Roberto Bolano Read online

  RB: My fight with the jury and the organizers of the prize was due basically to their expectation that I blindly endorse, from Blanes, their choice without having participated. Their methods, transmitted to me by phone by a Chavista pseudo-poet, too closely resembled the deterrent arguments of the Casa de las Américas (Cuba). It seemed to me that eliminating Daniel Sada or Jorge Volpi in the first round was an enormous mistake, for example. They said what I wanted was to travel with my wife and kids—something that was completely false. I suppose that from my indignation over this lie, a letter surfaced in which I called them neo-Stalinists, among other things. In fact, I was informed that they intended, from the beginning, to reward another author, who wasn’t Vila-Matas, whose novel seemed to me to be so good, and who without a doubt was one of my candidates.

  A well known Mexican writer, Daniel Sada (b. 1953) is the author of Porque parece mentira, la verdad nunca se sabe (1999), a hybrid work of epic poetry and novel. His short story “The Ominous Phenomenon” appeared in the English-language collection Best of Contemporary Mexican Fiction (2009).

  A Mexican author who helped start the break from magical realism, Jorge Volpi (b. 1968) is best known for his novels and essays. His major work is In Search of Klingsor (1999).

  A Mexican novelist who enjoys commercial success, Ángeles Mastretta (b. 1949) is best known for her strong female characters and social commentaries. To Bolaño she represented something of the old guard of Latin American literature. Her major works are available in English.

  MM: Why don’t you have air-conditioning in your studio?

  RB: Because my motto is “Et in Esparta ego,” not “Et in Arcadia ego.”

  MM: Don’t you think that had you gotten drunk with Isabel Allende and Ángeles Mastretta, someone else might be your double in terms of your books?

  RB: I don’t believe so, first of all, because those women avoid drinking with someone like me. Secondly, because I no longer drink. Thirdly, because not even in my worst drunkenness have I ever lost the minimum lucidity, a sense of prosody and rhythm, or a certain rejection in the presence of plagiarism, mediocrity and silence.

  MM: What is the difference between a writer and an author?

  RB: Silvina Ocampo is one example of an author. Marcela Serrano is one example of a writer. You can measure light-years between one and the other.

  MM: What makes you believe you’re a better poet than narrator?

  RB: The degree to which I blush when, by mere chance, I open one of my poetry or prose books. The poetry books make me less embarrassed.

  MM: Are you Chilean, Spanish, or Mexican?

  RB: I am Latin American.

  MM: What is your motherland?

  RB: I regret having to give a pretentious response. My children, Lautaro and Alexandra, are my only motherland. And perhaps, in the background, certain moments, certain streets, certain faces or scenes or books that are inside me and that some day I will forget—that is the best one can do for a motherland.

  MM: What is Chilean literature?

  RB: Likely the nightmares of the most resentful and gray poet, and perhaps the most cowardly of all Chilean poets: Carlos Pezoa Véliz, dead at the beginning of the 20th century and author of only two memorable poems, but truly memorable indeed, who continues to suffer and dream of us. It’s possible—isn’t it?—that Pezoa Véliz is agonizing and has yet to die, and that his final minute has been rather long, and that we might all be inside of him. Or at least that all we Chileans are inside of him.

  Chilean poet Carlos Pezoa Véliz (1879–1908) embodies the melancholy at the core of Chilean and Latin American poetry. His style was clear and simple and, to Bolaño, appeared to be a direct representation of the Chilean people.

  MM: Why do you always take the opposite view of things?

  RB: I never take the opposite view of things.

  MM: Do you have more friends than enemies?

  RB: I have a sufficient amount of friends and enemies, all gratuitous.

  MM: Who are your dearest friends?

  RB: My best friend was the poet Mario Santiago, who died in 1998. At present, three of my best friends are Ignacio Echevarría, Rodrigo Fresán and A.G. Porta.

  MM: Did Antonio Skármeta ever invite you on his program?

  RB: One of his secretaries, perhaps his maid, called me on the phone once. I told her I was too busy.

  MM: Did Javier Cercas share the royalties for Soldiers of Salamis with you?

