Roberto Bolaño’s work has exploded onto the English-speaking book scene in recent years, in particular thanks to the adulatory response to his monstrous last novel, 2666. Despite being naturally sceptical of such uniformly rave reviews, on reading it, I was forced to agree. Suddenly all of his novels are in print in English and headlining in the Staff Picks section of high-street bookshops.
I suspect that Nazi Literature in the Americas, which was published in Spanish in 1996, is something of an acquired taste. If you’re a fan of Borges, or meta-fiction, you’ll love it. If not, well I don’t know.
In it, Bolaño chronicles an entirely fictional group of writers who share little except their geographical origin and their politics. Bolaño, a Chilean, was emphatically anti-Pinochet, so the ‘Nazi’ epithet is deliberately inflammatory.
As he does in 2666 with work and career of the elusive Benno von Archiboldi, Bolaño invents a dazzling array of authors, styles and titles, almost to the point of showing off how inventive he can be. If you were a novelist with writer’s block, you’d probably be sent into a homicidal rage at the ease with which Bolaño invents things and then casts them aside.
Nazi Literature in the Americas is pure play. Without exception, the writers he invents are monstrous, deluded, self-regarding nothings. Just like the Nazis, in other words. It’s highly entertaining, witty and beautifully written. Bolaño is my new favourite author.
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