at long last. the late roberto bolaño envisaged himself a poet above all else. despite being accomplished as both a novelist and short story writer, bolaño only ever took to fiction following the birth of his son lautaro - and only then to secure the financial well-being of his family. as a founding member of the infrarrealismo movement (or "visceral realists" as they appear in the savage detectives) in the mid-1970s, bolaño and his friends (dada/surrealism enthusiasts that they were) set about agitating the mexican poetic establishment, often disrupting readings and rebelling against traditional literary convention (with octavio paz as a favorite target). though the erstwhile infrarealists did not endure, their contrarian and iconoclastic ethos persisted onward throughout so much of bolaño's writing (see also distant star, 2666, and any number of short stories and poems). the vagabond poet, the obscure poet, the forgotten poet, the missing poet, the enigmatic poet, the criminal poet - all figure prominently within the realm of bolaño's fictional universe. beyond mere archetype or aspiration alone, the poet is an ideal of dissidence, the heretical devotee, or perhaps even the libidinous visionary. "poetry is braver than anyone." indeed.my literary careerrejections from anagrama, grijalbo, planeta, certainlyalso from alfaguara, mondadori. a no from muchnik,seix barral, destino... all the publishers... all the readersall the sales managers...under the bridge, while it rains, a golden opportunityto take a look at myself:like a snake in the north pole, but writing.writing poetry in the land of idiots.writing with my son on my knee.writing until night fallswith the thunder of a thousand demons.the demons who will carry me to hell,but writing.the unknown university (la universidad desconocida) is a bilingual edition that collects nearly all of the poetry bolaño composed, spanning the years between 1978 and 1994. in 1993, ten years before he succumbed to liver failure (despite apparently being near the top of a transplant recipient list), bolaño "set about organizing and classifying his poetry." different versions and typewritten manuscripts were found in abundance amongst his archives after his passing (a more detailed explanation of the unknown university's origins may be found in an afterword of sorts, "brief history of the book," penned by carolina lópez, bolaño's widow - as well as in an accompanying and untitled series of notes from the author himself).it's better to learn how to read than to learn how to dieliteracy ismuch betterand more importantthan the arduous studyof deathshe will be with you all your lifeand will even dole outhappinessand a certain misfortune or twolearning to dieon the other handlearning to lookthe grim reaper in the facewill only serve you a short whilethe brief momentof truth and disgustand then never againepilogue and moral: dying is more important than reading, but it doesn't last as long. you could argue that living is dying every day. or that reading is learning to die, obliquely. in conclusion, and as with so many things, the example continues to be stevenson. reading is learning to die, but also learning to be happy, to be brave.divided into three parts, the unknown university collects more than three hundred of bolaño's poems and is further apportioned into 16 sections that correspond with his original handwritten notebooks (bolaño wrote all of his poetry by hand). for those familiar with bolaño's fiction, similar themes abound throughout his poetry, including sex, death, police, detectives, age, time, courage, crime, corruption, mexico, spain, the dilapidated and disregarded, forgotten and obscure writers, old friends, lighthouses, knives, and hunchbacks (to name but some of the more recurrent motifs). for those who have immersed themselves more fully within bolaño's oeuvre, it will be easy to recognize portions of the unknown university from his previously published works. nearly all of the poems contained within the romantic dogs, for example, are contained herein, but are situated within their original assemblages. two of the three pieces that comprise tres, "prose from autumn in gerona" and "the neochileans," also reappear in this collection. the 56 short chapters that make up antwerp (written while in his late 20's and considered by ignacio echevarría, bolaño's literary executor, as the "big bang" of his friend's fictional universe) are included under the title "people walking away" with but the slightest variations from the version that was originally published in 2002.victoria ávalos and iunited in almost everything but mostlyin the pain in the silence of lostlives which pain efficiently replacesin the tides flowing toward ourloyal hearts toward our disloyal eyestoward the wild parties we throw that no oneunderstands much like the two of us don't understandthe slaughters that surround us tenaciousin the division and multiplication of painas if the cities we inhabit werean endless hospital ward(victoria ávalos was the name of bolaño's mother)throughout