For a long time, I have believed that a truly great novel is one which contains a sliver of divinity, something which makes me want to believe in the power and glory of God. As an atheist, that feels like a sufficiently high bar, and the books that have passed it - say The Brothers Karamazov, East of Eden, One Hundred Years of Solitude - feel well within the bounds of the canonical greats. 2666 disproves this, as 2666 is clearly a great novel.

2666 also has the dubious distinction of being maybe the best book which I don’t know that I am capable of recommending. It is a grueling read. I’m not sure about the ethics of The Part About the Crimes - it feels questionable, writing so many murders and rapes, reading so many murders and rapes. I had to make the decision a number of times to proceed against the wind there, and I don’t really see myself revisiting it. And yet - 2666 is a book of immense power, of visceral realism that is I think maybe unmatched. Bolaño does fascinating things with fragmentation, coming together, resolving and yet leaving unresolved, not telling a story and not writing of characters so much as writing of a destination, a place where people come…to die? To unravel?

Good writing is often described as musical, with harmonies and crescendos and trills. The writing in 2666 is percussive in nature, rhythmic, relentless.

The Savage Detectives left me a bit unsure about Bolaño. I thought it was good, but missing something or evading something. I’m still not sure if I missed something, but with the context of 2666 I think I understand better the project there and the flow there, and perhaps that is one I need to revisit. Perhaps this is a book you should visit, let it get under your skin and consume and consume.