And so here we are.
What on earth does someone say? Which, I think, is the point.
How does one discuss the graphic, horrible depiction of these awful, essentially true things? How does one take a literary approach to the stark, matter-of-fact description of a series of rapes and murders? The Part About the Critics is rendered absurd, and we are rendered null as critics rights along with them.
What can one possibly say? As reader? As critic? As novelist?
I also feel like Bolaño is basically daring us to enjoy the sections of this part NOT about the crimes. He dares us to want to escape into the spare romance between the policeman and the asylum director. He taunts us for our interest in the lurid (but presumable wholly fictional) depredations of the Penitent. He mocks our interest in Lalo Cura's foiling of the assassination attempt, with its follow-up plotline that veers dangerously close to implicating Cura in Crime-like activities himself. The Crimes continue, steadily persisting, in the background of this and all other Parts. "You want to turn away," he says, "but these other things are feints and distractions from what you know you should be seeing."
And what we are seeing is awful. Just like we knew it would be. And what, finally, is there to say?
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