Today, having read much of Bolaño's fiction and having seen the powerful stage adaptation of 2666 at Teatre Lliure with my good friend and literary critic Jaime Morales, I would definitely not wander in the grim back alleys searching for local color but stick to the well-lighted main artery leading south.Īn indication of Bolaño's global sweep is that Ken Weeks, a.k.a. They are at the painful center of Bolaño's last novel. Flanking the highway tall pink crosses rise from the stony desert floor, testimony to the unsolved murders of over 400 women of all ages. It's across the border from El Paso, and as I drove through it with my family to Chihuahua in late fall of 2006 we looked straight ahead. His oceanic posthumous novel 2666 will be out in English this year, 1200 pages of a dangerous and tragic symphonic movement whose crescendo takes place in Santa Teresa, the fictional counterpart of Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. Since then, his ten novels and four short-story collections have been or are being fervently translated in a spectrum of languages. Roberto Bolaño has exploded on the literary horizon worldwide since his early death at 50 of liver failure in Barcelona five years ago.
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