2666 is a novel which has a nucleus of evil. This is not an easy review to write, and it will not be an easy one to read.
It ostensibly starts with a group of lustful critics in their luxurious ivory towers seeking the mysterious author of the books which they study, traveling to Santa Teresa, the fictional city from which the evil emanates.
Then the book transitions to the point of view of a man going through a psychological break in Santa Teresa.
Then it transitions to a black reporter covering a boxing match in Santa Teresa, and getting mixed up with the wrong crowd.
Then it transitions to a grotesque list of murders and rapes amongst other police procedural, but one only really remembers the unending list of murders and rapes. It felt unending, overpowering, and ultimately numbing… much like this summary.
Finally, it transitions to the true story of the mysterious author before finally concluding with our author going to Santa Teresa, seemingly tying the whole book together in a tidy knot.
But it’s a realistically frustrating book to read, with no answers given. There is no fairy tale ending, and many points are never resolved. One can probably do some calculation, and find that 95 percent of all the named characters either die from assault, murder, war or even a crucifixion. This is no mystery noir; more a social critique on the banality of evil, the cruelty of evil and the reaches of evil.
Outside of this theme, there’s a factor coming in from reality: Bolaño, the author of 2666, was on his deathbed by the time the book was ready. I can’t help but wonder what compels a person to write such a book? A nine hundred page monolith spanning half a century in time over three continents, and a myriad of subthemes.
I don’t know if it’s a legitimate feeling arising from the writing, but I felt hurried to finish the book near the last two hundred pages, almost as if I can feel Bolaño’s need to complete the last pages before his end. An urgency which still took its time on the pages, with digressions telling us about Soviet science fiction, the Holocaust and the progress of literature. Characters would pop up and take however long they needed to make their mark.
Bolaño had free rein at the end, allowing himself to expatiate upon anything and everything at length and he took it, knowing that they’re the last words he’ll ever publish. And they’re words which I read with great pleasure. It does all end in a wistfulness which I hope to emulate near my respective end.
I wholeheartedly recommend this book, but the reader’s mental state should be strong.