  RB: No, of course not.

  Spanish journalist and literary critic Ignacio Echevarría was a close friend of Bolaño’s and became Bolaño’s literary executor. He is currently a staff writer for El País in Madrid.

  Another friend of Bolaño’s, Rodrigo Fresán (b. 1963) is an Argentine fiction writer. His work Gardens of Kensington, 2006, was translated by Natasha Wimmer.

  A prolific Spanish author, A.G. Porta was a close friend of Bolaño’s. His debut, and most popular work, is Consejos de un discípulo de Morrison a un fanático de Joyce seguido de Diario de Bar, 1984, which was co-authored by Bolaño. None of his work is available in English.

  A Chilean author, screenwriter, and director, Antonio Skármeta (b. 1940) has had his major works translated to English. The program to which Maristain is referring is a television program focusing on Spanish-language literature that was hosted by Skármeta.

  A Spanish author, Javier Cercas (b. 1962) enjoys relative success in the English speaking world. His novels The Soldiers of Salamis, 2004, and The Speed of Light, 2007, are both available in English. One of the main characters in The Soldiers of Salamis is named “Roberto Bolaño.”

  MM: Enrique Lihn, Jorge Teillier or Nicanor Parra?

  RB: Nicanor Parra above all, including Pablo Neruda and Vicente Huidobro and Gabriela Mistral.

  MM: Eugenio Montale, T.S. Eliot, or Xavier Villaurrutia?

  RB: Montale. If it had been James Joyce instead of Eliot, then Joyce. If it had been Ezra Pound instead of Eliot, then Pound without a doubt.

  MM: John Lennon, Lady Di, or Elvis Presley?

  RB: The Pogues. Or Suicide. Or Bob Dylan. Well, but let’s not be pretentious: Elvis forever. Elvis and his golden voice, with a sheriff’s badge, driving a Mustang and stuffing himself full of pills.

  MM: Who reads more, you or Rodrigo Fresán?

  RB: Depends. The West is for Rodrigo. The East is for me. Then we’ll count the books in our corresponding areas and it might appear that we’ve read them all.

  MM: In your opinion, what is Pablo Neruda’s greatest poem?

  Chilean born poet, playwright, and novelist Enrique Lihn (1929–1988) is the subject of a Bolaño short story, “Meeting with Enrique Lihn.” Lihn’s major works are available in English.

  An important Chilean poet, Jorge Teillier (1935–1996) has had two collections of selected works translated into English, In Order to Talk with the Dead, 1993, and From the Country of Nevermore, 1990.

  A major Chilean poet, Vicente Huidobro (1893–1948) was one of Bolaño’s favorites. He was prolific, and selections of his work have been translated into English, including Altazor, his major work.

  A Chilean poet, Gabriela Mistral (1889–1957) was the first Latin American to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Her major works Desolación (1922), Ternura (1924), and Tala (1938) have been translated into English.

  Eugenio Montale (1886–1981) was a Nobel Prize-winning Italian poet and translator.

  Mexican poet, playwright, essayist, and critic Xavier Villaurrutia (1903–1950) was a significant Mexican literary figure. He is most widely appreciated for his work in the theatre, but his complete works, including poems, plays, and a novel have been translated into English.

  RB: Almost any in Residence on Earth.

  MM: If you had known Gabriela Mistral, what would you have told her?

  RB: Forgive me, ma, I’ve been bad, but I turned good for the love of a woman.

  MM: And to Salvador Allende?

  RB: Little or nothing. Those who have power�
��even for a short time—know nothing about literature; they are solely interested in power. I can be a clown to my readers, if I damn well please, but never to the powerful. It sounds a bit melodramatic. It sounds like the statement of an honest whore. But in short, that’s how it is.

  MM: And to Vicente Huidobro?

  RB: Huidobro bores me a little. He’s excessively happy-go-lucky, too much like a descending skydiver belting songs from the Tyrol. Skydivers who descend while engulfed in flames are better, or those who fall flat, like the ones whose parachutes never open.

  MM: Does Octavio Paz continue to be the enemy?

