (or debt to be paid) for living on the planet?
March 16, 2022
“As time goes by, as time goes by, the whip-crack of the years, the precipice of illusions, the ravine that swallows up all human endeavour except the struggle to survive.”
In By Night in Chile Robert Bolaño explores the recollections and fevered dreams of a Jesuit priest on his deathbed. The priest does not care much for the poor folk, but instead had loftier ambitions, both literary and social. He socialized with the elite and toured monasteries through Europe, recollecting how falconers hunt pigeons to prevent damage to these structures. It is clear he was out of touch with the people and their suffering. By presenting the priest's life this way, Bolaño offers a subtle but engaging critique of those in positions of power who ignore the brutality of life under dictatorship.
“....life went on and on and on, like a necklace of rice grains, on each grain of which a landscape had been painted, tiny grains and microscopic landscapes, and I knew that everyone was putting that necklace on and wearing it, but no one had the patience to take it off and look at it closely and decipher each landscape grain by grain, partly because to do so required the vision of a lynx or an eagle, and partly because the landscapes usually turned out to contain unpleasant surprises like coffins, makeshift cemeteries, ghost towns, the void and the horror, the smallness of being and its ridiculous will, people watching television, people going to football matches, boredom circumnavigating the Chilean imagination like an enormous aircraft carrier.”
“And then the storm of shit begins.”
In By Night in Chile Robert Bolaño explores the recollections and fevered dreams of a Jesuit priest on his deathbed. The priest does not care much for the poor folk, but instead had loftier ambitions, both literary and social. He socialized with the elite and toured monasteries through Europe, recollecting how falconers hunt pigeons to prevent damage to these structures. It is clear he was out of touch with the people and their suffering. By presenting the priest's life this way, Bolaño offers a subtle but engaging critique of those in positions of power who ignore the brutality of life under dictatorship.
“....life went on and on and on, like a necklace of rice grains, on each grain of which a landscape had been painted, tiny grains and microscopic landscapes, and I knew that everyone was putting that necklace on and wearing it, but no one had the patience to take it off and look at it closely and decipher each landscape grain by grain, partly because to do so required the vision of a lynx or an eagle, and partly because the landscapes usually turned out to contain unpleasant surprises like coffins, makeshift cemeteries, ghost towns, the void and the horror, the smallness of being and its ridiculous will, people watching television, people going to football matches, boredom circumnavigating the Chilean imagination like an enormous aircraft carrier.”
“And then the storm of shit begins.”
November 17, 2021
“I am dying now, but I still have many things to say. I used to be at peace with myself. Quiet and at peace. But it all blew up unexpectedly. That wizened youth is to blame. I was at peace. I am no longer at peace.”
A deathbed confession of an unreliable narrator priest.
Roberto Bolano’s 2000 publication is set in Chile as the elderly priest prepares for death and looks back, in a stream of consciousness narration, over a life of complicated loyalties and halfhearted devotions.
While a Catholic priest, he seemed to spend more time hobnobbing with the wealthy and literary types, including Pablo Neruda, than with his flock. A literary critic and failed artist himself, he demonstrates a lack of social responsibility and concern for his parishioners and seems to care more for his own social status.
Most notable was that the priest was recruited to provide lessons on Marxism to the Chilean junta, including Pinochet. These lessons, set up by saturnine military officials and enacted in secret, were so that the priest, ostensibly somewhat an expert on Marxism could educate the ruling military governors of how their enemies, “the enemies of Chile” thought and operated.
Bolano, himself an activist and supporter of Chilean President Allende, was briefly jailed by Pinochet’s forces after the military junta took over in 1973.
This short work highlights and emphasizes the hypocrisy and lukewarm support the artistic class and the church provided to opponents of Pinochet’s heavy-handed rule. One section even exposes how a friend of the priest’s husband was involved in clandestine torture and assassination.
I may have enjoyed this more if I understood more about Chilean history and / or if I understood the Catholic church and its status in Chile. All that said, this was entertaining and thought provoking and enjoyable.
A deathbed confession of an unreliable narrator priest.
Roberto Bolano’s 2000 publication is set in Chile as the elderly priest prepares for death and looks back, in a stream of consciousness narration, over a life of complicated loyalties and halfhearted devotions.
While a Catholic priest, he seemed to spend more time hobnobbing with the wealthy and literary types, including Pablo Neruda, than with his flock. A literary critic and failed artist himself, he demonstrates a lack of social responsibility and concern for his parishioners and seems to care more for his own social status.
Most notable was that the priest was recruited to provide lessons on Marxism to the Chilean junta, including Pinochet. These lessons, set up by saturnine military officials and enacted in secret, were so that the priest, ostensibly somewhat an expert on Marxism could educate the ruling military governors of how their enemies, “the enemies of Chile” thought and operated.
Bolano, himself an activist and supporter of Chilean President Allende, was briefly jailed by Pinochet’s forces after the military junta took over in 1973.
This short work highlights and emphasizes the hypocrisy and lukewarm support the artistic class and the church provided to opponents of Pinochet’s heavy-handed rule. One section even exposes how a friend of the priest’s husband was involved in clandestine torture and assassination.
I may have enjoyed this more if I understood more about Chilean history and / or if I understood the Catholic church and its status in Chile. All that said, this was entertaining and thought provoking and enjoyable.
Read
March 11, 2017Elem: Čile noću (a zašto su imali potrebu da tako prevedu naslov Čileanski nokturno - ne znam) je prva Bolanjova knjiga dovoljno pregledna da radnju mogu da sažmem u dve rečenice. Jer je zapravo novela. Ili da možda probam da je sažmem u jednu rečenicu: teško je i ponekad sramotno biti književni kritičar prosečne ljudske hrabrosti (male) za vreme Pinočeove diktature. A inače, ovo ima sve tipične odlike Bolanja: fenomenalno je napisano, tempom koji kida, besprekorno meša stvarno i izmišljeno (malo guglanja pokazalo mi je da je najsumanutiji koncept u knjizi - spisateljski parti u prizemlju dok u podrumu pinočeovci muče ljude - direktno, avaj, preuzet iz života), struktura je ajmo reći neuobičajena sa ubacivanjem pričica koje kao da se prekidaju taman gde ne treba, ali sve deluje savršeno promišljeno i funkcioniše kao živ i zdrav organizam tj. besprekorno (dobro, i ovu sam reč već iskoristila, ali kad odgovara).
February 28, 2018
Vecchio e malato, padre Sebastian Urrutia Lacroix, critico letterario, scrittore, membro dell’Opus Dei, compromessosi ma non troppo con il regime di Pinochet, deve difendere la propria reputazione, ora che è tornata la democrazia, dagli attacchi di un misterioso giovane invecchiato. “Cerchiamo di essere persone civili.” Ricorda così in modo più o meno attendibile momenti della sua vita, pescando dai “pozzi neri della memoria”, con lo scopo forse di ottenere una assoluzione e anche una autoassoluzione. Padre Sebastian ha conosciuto Neruda; ha recitato poesie al chiaro di luna a un insospettabile scrittore; si era perfino chiuso in casa a leggere i greci, mentre fuori gli eventi precipitavano. “Poi ci fu il colpo di Stato e quando smisero di bombardare il presidente si suicidò e tutto finì. Allora io rimasi immobile, con un dito sulla pagina che stavo leggendo, e pensai: che pace. Mi alzai e mi affacciai alla finestra: che silenzio.”