the unknown university, the reader will find reference to many a real life individual, be they arcane poets, fellow writers, family members, or former friends. mexican poet efraín huerta, horror/fantasy writer fritz leiber, former girlfriend edna lieberman (whom also appears in different incarnations within the savage detectives, antwerp, and 2666), argentine writer macedonio fernández, spanish novelist antoni garcía (a.g.) porta (with whom bolaño co-wrote his first published work, consejos de un discípulo de morrison a un fanático de joyce (advice from a morrison disciple to a joyce fanatic), and the author of the recently translated, soon-to-be-published (april 2013), and apparently remarkable 2006 novel, no world concerto), infrarealist poet bruno montané (and alleged inspiration for the savage detectives's felipe müller), spanish poet and nobel laureate juan ramón jiménez, mario santiago (infrarealist poet, friend, and the basis for ulises lima's character in the savage detectives), and bolaño's own son, lautaro, amongst others, all appear within these poems. characters from other works also show up, including gaspar heredia, poet/camp watchman from the skating rink, hunchbacks aplenty (antwerp), and, of course, the late poet/novelist himself.roberto bolaño's devotiontoward the end of 1992 he was very sickand had separated from his wife.that was the goddamn truth:he was alone and fuckedand he tended to think there was little time left.but dreams, oblivious to sickness,showed up every nightwith a loyalty that came to surprise him.dreams took him to that magical countryhe and no one else called mexico cityand lisa and the voice of mario santiagoreading a poemand so many other good things worthyof the most ardent praise.sick and alone, he would dreamand confront the days that passed inexorablytoward the end of another year.and from it he gathered a bit of strength and courage.mexico, the phosphorescent steps in the night,the music playing on cornerswhere in the past whores would freeze(in the icy heart of colonia guerrero)and would dole him out the sustenance neededto clench his teethand not cry in fear.it seems unlikely that bolaño's poetry will ever garner the acclaim that his novels and short stories have so deservedly attracted. while much of the dark, foreboding, obsessive, and dimly-lit fringes that so characterize his fiction are ubiquitous in his poetry, the (perceived) challenges of poetry in general are likely too many for some (and perhaps, sadly, irredeemably so). like all great artists that work across more than a single medium, however, bolaño's fiction and poetry complement, augment, and interplay with one another. one cannot rightly claim to have read bolaño if they've spurned or dismissed what for the author himself was the truest and most natural form of his writing. had bolaño not fallen so gravely ill, perhaps he never would have turned to fiction at all - but instead remained one of the vagabond poets of esoterica that he wrote so admiringly about. it was, of course, his fiction that allowed him to ascend to the heights of literary eminence, but he likely would not have ever scaled even the least formidable of peaks if not for his poetry and poetic sensibilities as essential foundation.resurrectionpoetry slips into dreamslike a diver in a lake.poetry, braver than anyone,slips in and sinkslike leadthrough a lake infinite as loch nessor tragic and turbid as lake balatón.consider it from below:a diverinnocent covered in feathersof will.poetry slips into dreamslike a diver who's deadin the eyes of godas epic and voluminous in its own way as the savage detectives and 2666, the unknown university is also as indispensable to understanding the bolaño mystique. were this collection the entirety of his literary output, it still would, in its own right, be a most notable achievement. the shared, recurrent imagery, the autobiographical infusions, and the permeable sense of inevitable dread ever-lingering just off-scene make the unknown university as characteristic and indicative a work as any of his others. with only a few unpublished or untranslated pieces remaining (the aforementioned work he coauthored with porta, a novella (una novelita lumpen), a posthumously-unearthed manuscript for a novel (diorama), and an apparent sixth part of 2666), it appears as though the reserve of bolaño's prodigious output has been quite nearly exhausted. it seems fitting then that the coda to a feverish decade of published translations (some nineteen books in total) should conclude with what bolaño himself may well have considered his most accomplished effort. the unknown university is deserving of as exalted a place in the bolaño canon as either of his two masterworks, and, with the others, should solidify his stature as a veritable titan of literature well into perpetuity.museshe was more beautiful than the sunand i wasn't even 16 years old.24 have passedand she's still at my side.sometimes i see her walkingover the mountains: she's the guardian angelof our prayers.she's the dream that