  RB: For me, certainly not. I don’t know what the poets who wrote like clones of his during that era, while I was living in Mexico, must think. It’s been a long time since I’ve known anything about Mexican poetry. I reread José Juan Tablada and Ramón López Velarde; I can even recite “Sor Juana” divided in three, but I know nothing of what those who, like me, are nearing fifty years old write.

  MM: Wouldn’t you give that role to Carlos Fuentes today?

  RB: It’s been a long while since I’ve read anything by Carlos Fuentes.

  MM: What do you make of the fact that Arturo Pérez-Reverte is the most widely read author in the Spanish language?

  RB: Pérez-Reverte or Isabel Allende. It strikes me the same. Feuillet was the most widely read French author of his time.

  MM: And of the fact that Arturo Pérez-Reverte has been admitted to the Royal Spanish Academy?

  RB: The Royal Spanish Academy is a cave full of privileged craniums. Juan Marsé is not a member, Juan Goytisolo is not a member, Eduardo Mendoza and Javier Marías are not members, Olvido García Valdes is not a member. I don’t remember if Álvaro Pombo is a member (if he is, it’s likely due to a misunderstanding), but Pérez-Reverte is a member. Besides, Coelho is a member of the Brazilian Academy of Letters.

  One of Europe’s best-selling authors, Arturo Pérez-Reverte (b. 1951) is a Spanish novelist and former war correspondent. He is known for “Alatriste,” a collection of novels based on the life and times of a seventeenth century Spanish soldier. The first four books in the series are available in English.

  Octave Feuillet (1821–1890) was a French novelist and dramatist.

  Juan Marsé (b. 1933) is an award-winning Spanish novelist, journalist, and screenwriter. His translated works include Lizard Tails, 2004, and Shanghai Nights, 2007.

  Novelist, poet, and essayist, Juan Goytisolo (b. 1931) is one of the foremost modern Spanish authors.

  One of contemporary Spain’s most important writers, Eduardo Mendoza (b. 1943) has enjoyed mainstream success since the publication of his first novel The Truth About the Savolta Case, 1992.

  Spanish poet, essayist, translator, and professor Olvido García Valdés (b. 1950) is one of the preeminent figures in Spanish intellectual life.

  Spanish poet and novelist Álvaro Pombo (b. 1939) was awarded the 2006 Premio Planeta for his novel La fortuna de Matilda Turpin. His novels The Hero of the Big House, 1988, and The Resemblance, 1989, are available in English.

  Chilean novelist, Diamela Eltit (b. 1949) is a former cultural attaché at the Chilean embassy in Mexico. Several of her novels are available in English, including Custody of the Eyes, 2005.

  MM: Do you regret having criticized the menu served by Diamela Eltit?

  RB: I never criticized her menu. If anything, I would have criticized her sense of humor, that of a vegetarian, or better still, her sense of humor on a diet.

  MM: Does it hurt that she considers you a bad person since the story of that spoiled dinner came out?

  RB: No, poor thing. Diamela doesn’t hurt me. Other things hurt me.

  MM: Have you shed one tear about the widespread criticism you’ve drawn from your enemies?

  RB: Lots and lots. Every time I read that someone has spoken badly of me I begin to cry, I drag myself across the floor, I scratch myself, I stop writing indefinitely, I lose my appetite, I smoke less, I engage in sport, I go for walks on the edge of the sea, which by the way is less than 30 meters from my house, and I ask the seagulls, whose ancestors ate the fish who ate Ulysses: Why me? Why? I’ve done you no harm.

  MM: With regard to your work, whose opinion do you value most?

  RB: My books are read by Carolina [wife], then [Jorge] Herralde [editor of Anagrama], and then I endeavor to forget them forever.

  MM: What things did you buy with the prize money from the Rómulo Gallegos award?

  RB: Not much, a suitcase as far as I can remember.

  MM: During the time when you lived on literary competitions, was there a prize you couldn’t claim?

  RB: None. Spanish city halls, in this respect, are decent and beyond reproach.

  MM: Were you a good waiter, or a better costume jewelry vendor?