“Silenzio” e “tacere” sono parole che si ripresentano spesso in queste 120 pagine. Nessuna scena di violenza viene descritta. C’è però l’immagine potente e ricorrente dei falchi usati dai preti per tenere i piccioni alla larga dalle chiese. “Tolsi il cappuccio al falco e gli dissi vola, Rodrigo, e proprio allora prese a soffiare un vento come d’uragano e la mia tonaca si sollevò come una bandiera piena di furia, e ricordo che gridai di nuovo vola, Rodrigo, e poi sentii un volo plurale e malsano, e le falde della tonaca mi coprirono gli occhi mentre il vento spazzava la chiesa e tutt’intorno, e quando riuscii a togliermi dalla faccia il mio personale cappuccio scorsi sagome informi per terra, i piccoli corpi insanguinati di vari piccioni che il falco aveva depositato ai miei piedi.”
Oppure la violenza aleggia minacciosa, proprio come un falco, grazie a una apparentemente innocua domanda, posta da un generale a una riunione di militari, a proposito di una presunta spia comunista. “E’ una bella ragazza?”
Oppure la violenza rimane nascosta nel seminterrato di una villa elegante nei sobborghi di Santiago, mentre al piano di sopra critici e scrittori – compreso il nostro “eroe” – partecipano a una festa. E se uno degli invitati, ubriaco, si perde tra le mille stanze e apre una porta che non doveva aprire e vede qualcosa che non doveva vedere, che cosa fa?
Con senso della misura, immagini potenti, situazioni e parole che si rincorrono, e con forti dosi di ironia soprattutto nei dialoghi (quello tra padre Sebastian e Pinochet è un pezzo di bravura), Bolano esplora la coscienza di padre Sebastian e la coscienza collettiva di una nazione. E non solo di quella nazione.
La letteratura non si occupa solo di eroi. Un bel giorno padre Sebastian fa una domanda alla donna che abita in quella villa elegante nei sobborghi di Santiago. “E si è pentita? Come tutti, padre. Sentii che mi mancava l’aria. Poi si guardò intorno tranquilla, serena, a suo modo coraggiosa, e vide la sua casa, e disse che è così che si faceva letteratura in Cile.”
“Silenzio” e “tacere” sono parole che si ripresentano spesso in queste 120 pagine. Nessuna scena di violenza viene descritta. C’è però l’immagine potente e ricorrente dei falchi usati dai preti per tenere i piccioni alla larga dalle chiese. “Tolsi il cappuccio al falco e gli dissi vola, Rodrigo, e proprio allora prese a soffiare un vento come d’uragano e la mia tonaca si sollevò come una bandiera piena di furia, e ricordo che gridai di nuovo vola, Rodrigo, e poi sentii un volo plurale e malsano, e le falde della tonaca mi coprirono gli occhi mentre il vento spazzava la chiesa e tutt’intorno, e quando riuscii a togliermi dalla faccia il mio personale cappuccio scorsi sagome informi per terra, i piccoli corpi insanguinati di vari piccioni che il falco aveva depositato ai miei piedi.”
Oppure la violenza aleggia minacciosa, proprio come un falco, grazie a una apparentemente innocua domanda, posta da un generale a una riunione di militari, a proposito di una presunta spia comunista. “E’ una bella ragazza?”
Oppure la violenza rimane nascosta nel seminterrato di una villa elegante nei sobborghi di Santiago, mentre al piano di sopra critici e scrittori – compreso il nostro “eroe” – partecipano a una festa. E se uno degli invitati, ubriaco, si perde tra le mille stanze e apre una porta che non doveva aprire e vede qualcosa che non doveva vedere, che cosa fa?
Con senso della misura, immagini potenti, situazioni e parole che si rincorrono, e con forti dosi di ironia soprattutto nei dialoghi (quello tra padre Sebastian e Pinochet è un pezzo di bravura), Bolano esplora la coscienza di padre Sebastian e la coscienza collettiva di una nazione. E non solo di quella nazione.
La letteratura non si occupa solo di eroi. Un bel giorno padre Sebastian fa una domanda alla donna che abita in quella villa elegante nei sobborghi di Santiago. “E si è pentita? Come tutti, padre. Sentii che mi mancava l’aria. Poi si guardò intorno tranquilla, serena, a suo modo coraggiosa, e vide la sua casa, e disse che è così che si faceva letteratura in Cile.”
November 19, 2011
What I have come to appreciate reading Bolaño's book is the fact that he takes you on several small journeys getting you from plot-point to plot-point. You almost don't realize that he is doing it until you finish one of these tangents and get led carefully back to the main storyline. That Bolaño trusts his talents enough to introduce characters that are only there to make a single point, that they exist in the novel just to die or to cease to exist just so some small nuance of Chile, the Church or his personal imagination can be revealed is truly something.
For instance, a "Guatemalan Painter" is introduced and given depth and perspective before being assigned his lonely fate which is to fade away to nothingness despite having great talent just so that the author can depict the grim experiences of displaced foreigners and to introduce Don Salvador Reyes to Ernst Jünger. He introduces Salvador Reyes and rounds him out as a character, portrays him as a man of principles and position, an erudite pillar of society. The meeting of the three men (the painter, Reyes and Jünger) only accomplishes one single thing, a book translated in French is passed from Reyes to Jünger providing the context for the only mention in the history of World War II of a Chilean ever taking part in the greatest conflict known to man.
As if to say, one of us took part in this great endeavor, and although nothing of the man exists or of the painter who made possible the acquaintance with the German officer and writer, but one of us was there and here is the proof (Ernst Jünger who documents the existence of our participant). And displaced and erased we may be in this gigantic, Western history, at least ONE of us was there. One Chilean. One man. One proof. And without further explanation, the whole tale falls under the title "Landscape: Mexico City an hour before dawn" as painted by an unnamed Guatemalan artist. It is a poem, not a story.
Bolaño does this to you again and again with such a light touch in these side-stories hidden among what is actually happening. And if you focus too closely on what is more obviously happening to Urrutia Lacroix as he becomes party to Mr. Fear and Mr. Hate, to the falconers and their destruction of spirit, to the Marxists he teaches and disowns, to the suppressed homosexuality of Farewell and the more literary circles, to the duality of his roles as liberal writer and conservative critic, and the old man denouncing and finally ceasing to renounce his wizened youth only at the end, etc.
If you look at only these more blatant metaphors you will miss the really fine morsels hidden in the tedious little filler pages, poetry masquerading as fluff, revelation in the side-notes.
