segunda-feira, janeiro 03, 2011

a leitura lerda-lenta de 2666

faz quase um ano que estou tentando ler 2666, até agora já li conforme o kindle, 22 por cento do livro, ja pulei para varios livros e voltei a ele- já caminhei mais longe no suite française,

2666 está ficando como submundo do don dellilo, livro que sempre começo e nunca termino.

as mil e uma citações de outros autores, que nem sempre se sabe se são ou não autores, falta arcabouço literário para ler o livro...será, ou paciencia para chegar ao fim.

havera um fim- onde está o ponto de interrogação neste netbook

neste momento, me deparo com um texto do new yorker, do book bench, sobre a velocidade da leitura de 2666:

Posted by Ligaya Mishan
Welcome to National Reading “2666” Month. A confession: I started reading Roberto Bolaño’s “2666” on December 27th, out of fear that I wouldn’t be able to finish it in thirty-one days. I’m reading it almost entirely in the dark, clutching the hand of my six-month-old daughter, whose deeply idiosyncratic sleeping patterns require me to lie next to her while she naps. I squint at the words, translate shadows. It seems fitting.
My first impression: Borges, hovering, like a guardian angel. I’m curious. I want to know what happens next. But there are an awful lot of dream sequences. Didn’t Paul Bowles once say that there’s nothing so boring as other people’s dreams?
Thanks to all the readers who’ve written in to wish us luck in this venture. Matthew Reese assures us that the book won’t be as difficult as we think:
“2666” is fairly large and intimidating-looking, but it reads like a breeze (except the gruesome Book 4, but that has more to do with emotional fortitude, rather than stylistic difficulty). I’m a pretty slow reader and read it in about ten days.
Meanwhile, James Showalter, who as of last night was on page 881, raises a question that we will be struggling with for the rest of the month, and probably beyond:
Bolaño is a poet more than a novelist. He deals in open-ended images, one after another after another after another, their weight burying us in “2666” with dark meaning…well, some sort of dark meaning…yes, there has to be a meaning to all of this…there has to, but…what? I’ve read review after review of this novel that praise it to the heavens but haven’t yet found a critic who can say what this novel means. It’s as though Bolaño wanted people to labor over it, to praise it, to parse it, to cite it, to puzzle it, and for what end? So we can say we believe we know what it’s about?
Anyone care to take a stab at that?

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em outro post, há uma questão sobre o que um romance significaria, mais do que um enigma como parece ser o caso dos críticos, o romance para Bolaño estaria mais ligado ao prazer. O autor brinca com a sua própria imagem:

Meanwhile, James Showalter, who threw down the gauntlet in our previous post with the question “What does this novel mean?,” elaborates:
Bolaño is all too aware of himself, which makes parts of this novel very funny. I’ll let someone else call it ironic because, among other things, I think he was having fun with the reader who takes literature seriously, and not just writing a heavy tome full of semiotic clues. He jokes with us. He laughs at us.
Pages 119-123 (hardcover edition) are an example. The European critics have descended on Santa Teresa and meet with Professor Amalfitano. They wonder why Archimboldi would come to Mexico. Amalfitano launches into a long, rambling meditation on literature in Mexico and intellectuals and power. It is a speech that is full of images, the central one being a stage in front of a mine with “stage machinery” that “hides the real shape of the opening from the gaze of the audience” and “only the spectators who are closest to the stage, right up againt the orchestra pit, can see the shape of something behind the dense veil of camouflage, not the real shape, but at any rate it’s the shape of something.” Amalfitano’s speech continues with “roars coming from the opening of the mine and the intellectuals [who] keep misinterpreting them,” intellectuals whose “best words are borrowings that they hear spoken by the spectators in the front row.” He ends his thoughts with these words: “And so on until the end.” The European critics are confused and one tells Amalfitano that he doesn’t understand. Amalfitano replies: “Really I’ve just been talking nonsense.”
How true. And so much of 2666 seems to be just that, nonsense that we invest with our own beliefs. And so on until the end.
And then there’s the refreshingly hardboiled attitude of Josh Lagle:
It’s a damn fine mystery (all kinds of mysteries, really), just don’t go in expecting answers.

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