Showing posts with label roberto bolano. Show all posts
Showing posts with label roberto bolano. Show all posts

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

2666: Fears of a Fiction Writer


"Ivanov's fear was of a literary nature. That is, it was the fear that afflicts most citizens who, one fine (or dark) day, choose to make the practice of writing, and especially the practice of fiction writing, an integral part of their lives. Fear of being no good. Also fear of being overlooked. But above all, fear of being no good. Fear that one's efforts and striving will come to nothing. Fear of the step that leaves no trace. Fear of the forces of chance and nature that wipe away shallow prints. Fear of dining alone and unnoticed. Fear of going unrecognized. Fear of failure and making a spectacle of oneself. But above all, fear of being no good. Fear of forever dwelling in the hell of bad writers."~ Roberto Bolano

I like that he suggests that the day (or that one, shocking, Romantic moment) when a person decides she will be a writer and nothing more can be "fine" or "dark." Now you recognize your own identity but now that you recognize it, fate ties you inextricably to it. And that idea of darkness, I think, Bolano connects with the fear he so aptly describes. Because ultimately who can measure the goodness or badness of writing? What makes one writer better than the next? What makes one writer worse than all the rest? When a serious writer acts as his own judge, how can he accurately and fairly judge himself without severely hating or fiendishly loving everything that he writes? A writer is an egomaniac by nature, and I think Bolano is saying that too because there is a great anxiety about going "unnoticed." We want recognition and validation for our life paths we have chosen (or that have chosen us.) But the writers that inhabit Bolano's world don't just want to be famous writers of the Stephenie Meyer variety. They want to be famous and loved for their greatness and talent and genius, say, like Roberto Bolano himself. Don't we all.

Friday, July 3, 2009

The Romantic Dogs

by Roberto BolaƱo, translated by Laura Healy

Back then, I'd reached the age of twenty
and I was crazy.
I'd lost a country
but won a dream.
As long as I had that dream
nothing else mattered.
Not working, not praying
not studying in the morning light
alongside the romantic dogs.
And the dream lived in the void of my spirit.
A wooden bedroom,
cloaked in half-light,
deep in the lungs of the tropics.
And sometimes I'd retreat inside myself
and visit the dream: a statue eternalized
in liquid thoughts,
a white worm writhing
in love.
A runaway love.
A dream within another dream.
And the nightmare telling me: you will grow up.
You'll leave behind the images of pain and of the the labyrinth
and you'll forget.
But back then, growing up would have been a crime.
I'm here, I said, with the romantic dogs
and here I'm going to stay.