For instance, a "Guatemalan Painter" is introduced and given depth and perspective before being assigned his lonely fate which is to fade away to nothingness despite having great talent just so that the author can depict the grim experiences of displaced foreigners and to introduce Don Salvador Reyes to Ernst Jünger. He introduces Salvador Reyes and rounds him out as a character, portrays him as a man of principles and position, an erudite pillar of society. The meeting of the three men (the painter, Reyes and Jünger) only accomplishes one single thing, a book translated in French is passed from Reyes to Jünger providing the context for the only mention in the history of World War II of a Chilean ever taking part in the greatest conflict known to man.
As if to say, one of us took part in this great endeavor, and although nothing of the man exists or of the painter who made possible the acquaintance with the German officer and writer, but one of us was there and here is the proof (Ernst Jünger who documents the existence of our participant). And displaced and erased we may be in this gigantic, Western history, at least ONE of us was there. One Chilean. One man. One proof. And without further explanation, the whole tale falls under the title "Landscape: Mexico City an hour before dawn" as painted by an unnamed Guatemalan artist. It is a poem, not a story.
Bolaño does this to you again and again with such a light touch in these side-stories hidden among what is actually happening. And if you focus too closely on what is more obviously happening to Urrutia Lacroix as he becomes party to Mr. Fear and Mr. Hate, to the falconers and their destruction of spirit, to the Marxists he teaches and disowns, to the suppressed homosexuality of Farewell and the more literary circles, to the duality of his roles as liberal writer and conservative critic, and the old man denouncing and finally ceasing to renounce his wizened youth only at the end, etc.
If you look at only these more blatant metaphors you will miss the really fine morsels hidden in the tedious little filler pages, poetry masquerading as fluff, revelation in the side-notes.
February 26, 2016
Ova knjiga je sjajan izbor, makar za nekoga ko je, kao ja, o čileanskim prilikama znao zanemarljivo malo. Kako bilo, ova je knjiga na mene ostavila prilično jak utisak na razne teme.
Čitala sam "Lagunino" izdanje u, rekla bih, veoma dobrom prevodu Igora Marojevića (toliko dobrom da sam uspela da zaboravim sasvim nesretno rešenu recenziju na koricama knjige - zbog čega za malo da je zaobiđem, jer me takvi sadržaji ne interesuju, nenavođenje jezika sa kog je Marojević prevodio - zbog čega sam morala da istražujem je li to onaj Marojević za koga znam da barata (i) katalonskim i tako redom, shodno standardima pojedinih izdavača).
Ispostavilo se da je pametnije što sam odabrala to nego hrvatsku verziju sa, na prvi pogled, poetičnijim naslovom "Čileanski nokturno", upravo zbog prevoda, budući da je za adekvatno razumevanje Bolanja (makar ove knjige) neophodna prevodilačka veština dostojna talentu ovog pisca. Razlika između srpskog i hrvatskog rešavanja istog problema je taman kolika i između noći i nokturna iz naslova, pre početka, da bi se održala, izgleda, do kraja koji je kod Marojevića "oluja govana", a kod komšinice "strašno nevrijeme".
Čile noću je soba puna ogledala iz koje sam ja izabrala ono koje se odnosi na književnost i uslove pod kojima ona nastaje u Čileu (a, valjda, i na drugim mestima koja su bila osuđena na komunizam, diktaturu, klerofašizam, marksizam i druga crnila istorijskog valera). U tom smislu, Pinočea sam doživela kao scenografski dekor, zajedno sa Alejndeom, i više se bavila pitanjem da li je ostareli mladić koji fantazmagorično progoni pripovedača Ernst Jinger i pod kojim okolnostima se tu upliće baš koji Sordelo jer ima osnova da se aludira na Dantea, Oskara Vajlda, a i sam Sordelo nije zanemarljiva pojava.
Knjiga je stilski maestralna: napisana u jednom paragrafu, kao ispovest čoveka u groznici od koje ni čitalac ne može da se spase. Pregnantnije nego u najuspelijim Saramagovim trudovima za ignorisanje interpunkcije, na stotinka strana ovde je, kako neko lepo reče, postignuto crnilo Gojinog mraka u kome ono što najsjajnije blješti nije tema. Zaista ne znam kako je to sve tu stalo: nebo krvavo od golubova koje kolju sokolovi, austrougarski car i obućar, diskrecija (stilska, ne jezička) kojom se govori o gej nazorima pa i pedofiliji, Nerudina sahrana, gvatemalski slikar koji vidi Meksiko siti kroz pariski prozor, književne kritike, mediokritetska književnost, sorei u vilama, Tukidid, Opus Dei, mučenja u podrumima…a nije Sorokin, na primer.
Roberta Bolanja smatram vrlo ozbiljnim piscem, uprkos činjenici da inače zazirem od manjka formalnog obrazovanja (pa odozgo i disleksije), hipi fazona, komunističkih agitacija, nevaspitanih protestvovanja protiv autoriteta i izmišljanja novih reči i stilova po svaku cenu. Sudeći po ovoj jednoj knjizi, da dovoljno je on veliki da izađe Markesu na crtu i da kaže da realizam treba da bude produbljen, dakle, infra, a ne nakićen nekakvom magijom.
Iako gotovo nikada ne čitam istu knjigu dva puta, ova će se naći na tom spisku, ali, paradoksalno, nisam sigurna da ću Bolanja čitati uskoro. Isto tako, sumnjam da ću ga preporučivati naširoko iako je Čile noću najupečatljivija knjiga koju sam pročitala u ovoj godini, a među prvih desetak najzanimljivijih meni poznatih.
Zanimljivo je i ovo: sudeći prema Bolanju, Neruda nije ubijen (sigurno bi on to rekao 2003.), to u prilog onom otkopavanju njegovog groba na koje čekamo poslednjih par godina. Ako je tu izneo istorijski tačnu informaciju, onda će se ipostavi i da se Aljende samoubio, a nije raznet. No, to me manje zanima.
Read
December 11, 2023Things will never work out between me and Bolano. I do recognize his writing talent, his enormous erudition and his creative handling of literary legacies. This short story certainly proves that. It is a retrospective of a Chilean Opus Dei priest on his deathbed, a long, messy last breath so to speak, written as a stream-of-consciousness, mainly focusing on the literary world of Chile (Bolano's homeland). Bolano juggles with covert and overt references, in an endless stream of memories and stories, which mainly expose the hypocrisy of the Chilean elite (including literati), even dictator Pinochet briefly appears on the scene. Absolutely relevant, this satire. This is he kind of book that certainly can blow you away, but to me its trance-like narrative style and the messy accumulation of story elements are a bit too excessive to really captivate. For once no rating.
August 13, 2012
In Bolaño's stream of consciousness narrative, he presents the deathbed confessions of Father Sebastián Urrutia Lacroix, a Jesuit in Chile who also wrote as a literary critic and a poet. Through a spellbinding combination of feverish memories and anecdotes, dreams and nightmares recalled, and desperate justifications of past actions and inaction, Father Sebastián leads the reader through an evocative and disturbing picture of life and art in Pinochet's Chile. I found the novel mesmerizing. In one long paragraph, Bolaño moves deftly through Father Sebastián's life, using the priest's fears about his own choices and actions as a means to point an accusing finger at the Chilean literati, at modern society in Europe and the Americas, at all of us.
