"I found two books, one a classic, like a smooth stone, the other modern, timeless, like shit".
An apparently previously unpublished Bolaño story (or previously unpublished in English) is in the New Yorker this month. Either a dream or a fictionalised dream (if that distinction holds), it's classic short Bolaño - a litany of Chilean poets you've never heard of (and who may not even exist), the fractured logic of exile and the onward march of the dead, terrifying and beautiful all at once. (Thanks, once again to Las Obras... for the link...)
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