...and literature was a vast minefield occupied by enemies,

Ännu en Short Story ur The New Yorker under förmiddagen. Meeting with Enrique Lihn. Och återigen funderar jag över Bolaños särskildhet. Hur han placerar händelsen precis mellan, precis, det fantastiska och det ordinära. Självklart, säger berättarrösten, som traditionsenligt heter Roberto Bolaño, visste han att Lihn var död. Kanske tänkte han att de som erbjudit honom att träffa Lihn skojade, eller så hade han missförstått, förmodligen tänkte han bara inte, eller så hade han missförstått själva inbjudan. Oavsett, får vi veta, så är hela episoden inbakad i en dröm, drömd 1999, just hemkommen från Venezuela.
Tanken slår mig att man borde använda Bolaoñs texter i undervisning om den latinamerikanska litteraturhistorien; namnen, incidenterna, parallellerna, och simultant, den hårda vägen, lära ut saker om fiktivitet, opålitliga berättare, faction, meta-teori et cetera. Här finns grundstoff till det mesta.
Och samtidigt, dessa obeskrivliga oupphörligen öppnande bilder:

"And just as I thought of black humor Lihn extracted a little bottle of pills from his pocket. I have to take one every three hours, he said. The enthusiasts fell silent once again. A waiter brought a glass of water. The pill was big. That’s what I thought when I saw it fall into the glass of water. But in fact it wasn’t big. It was dense. Lihn began to break it up with a spoon, and I realized that the pill looked like an onion with countless layers. I leaned forward and peered into the glass. For a moment I was quite sure that it was an infinite pill. The curved glass had a magnifying effect, like a lens: inside, the pale-pink pill was disintegrating as if giving birth to a galaxy or the universe. But galaxies are born or die (I forget which) suddenly, and what I could see through the curved side of that glass was unfolding in slow motion, each incomprehensible stage, every retraction and shudder drawn out as I watched. Then, feeling exhausted, I sat back, and my gaze, detached from the medicine, rose to meet Lihn’s, which seemed to be saying, No comment, it’s bad enough having to swallow this concoction every three hours, don’t go looking for symbolic meanings—the water, the onion, the slow march of the stars. The enthusiasts had moved away from our table. Some were at the bar. I couldn’t see the others. But when I looked at Lihn again there was an enthusiast with him, whispering something in his ear before leaving the booth to find his friends, who were scattered around the room. And at that moment I knew that Lihn knew he was dead. My heart’s given up on me, he said. It doesn’t exist anymore. Something’s not right here, I thought. Lihn died of cancer, not a heart attack. An enormous heaviness was coming over me."

När jag läser Bolaño drabbas jag av upprymdhet. Som att jag smittas av en frihet (för ordet lekfullhet är inte bra nog). Han lyckas behålla ett tempo, en svävande lätthet, den tyngande pretantiösa gåtgullheten till trots. När det kunde varit sökt är det flytande. Istället för tätt, lockande.