  RB: I have best redeemed myself as the night watchman of a campsite near Barcelona. Nobody ever stole while I was there. I stopped some fights that could have ended badly, and I prevented a lynching—although on second thought, I should have lynched or strangled the guy myself.

  MM: Have you experienced fierce hunger, bone-chilling cold, breathtaking heat?

  RB: As Vittorio Gassman says in a film, “Modestly, yes.”

  An Italian film and stage actor, Vittorio Gassman (1922–2000) appeared in dozens of movies and theatrical productions.

  MM: Have you stolen a book you later didn’t like?

  RB: Never. The good thing about stealing books—unlike safes—is that one can carefully examine their contents before perpetrating the crime.

  MM: Have you ever walked in the middle of the desert?

  RB: Yes, and one of those times on the arm of my grandmother. The elderly woman was tireless, and I didn’t think we would make it.

  MM: Have you seen colorful fish underwater?

  RB: Of course. Without going further than Acapulco, in 1974 or 1975.

  MM: Have you ever burned your skin with a cigarette?

  RB: Never voluntarily.

  MM: Have you ever carved the name of your beloved in the trunk of a tree?

  RB: I have committed greater abuses, but let’s draw the veil at that.

  MM: Have you seen the most beautiful woman in the world?

  RB: Yes, sometime around 1984 when I worked at a store. The store was empty and in came a Hindu woman. She looked like a princess and well could have been one. She bought some hanging costume jewelry from me. I was at the point of fainting. She had copper skin, long red hair, and the rest of her was perfect. A timeless beauty. When I had to charge her, I felt embarrassed. As if saying she understood and not to worry, she smiled at me. Then she disappeared and I have never again seen anyone like her. Sometimes I get the impression that she was the goddess Kali, the patron saint of thieves and goldsmiths, except Kali was also the goddess of murderers, and this Hindu woman was not only the most beautiful woman on earth, but she seemed also to be a good person—very sweet and considerate.

  MM: Do you like dogs or cats?

  RB: Female dogs, but I don’t have any more pets.

  MM: What do you remember of your childhood?

  RB: Everything. I don’t have one bad memory.

  MM: Did you collect figurines?

  RB: Yes, of soccer players and Hollywood actors and actresses.

  MM: Did you have a scooter?

  RB: My parents made the mistake of giving me a pair of roller skates when we lived in Valparaiso, a city made up of hills. The result was disastrous. Every time I put the skates on it was as if I was trying to commit suicide.

  MM: What is your favorite soccer team?

  RB: None right now. The ones who fall to second tier, then third consecutively, then regional until they’ve disappeared. The phantom teams.

  MM: Which historical character would you have liked to resemble?

  RB: Sherlock Holmes. Captain Nemo. Julien Sorel, our father. Prince Mishkin, our uncle. Alicia, our professor. And Houdini, who is a mix between Alicia, Sorel and Mishkin.

  MM:
Did you fall in love with older neighbors when you were young?

  RB: Of course.

  MM: Did the girls in your school pay any attention to you?

  RB: I don’t think so. At least I was convinced they did not.

  MM: What do you owe the women in your life?

  RB: Ever so much. A sense of defiance and high risk. For the sake of decency, I’ll keep quiet about the other things.

  MM: Do they owe you anything?

  RB: Nothing.

  MM: Have you suffered much for love?

  RB: Very much the first time, then I learned to take things with a bit more humor.

  MM: And what about hate?

  RB: Even if I sound somewhat pretentious, I’ve never hated anyone. At least I’m certain I am incapable of sustained hatred. And if the hatred is not sustained, it’s not hatred, is it?

  MM: How did you win the affection of your wife?

  RB: Cooking rice for her. I was very poor at that time and my diet basically consisted of rice, so I learned to cook it in many different ways.

  MM: Describe the day you became a father for the first time.

  RB: It was night, a little before midnight. I was alone, and because you couldn’t smoke in the hospital, I smoked a cigarette virtually perched on the cornice of the fourth floor. No one saw me from the street, only the moon, as Amado Nervo would have said. When I came back in, a nurse told me my son had just been born. He was very big, almost all bald, with open eyes as if asking himself who the devil had him in his arms.