April 19, 2019
This short novel is first and foremost a pleasure to read, due to its easy, flowing style; its consistently coherent and engaging stream of consciousness. Beneath the surface, it is about literature, decline, personal ambition and legacy, all bound in a meditation on the troubled history of Chile. The novel is a brief, bright explosion - of language, and of ideas - producing subtle resonances and a surprising, hidden complexity.
February 9, 2020
C’è tutto Bolaño nella notte di delirio di Sebastián Urrutia Lacroix - prete, critico letterario e membro dell'Opus Dei - condensato in 100 pagine: le progressioni illuminanti, le frasi brevissime alternate ai momenti dilatati, i polisìndeti e le ripetizioni ossessive, i personaggi reali inseriti in una storia di fantasia, le situazioni surreali, la violenza (qui solo sfiorata) e la sconfitta, le forme dinamiche che ingannano spazio e tempo.
Mette insieme Pablo Neruda, Ernst Jünger, un pittore guatemalteco che guarda tutto il tempo Parigi dalla sua mansarda, un calzolaio che vuole rendere omaggio agli eroi del suo popolo, i piccioni che cacano sulle chiese d’Europa, i preti falconieri, il regime cileno, Pinochet che studia il marxismo, le feste tra intellettuali con gli interrogatori e le torture nei seminterrati.
C'è soluzione a questo?
Splendido.
[80/100]
don Salvador, annuendo ancora una volta, senza capire ormai nient’altro che frasi isolate del discorso in francese che Jünger gli riversava addosso, intravide o pensò di intravedere una parte della verità, e in quella minima parte di verità il guatemalteco era a Parigi e la guerra era cominciata o stava per cominciare e il guatemalteco aveva ormai preso l’abitudine di passare lunghe ore morte (o agonizzanti) davanti alla sua unica finestra contemplando il panorama di Parigi, e da quella contemplazione era sorto il Paesaggio di Città del Messico un’ora prima dell’alba, dalla contemplazione insonne di Parigi da parte del guatemalteco, e il quadro a suo modo era un altare per i sacrifici umani, e il quadro a suo modo era un gesto di tedio sovrano, e il quadro a suo modo era l’accettazione di una sconfitta, non la sconfitta di Parigi né la sconfitta della cultura europea allegramente pronta a incenerire sé stessa né la sconfitta politica di certi ideali che il pittore vagamente condivideva, ma la sconfitta di sé stesso, un guatemalteco senza fama né fortuna, deciso però a farsi un nome nei cenacoli della Ville Lumière, e la lucidità con cui il guatemalteco accettava la sconfitta, una lucidità che sottintendeva cose al di là dell’aspetto puramente personale e aneddotico, fece sì che al nostro diplomatico si rizzassero i peli sul braccio o, come si suol dire, gli venisse la pelle d’oca.
Mette insieme Pablo Neruda, Ernst Jünger, un pittore guatemalteco che guarda tutto il tempo Parigi dalla sua mansarda, un calzolaio che vuole rendere omaggio agli eroi del suo popolo, i piccioni che cacano sulle chiese d’Europa, i preti falconieri, il regime cileno, Pinochet che studia il marxismo, le feste tra intellettuali con gli interrogatori e le torture nei seminterrati.
C'è soluzione a questo?
Splendido.
[80/100]
don Salvador, annuendo ancora una volta, senza capire ormai nient’altro che frasi isolate del discorso in francese che Jünger gli riversava addosso, intravide o pensò di intravedere una parte della verità, e in quella minima parte di verità il guatemalteco era a Parigi e la guerra era cominciata o stava per cominciare e il guatemalteco aveva ormai preso l’abitudine di passare lunghe ore morte (o agonizzanti) davanti alla sua unica finestra contemplando il panorama di Parigi, e da quella contemplazione era sorto il Paesaggio di Città del Messico un’ora prima dell’alba, dalla contemplazione insonne di Parigi da parte del guatemalteco, e il quadro a suo modo era un altare per i sacrifici umani, e il quadro a suo modo era un gesto di tedio sovrano, e il quadro a suo modo era l’accettazione di una sconfitta, non la sconfitta di Parigi né la sconfitta della cultura europea allegramente pronta a incenerire sé stessa né la sconfitta politica di certi ideali che il pittore vagamente condivideva, ma la sconfitta di sé stesso, un guatemalteco senza fama né fortuna, deciso però a farsi un nome nei cenacoli della Ville Lumière, e la lucidità con cui il guatemalteco accettava la sconfitta, una lucidità che sottintendeva cose al di là dell’aspetto puramente personale e aneddotico, fece sì che al nostro diplomatico si rizzassero i peli sul braccio o, come si suol dire, gli venisse la pelle d’oca.
April 23, 2020
"...with time, vigilance tends to relax, because all horrors are dulled by routine."
.
From BY NIGHT IN CHILE By Roberto Bolaño, translated from Spanish (Chile) by Chris Andrews, 2000 Spanish / 2003 English by @ndpublishing
The deathbed confession and memories of Catholic priest and literary critic, Sebastián Urrutia Lacroix - but also an indictment of the Church, the bourgeoisie, and the US government for their role in Augusto Pinochet's miltary junta in 1973.
Urrutia Lacroix, in his last moments of life, recalls his own actions/inactions that lead to the deaths of many, and years of authoritarian control in his country.
"...life is a succession of misunderstandings, leading us on to the final truth, the only truth."
Stylistically, Bolaño constructs the entire novel(la) in one long paragraph, weaving in and out of time, dialogues mixed with scenes. Those used to Bolaño's style won't be surprised - there was a single sentence in 2666 that continued over 4 pages, and some similar passages in The Savage Detectives, but it does take some training for the reader's eyes.
Heavy in metaphor, but realistic in style // A long interlude recalls Urraria Lacroix's travels around Europe to historical churches, and each parish priest he meets practices falconry. The raptor birds are described several times predating on pigeons/doves - the common birds. This metaphor of predator/prey was inherently political - foreshadowing the violent future for Chile, the Church's collusion, and subjugation/oppression of the common. There are reoccurring metaphors of a "wizened youth" - a young LaCroix who judges the old man - and reference to the Biblical figure of Judas, the Betrayer.
A stunning short work of historical fiction - fictional characters alongside real people, backdropped by true events.
As per usual, reading Bolaño sets ablaze this little fire inside to devote more time to poetry. Felt this same overwhelming urge after reading The Savage Detectives a few months ago (gosh, it was so good...) Dramatic, yes. But true for me, nonetheless.
Third Bolaño / enduring love.
.
From BY NIGHT IN CHILE By Roberto Bolaño, translated from Spanish (Chile) by Chris Andrews, 2000 Spanish / 2003 English by @ndpublishing
The deathbed confession and memories of Catholic priest and literary critic, Sebastián Urrutia Lacroix - but also an indictment of the Church, the bourgeoisie, and the US government for their role in Augusto Pinochet's miltary junta in 1973.
Urrutia Lacroix, in his last moments of life, recalls his own actions/inactions that lead to the deaths of many, and years of authoritarian control in his country.
"...life is a succession of misunderstandings, leading us on to the final truth, the only truth."
Stylistically, Bolaño constructs the entire novel(la) in one long paragraph, weaving in and out of time, dialogues mixed with scenes. Those used to Bolaño's style won't be surprised - there was a single sentence in 2666 that continued over 4 pages, and some similar passages in The Savage Detectives, but it does take some training for the reader's eyes.
Heavy in metaphor, but realistic in style // A long interlude recalls Urraria Lacroix's travels around Europe to historical churches, and each parish priest he meets practices falconry. The raptor birds are described several times predating on pigeons/doves - the common birds. This metaphor of predator/prey was inherently political - foreshadowing the violent future for Chile, the Church's collusion, and subjugation/oppression of the common. There are reoccurring metaphors of a "wizened youth" - a young LaCroix who judges the old man - and reference to the Biblical figure of Judas, the Betrayer.
A stunning short work of historical fiction - fictional characters alongside real people, backdropped by true events.
As per usual, reading Bolaño sets ablaze this little fire inside to devote more time to poetry. Felt this same overwhelming urge after reading The Savage Detectives a few months ago (gosh, it was so good...) Dramatic, yes. But true for me, nonetheless.
Third Bolaño / enduring love.
September 25, 2017
With confidence & style, Bolano continues his attempt at crystallizing the exploits of the literati in Latin America—here more specifically, in Chile. In very little (this is a novel composed solely of TWO paragraphs!) the stream of consciousness vacillates between various moods and anecdotes—it is indeed very similar to the transcendental musings of Auxilio Lacouture atop her fortress of the UNAM in “Amulet”, a novel that is far superior, w-a-a-a-y more magical, than this one.
At times the Chilean writer (through his main character) seems elitist, carelessly name-dropping and highlighting national events which just happened to cross his (the Jesuit priest’s) chic life at certain points (meetings with Pinochet, talks with Neruda). I am wary of Bolano’s ubermodern valentine to all the South American radical thinkers & innovators involved in the Arts (writing prose and poetry, above all). How come? Bragging rights are okay, in moderation, but that the entire book is a large, albeit disorganized and run-on rant asks way too much of the reader. It is fun to get lost in all this confusion… the nebulousness is always an attractive facet, so that is a plus. But here I felt I missed more than what was originally intended for the reader “to get.” It is too personal, it has too many hidden facts which are always (Intelligently? Dumbly?) locked away from our common knowledge. The reader is immediately marginalized. You feel left out; sadly, truly uninitiated to a world seen only through the teeniest of peep holes.
At times the Chilean writer (through his main character) seems elitist, carelessly name-dropping and highlighting national events which just happened to cross his (the Jesuit priest’s) chic life at certain points (meetings with Pinochet, talks with Neruda). I am wary of Bolano’s ubermodern valentine to all the South American radical thinkers & innovators involved in the Arts (writing prose and poetry, above all). How come? Bragging rights are okay, in moderation, but that the entire book is a large, albeit disorganized and run-on rant asks way too much of the reader. It is fun to get lost in all this confusion… the nebulousness is always an attractive facet, so that is a plus. But here I felt I missed more than what was originally intended for the reader “to get.” It is too personal, it has too many hidden facts which are always (Intelligently? Dumbly?) locked away from our common knowledge. The reader is immediately marginalized. You feel left out; sadly, truly uninitiated to a world seen only through the teeniest of peep holes.
July 3, 2016
Difícil para los que no son chilenos saber que los personajes de esta novela se inspiran en dos instituciones fácticas de la literatura chilena del S.XX: Ibañes Langlois (Urrutia Lacroix), sacerdote del Opus Dei y crítico literario sin contrapeso durante la dictadura; y Alone (Farewell), Hernán Díaz Arrieta, otro crítico conservador "irrefutable", antecesor del primero.
Asimismo lo narrado en la novela no es más que una ficción sobre hechos y personajes estrictamente reales. Hechos que constituyen la pagina más negra de la literatura chilena, escrita por siniestros funcionarios desde rincones a los que no llegaba la luz del sol, apenas la hiriente vibración de los fluorescentes: en una oficina de la redacción de cultura del diario El Mercurio, o en los talleres literarios que oficiaba Mariana Callejas en su casa, que era además un centro de tortura:
“...fueron varios los intelectuales y artistas que llegaron a la casa de Lo Curro en calidad de visitas. Uno de ellos fue Nicanor Parra, que llegó por intermedio de Lafourcade. Eran las fiestas del 18 de septiembre de 1976 y por alguna razón –“seguramente de curados”, el antipoeta se trenzó en una fuerte discusión con un pintor de apellido Cisternas”. (Mariana Callejas, citada en Wikipedia)
Que es lo común a la narrativa de Bolaño. Quizás, el universo espiritual de los personajes. Guardando las distancias entre un entrañable Ulises Lima y un despreciable Urrutia Lacroix, todos, poetas rabiosos, académicos, críticos presuntuosos, o escritores nazis, parecen buscar sin sosiego algo que supera la capacidad del lenguaje para expresarlo.
Asimismo lo narrado en la novela no es más que una ficción sobre hechos y personajes estrictamente reales. Hechos que constituyen la pagina más negra de la literatura chilena, escrita por siniestros funcionarios desde rincones a los que no llegaba la luz del sol, apenas la hiriente vibración de los fluorescentes: en una oficina de la redacción de cultura del diario El Mercurio, o en los talleres literarios que oficiaba Mariana Callejas en su casa, que era además un centro de tortura:
“...fueron varios los intelectuales y artistas que llegaron a la casa de Lo Curro en calidad de visitas. Uno de ellos fue Nicanor Parra, que llegó por intermedio de Lafourcade. Eran las fiestas del 18 de septiembre de 1976 y por alguna razón –“seguramente de curados”, el antipoeta se trenzó en una fuerte discusión con un pintor de apellido Cisternas”. (Mariana Callejas, citada en Wikipedia)
Que es lo común a la narrativa de Bolaño. Quizás, el universo espiritual de los personajes. Guardando las distancias entre un entrañable Ulises Lima y un despreciable Urrutia Lacroix, todos, poetas rabiosos, académicos, críticos presuntuosos, o escritores nazis, parecen buscar sin sosiego algo que supera la capacidad del lenguaje para expresarlo.
January 4, 2018
"Chile, Chile. ¿Cómo has podido cambiar tanto?, le decía a veces, asomado a mi ventana abierta, mirando el reverbero de Santiago en la lejanía. ¿Qué te han hecho? ¿Se han vuelto locos los chilenos? ¿Quién tiene la culpa? Y otras veces, mientras caminaba por los pasillos del colegio o por los pasillos del periódico le decía: ¿Hasta cuándo piensas seguir así, Chile? ¿Es que te vas a convertir en otra cosa? ¿En un monstruo que ya nadie reconocerá?"
En tan solo dos párrafos (uno regordete y de gran personalidad versus uno más desnutrido en extensión, pero efectivo), Bolaño construye magistralmente un relato que cuenta las reflexiones y recuerdos de un cura Opus Dei durante una noche de fiebre. Este recurre a la memoria para reconstruir su historia, cargada de frivolidad y silencios durante una época en la que ser callado y frívolo era, precisamente, un privilegio. La narración se torna rápidamente un viaje introspectivo que revisita los lugares de encuentro entre el cura y los círculos literarios de la época, mientras que, como telón de fondo, la dictadura militar en Chile se hace presente como un espacio latente, silencioso.
La reconstrucción biográfica del cura se siente mucho más real con la ficcionalización de figuras tan renombradas en Chile como Pablo Neruda o Pinochet, quienes no participan activamente del relato pero están ahí, igual de inmortalizados que en la realidad, para provocar un influjo de historicidad y veracidad al relato. Bolaño se toma la licencia de retratar a un Pinochet caricaturizado, quien se muestra como un letrado que ha leído Palomita blanca de Lafourcade y quiere aprender marxismo. Esta sensación de realidad se refuerza con el constante renombre del canon literario y el depósito académico que, siento, está muy bien representado con el personaje de Farewell.
Más allá de la pulcritud en la prosa de Bolaño y su genialidad como escritor, creo que lo más importante de este libro radica en el significado que carga el protagonista de la novela. Siento que está muy bien construido y representa la Historia (en mayúscula) de la dictadura, ese discurso oficial que por un lado calla a las víctimas y, por otro, se convierte en cómplice producto de su propio silencio. La genialidad de Bolaño está en encontrar una nueva forma de representar el horror, a través de la indiferencia y la frivolidad con que los organismos de poder (en este caso, el eclesiástico) esconden la vulnerabilidad de las víctimas y aparentan sentirse tranquilos con lo ocurrido. Nocturno de Chile muestra la panorámica de esa voz oficial que cree estar en paz consigo misma pero que, tan pronto cuando las luces se apagan, se desarma y diluye entre la fiebre y los escombros de la noche. Hay que leer más a Bolaño, sí o sí.
March 22, 2018
جميعنا يكوّن انطباعات عن الكتب قبل قرأتها، قد تكون انطباعات سيئة وأخرى جيدة؛ لكنها تظل انطباعات بلا سبب منطقي وتبقى القراءة هي الوسيلة الوحيدة للتأكد من صحة أحكامنا وانطباعتنا تلك أو خطأها
في كل مرة كانت "ليل تشيلي" تمرّ من أمامي كنت أشعر أنها ستكون تجربة جيدة؛ وعلى الرغم من أنها في فترة من الفترات كانت تظهر أمامي بشكل يلّح عليّ ويخبرني أن هيا قد حان وقت قرأتها، كنت أقوم بتأجيلها لا أعلم لمَ، هل كنت أدخرها لوقت كهذا أشعر فيه بفتور شديد تجاه قراءة الروايات؟ لا أدري، لكن صغر حجمها كان دافع ليّ هذه المرة لألتقطها وأقرر قرائتها.
وعلى الرغم من صغر حجمها، كنت أشعر في نقاط كثيرة بالتيه وأحيانًا بالملل، كانت من وقت لآخر تجذبني شاعرية اللغة فحتى على الرغم من أن الترجمة تنتقص كثيرًا من جماليات النص لكن في بعض الجمل يمكن أن تدرك بلا عناء كثير أن الكاتب هو شاعر قبل أن يكون روائي، وهو ما وجدته حقيقي بالفعل حين قرأت عن الكاتب بعد أن انهيت الرواية.
الرواية تحكي عن القديس الشاب سباستيان أوراتيا، المهتم بالشعر والأدب ولديه بعض الأصدقاء من الشعراء، يحكي أحاديثه مع صديقه الشاعر "فارويل" كلاهما يعشق نيرودا ويشعر بالحزن العميق على تشيلي، أحيانًا أخرى يحكي أوراتيا أحاديث مع "الشاب الهَرم" ذلك الشبح الذي اخترعه أوراتيا كي يكون صديقه في لحظات وحدته وهذيانه، يحكي أيضًا قصصًا من هنا وهناك، عن ذكرياته مع السلطة ومع أصحاب الصالونات الأدبية.
في بعض الأحيان كنت اندمج مع حكاياته وفي البعض الآخر كنت أشعر بالتيه، ولا أدري حقًا أهذا سببه ذلك الحظ السيء مع الكتب الذي يلازمني منذ نهاية العام الماضي أم هي فقط رواية لم تُكتب ليّ
لكنها في المحصلة لم تكن أبدًا كما توقعت.
تمّت.
في كل مرة كانت "ليل تشيلي" تمرّ من أمامي كنت أشعر أنها ستكون تجربة جيدة؛ وعلى الرغم من أنها في فترة من الفترات كانت تظهر أمامي بشكل يلّح عليّ ويخبرني أن هيا قد حان وقت قرأتها، كنت أقوم بتأجيلها لا أعلم لمَ، هل كنت أدخرها لوقت كهذا أشعر فيه بفتور شديد تجاه قراءة الروايات؟ لا أدري، لكن صغر حجمها كان دافع ليّ هذه المرة لألتقطها وأقرر قرائتها.
وعلى الرغم من صغر حجمها، كنت أشعر في نقاط كثيرة بالتيه وأحيانًا بالملل، كانت من وقت لآخر تجذبني شاعرية اللغة فحتى على الرغم من أن الترجمة تنتقص كثيرًا من جماليات النص لكن في بعض الجمل يمكن أن تدرك بلا عناء كثير أن الكاتب هو شاعر قبل أن يكون روائي، وهو ما وجدته حقيقي بالفعل حين قرأت عن الكاتب بعد أن انهيت الرواية.
الرواية تحكي عن القديس الشاب سباستيان أوراتيا، المهتم بالشعر والأدب ولديه بعض الأصدقاء من الشعراء، يحكي أحاديثه مع صديقه الشاعر "فارويل" كلاهما يعشق نيرودا ويشعر بالحزن العميق على تشيلي، أحيانًا أخرى يحكي أوراتيا أحاديث مع "الشاب الهَرم" ذلك الشبح الذي اخترعه أوراتيا كي يكون صديقه في لحظات وحدته وهذيانه، يحكي أيضًا قصصًا من هنا وهناك، عن ذكرياته مع السلطة ومع أصحاب الصالونات الأدبية.
في بعض الأحيان كنت اندمج مع حكاياته وفي البعض الآخر كنت أشعر بالتيه، ولا أدري حقًا أهذا سببه ذلك الحظ السيء مع الكتب الذي يلازمني منذ نهاية العام الماضي أم هي فقط رواية لم تُكتب ليّ
لكنها في المحصلة لم تكن أبدًا كما توقعت.
تمّت.
August 20, 2012
There are a pair of immediate observations concerning By Night in Chile. The first involvees its lyrical quality; this is more a cycle of poems than mere standard novella. Episodes unfold and the focus clips along back to the Narrator, who isn't as unreliable as I first guessed. The second acute sense from the book is one of dread. There are a number of darkened hallways, closed doors, and isolated hilltops in the book. One gathers gradually that it isn't sage to look around too closely.
Confining itself to the Gothic whsiper, By Night in Chile does echo in one trope. There's certainly depth and poetic violence; what I think seperates Bolano is the imaginary bibliography; that Borgesian codex of spectral works which exist in world just so close yet distant from our own dusty trevails.
Confining itself to the Gothic whsiper, By Night in Chile does echo in one trope. There's certainly depth and poetic violence; what I think seperates Bolano is the imaginary bibliography; that Borgesian codex of spectral works which exist in world just so close yet distant from our own dusty trevails.
January 11, 2025
bună cartea asta numai că mă întreb daca as zice acelasi lucru daca n-aș fi studenta la litere si probabil despre asta mă voi întreba și-n cronica de carte pe care o voi scrie pt practică
September 6, 2017
روبرتو بولانیو سال ۱۹۵۳ در سانتیاگوِ شیلی متولد شد و سال ۲۰۰۳ در پنجاه سالگی بر اثر نارسایی کبد در اسپانیا از دنیا رفت. پدرش راننده ی کامیون و مشت زن و مادرش معلم مدرسه بود. در نوجوانی مدرسه را ترک کرد، چون می خواست فقط کتاب بخواند، کتاب هایی که خیلی شان را از کتابفروشی ها می دزدید. او که در پانزده سالگی همراه خانواده اش شیلی را ترک کرد، در بیست سالگی، همزمان با کودتای پینوشه، به این کشور بازگشت. به گفته ی خودش در این سفر دستگیر شد و چند روزی در زندان ماند، و به طور اتفاقی توسط دو دوست قدیمی آزاد شد؛ که البته در واقعیتِ این روایت تردید است. پس از ترک شیلی باقی عمرش را در کشورهای مختلف زندگی کرد و برای درآوردن خرج زندگی به هر کاری، مثل نگهبانی و ظرف شستن، دست زد. او در اصل خودش را شاعر می دانست و زمانی که بچه دار شد، چون فکر کرد از راه نثرنویسی بهتر می تواند پول دربیاورد، شروع کرد به داستان نوشتن و فرستادن شان برای مسابقات و مجله ها. و هم این داستان ها او را تبدیل کرد به مهم ترین نویسنده ی نسل خودش در آمریکای لاتین، که جوایز متعددی را به خصوص بعد از مرگ نصیبش کرد، نویسنده ای که امروزه عده ای اهمیتش را نه فقط برای ادبیات امریکای لاتین، که حتا برای ادبیات جهان هم پای اهمیت کابریل گارسیا مارکز می دانند. این خود پار��دوکس عجیبی است برای بولانیوِ سرکشی که اغلب نویسندگان بسیار مشهوری چون مارکز و آلنده و پاز را به مسخره می گرفت و حتا گروهی تشکیل داده بود که جلسات شعرخوانی آن ها را به هم بریزد.
او بورخس را محبوب ترین نویسنده ی خود می داند و معتقد است نویسندهها دوجورند: آنهایی که فقط نویسندگان مقلد به وجود میآورند و آنها که راه را برای کاشفان و تجربیات تازه باز میکنند. خودش بورخس را در دستهی دوم قرار میدهد و البته باید خودش را هم در همین دستهی دوم قرار داد.
________
بولانیو در کتاب شبانهی شیلی در قالب کشیشی که به ادبیات علاقه دارد و با اسم مستعار به نقد آثار ادبی زمان میپردازد، از اوضاع نا به سامان کشور و جنگ میگوید. از نویسندگان بزرگ شیلیایی یاد میکند که دیگر هیچ کس به خاطرشان نمیآورد. از رئیسجمهورهای بیسواد شیلی یاد میکند که یکیشان هیچ نخوانده بود حتی انجیل را ( و از قضا یکی از موسسان حذب دموکرات مسیحی بوده!) و دیگری که فقط رمانهای عاشقانه میخوانده! کشیش از تجربیات حضورش در خانهای میگوید که میزبان محافل ادبی شبانه بود در حالی که در همان زمان در سرداب خانه از زندانیان بازجویی انجام میشده و گاهاً برخی کشته میشدند. در وصف زن میزبان، ماریا کانالس، در انتقاد به افراد روشنفکرنمای زمان مینویسد:
دوستدار هنر بود. دوست داشت همدم نقاشان، پرفورمنسآرت کاران و ویدئوآرت کاران شود، شاید چون سوادشان کمتر از نویسندگان بود یا او اینطور میدید. بعد قاتی نویسندهها شد و دید آنها هم چندان باسواد نیستند. کی میداند چقدر خیالش آسوده شد. آسودگیای خاص شیلیاییها. از ما مردمِ این کشور خدازده انگشتشماری واقعاٌ بافرهنگیم، بقیه از دم ابلهاند. حتی آدمهای خوشمشرب و دوستداشتنی.
بولانیو کشیش و شاعر شیلیاییای را روبه روی ما نشانده است که زیر بار تمام این آشوب ها روحیه ی خود را از دست داده و شعرهایی که می سروده، از کلاسیک و آپولویی دچار حس و حالی افسارگسیخته و دیونی سیایی می شود و دست به نوشتن مقاله های انتقادی می زند و از
عجز، ترس، اراده مضحک و کسالت بی حدواندازه ی مردم شیلیایی می نویسد که به گفته ی خودش انگار داشت در بیابانی داد می زد و تنها کسانی فریادها و گاه زوزه هایش را می شنیدند که معنای نوشته هایش را می فهمیدند و چنان کسانی زیاد نبودند.
بولانیو شیلی را در آن دوران به درخت ارغوان یا همان درخت یهودا تشبیه میکند. "درختی بی برگ و مردهگون که ریشه در اعماقِ خاکِ سیاه داشت، خاکِ سیاهِ غنیِ ما که کرمخاکیهای چهل سانتیمتریاش شهرتی دارند."
کشیش، شاعر و منتقد بزرگِ ما در سراسر داستان توهماتی از دیدن یک جوانک تکیده دارد. جوانک تکیدهای که به او میخندد، نزدیک میشود، نسبت به او ناباور است و درنهایت دور میشود و در سطرهای پایانی بولانیو به ما میگوید که جوانک تکیده خود او است، سباستیان ئورروتیا لاکروآ، کشیش، شاعر و منتقد بزرگ شیلیایی.
"از خودم میپرسم جوانک تکیده کجا است؟ چرا رفت؟ آرام آرام حقیقت به سانِ جسدِ مردهای پدیدار میشود. جسدِ مرده ای که از ته دریا یا کف مجرای آب بالا می آید. سایه اش را می بینم که بالا می آید. سایه اش سوسو می زند. سایه اش جوری بالا می آید که انگار از تپه ای بر سیاره ای فسیلی بالا می کشد. بعد در تاریک روشن بیماری ام چهره ی تندخو و لطیف اش را می بینم و از خودم می پرسم: من جوانک تکیده ام؟ ترسی شدید دامن گیرم می شود و میپرسم من همان جوانک تکیده ام که فریادهاش به گوش احدی نمی رسد؟ آن جوانک تکیدهی بدبخت منم؟ بعد چهره ها با سرعتی دورانی از برابر چشمهام میگذرد. چهرهی آنها که ستایششان کردهام، دوستشان داشتهام، ازشان بیزار بودهام، بهشان رشک بردهام و خوارشان شمردهام. چهرههایی که ازشان حمایت کردهام، بهشان حمله کردهام، خودم را در برابرشان مقاوم کردهام و بیهوده پیشان بودهام.
بعد توفانِ گُه آغاز میشود."
او بورخس را محبوب ترین نویسنده ی خود می داند و معتقد است نویسندهها دوجورند: آنهایی که فقط نویسندگان مقلد به وجود میآورند و آنها که راه را برای کاشفان و تجربیات تازه باز میکنند. خودش بورخس را در دستهی دوم قرار میدهد و البته باید خودش را هم در همین دستهی دوم قرار داد.
________
بولانیو در کتاب شبانهی شیلی در قالب کشیشی که به ادبیات علاقه دارد و با اسم مستعار به نقد آثار ادبی زمان میپردازد، از اوضاع نا به سامان کشور و جنگ میگوید. از نویسندگان بزرگ شیلیایی یاد میکند که دیگر هیچ کس به خاطرشان نمیآورد. از رئیسجمهورهای بیسواد شیلی یاد میکند که یکیشان هیچ نخوانده بود حتی انجیل را ( و از قضا یکی از موسسان حذب دموکرات مسیحی بوده!) و دیگری که فقط رمانهای عاشقانه میخوانده! کشیش از تجربیات حضورش در خانهای میگوید که میزبان محافل ادبی شبانه بود در حالی که در همان زمان در سرداب خانه از زندانیان بازجویی انجام میشده و گاهاً برخی کشته میشدند. در وصف زن میزبان، ماریا کانالس، در انتقاد به افراد روشنفکرنمای زمان مینویسد:
دوستدار هنر بود. دوست داشت همدم نقاشان، پرفورمنسآرت کاران و ویدئوآرت کاران شود، شاید چون سوادشان کمتر از نویسندگان بود یا او اینطور میدید. بعد قاتی نویسندهها شد و دید آنها هم چندان باسواد نیستند. کی میداند چقدر خیالش آسوده شد. آسودگیای خاص شیلیاییها. از ما مردمِ این کشور خدازده انگشتشماری واقعاٌ بافرهنگیم، بقیه از دم ابلهاند. حتی آدمهای خوشمشرب و دوستداشتنی.
بولانیو کشیش و شاعر شیلیاییای را روبه روی ما نشانده است که زیر بار تمام این آشوب ها روحیه ی خود را از دست داده و شعرهایی که می سروده، از کلاسیک و آپولویی دچار حس و حالی افسارگسیخته و دیونی سیایی می شود و دست به نوشتن مقاله های انتقادی می زند و از
عجز، ترس، اراده مضحک و کسالت بی حدواندازه ی مردم شیلیایی می نویسد که به گفته ی خودش انگار داشت در بیابانی داد می زد و تنها کسانی فریادها و گاه زوزه هایش را می شنیدند که معنای نوشته هایش را می فهمیدند و چنان کسانی زیاد نبودند.
بولانیو شیلی را در آن دوران به درخت ارغوان یا همان درخت یهودا تشبیه میکند. "درختی بی برگ و مردهگون که ریشه در اعماقِ خاکِ سیاه داشت، خاکِ سیاهِ غنیِ ما که کرمخاکیهای چهل سانتیمتریاش شهرتی دارند."
کشیش، شاعر و منتقد بزرگِ ما در سراسر داستان توهماتی از دیدن یک جوانک تکیده دارد. جوانک تکیدهای که به او میخندد، نزدیک میشود، نسبت به او ناباور است و درنهایت دور میشود و در سطرهای پایانی بولانیو به ما میگوید که جوانک تکیده خود او است، سباستیان ئورروتیا لاکروآ، کشیش، شاعر و منتقد بزرگ شیلیایی.
"از خودم میپرسم جوانک تکیده کجا است؟ چرا رفت؟ آرام آرام حقیقت به سانِ جسدِ مردهای پدیدار میشود. جسدِ مرده ای که از ته دریا یا کف مجرای آب بالا می آید. سایه اش را می بینم که بالا می آید. سایه اش سوسو می زند. سایه اش جوری بالا می آید که انگار از تپه ای بر سیاره ای فسیلی بالا می کشد. بعد در تاریک روشن بیماری ام چهره ی تندخو و لطیف اش را می بینم و از خودم می پرسم: من جوانک تکیده ام؟ ترسی شدید دامن گیرم می شود و میپرسم من همان جوانک تکیده ام که فریادهاش به گوش احدی نمی رسد؟ آن جوانک تکیدهی بدبخت منم؟ بعد چهره ها با سرعتی دورانی از برابر چشمهام میگذرد. چهرهی آنها که ستایششان کردهام، دوستشان داشتهام، ازشان بیزار بودهام، بهشان رشک بردهام و خوارشان شمردهام. چهرههایی که ازشان حمایت کردهام، بهشان حمله کردهام، خودم را در برابرشان مقاوم کردهام و بیهوده پیشان بودهام.
بعد توفانِ گُه آغاز میشود."
July 13, 2019
Nightmares.
Nightmares were Bolaño’s speciality. Not the kind people have when they’re asleep but the ones they experience in real life.
As someone who only wrote about nightmares, obviously, he’s not everybody’s cup of tea.
Politics, whores, religion, drugs, literature and freedom, there was nothing he couldn’t turn into a nightmare.
Unsettling and disturbing, ‘By Night in Chile’ was a pretty decent nightmare packed with the kind of imagery that refuses to leave your mind for a long long time.
This was a “simple” story. There’s this guy in his deathbed. He tell us about his life. His quest for freedom. His love for literature. What it means to be a real artist. The prices we all have to pay for our choices and dreams.
The writing is the focal point here. Not the plot or the characters, no. Or you’ll love it or you just won’t. It requires full attention. Stories within stories. Stories as little glimpses of History.
But don’t worry. Trust him. Let Bolaño guide you to your next favourite nightmare.
Nightmares were Bolaño’s speciality. Not the kind people have when they’re asleep but the ones they experience in real life.
As someone who only wrote about nightmares, obviously, he’s not everybody’s cup of tea.
Politics, whores, religion, drugs, literature and freedom, there was nothing he couldn’t turn into a nightmare.
Unsettling and disturbing, ‘By Night in Chile’ was a pretty decent nightmare packed with the kind of imagery that refuses to leave your mind for a long long time.
This was a “simple” story. There’s this guy in his deathbed. He tell us about his life. His quest for freedom. His love for literature. What it means to be a real artist. The prices we all have to pay for our choices and dreams.
The writing is the focal point here. Not the plot or the characters, no. Or you’ll love it or you just won’t. It requires full attention. Stories within stories. Stories as little glimpses of History.
But don’t worry. Trust him. Let Bolaño guide you to your next favourite nightmare.
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