recurswith the promise and the whistle.the whistle that call us and loses us.in her eyes i see the facesof all my lost loves.oh, muse, protect me, i say to her,on the terrible daysof the ceaseless adventure.never pull away from me.take care of my steps and the stepsof my son lautaro.let me feel your fingertipsonce more over my spine,pushing me, when everything is dark,when everything is lost.let me hear the whistle again.i am your faithful loverthough sometimes dreamingpulls me away from you.you're also the queen of those dreams.you have my friendship every dayand somedayyour friendship will draw me out ofthe wasteland of forgetfulness.so even if you comewhen i godeep down we're inseparable friends.muse, wherever imight goyou go.i saw you in the hospitalsand in the lineof political prisonersi saw you in the terrible eyesof edna liebermanand in the alleysof the gunmen.and you always protected me!in defeat and in triumph.in unhealthy relationshipsand in cruelty,you were always with me.and even if the years passand the roberto bolaño of la alamedaand the librería de cristalis transformed,is paralyzed,becomes older and stupideryou'll stay just as beautiful.more than the sunand the stars.muse, wherever youmight goi go.i follow your radiant trailacross the long night.not caring about yearsof sickness.not caring about the painor the effort i must maketo follow you.because with you i can crossthe great desolate spacesand i'll always find the doorleading backto the chimera,because you're with me,muse,more beautiful than the sun,more beautifulthan the stars.*translated from the spanish by laura healy (the romantic dogs & tres)
“Mi carrera literariaRechazos de Anagrama, Grijalbo, Planeta, con toda seguridad también de Alfaguara, Mondadori. Un no de Muchnik, Seix Barral, Destino… Todas las editoriales…Todos los lectores…Todos los gerentes de ventas…Bajo el puente, mientras llueve, una oportunidad de oropara verme a mí mismo:Como una culebra en el Polo Norte, pero escribiendo.Escribiendo poesía en el país de los imbéciles.Escribiendo con mi hijo en las rodillas.Escribiendo hasta que cae la nocheCon un estruendo de mil demonios.Los demonios que han de llevarme al infierno,Pero escribiendo”Compré La Universidad Desconocida después de haber quedado fascinada por la exposición que sobre Roberto Bolaño organizó el Centro de Cultura Contemporánea de Barcelona del 5 de marzo al 30 de junio de este año. Este poema inédito con el que Carolina López, la que fuera esposa de Bolaño y madre de sus hijos, introduce el libro representa para mí la esencia de Bolaño: pura pasión por escribir pese a todas las adversidades.Si antes de acercarme a la exposición tan sólo conocía al Bolaño narrador de 2666, Estrella distante o el Tercer Reich, después de la exposición y de haber leído La Universidad Desconocida , Roberto Bolaño aparece ante mí como EL ESCRITOR (en mayúsculas, sí) y ello por dos razones principalmente.La primera por su inmensa capacidad imaginativa y la forma tan magnífica que tiene de crear ambientes, dibujar personajes, y engancharte al relato sin que te des cuenta (aunque él se viera a sí mismo poeta considerando la prosa siempre como un género menor.) Pero ¿cómo llega a tal dominio del lenguaje? Dos factores son fundamentales: talento, sensibilidad, necesidad según Rilke, duende para Lorca, por una parte, y muchísimo trabajo, por otra. Hay escritores que se centran en su mundo interior y desmenuzándolo llegan a comprender un poco más el entorno que les rodea y, otros, en cambio, como es el caso de Bolaño, a los que cualquier situación, por insulsa que parezca, les impulsa a escribir, de tal forma que todo puede servirles como objeto susceptible de ser convertido en obra de arte. Amo eso. Pero en la exposición también se pone de manifiesto que el arquetipo de artista romántico no existe puesto que junto a esa necesidad o impulso deben sumarse horas y horas de esfuerzo y trabajo. Así, en la exposición se podían observar los cuadernos de Bolaño con multitud de anotaciones cuidadosamente ordenadas, esquemas de los espacios que después aparecen en sus novelas, recortes de periódico referidos a sucesos que eventualmente podrían llegar a ser utilizados en alguno de sus libros. Me sorprendió, y mucho, un manuscrito que había expuesto en el que el escritor describía la pintura románica que representaba un nacimiento que aparecía en una caja de cerillas, que de acuerdo con la información que él mismo daba en el texto, había escrito mientras trabajaba de vigilante nocturno en un camping de la costa catalana. Me parece alucinante imaginar a Bolaño encendiéndose un cigarrillo en medio de la noche, y entreteniéndose describiendo la imagen de la caja de cerillas. Escribir por encima de todo, lo que sea, donde sea.La segunda razón por la que lo admiro es por su coherencia vital, por su absoluta libertad y por su autenticidad. Para mí es Bolaño el ejemplo claro de lo que significa ser libre, pero no sólo mediante la palabra sino a través de la acción por varios motivos. El primero por vivir al máximo, pues puede deducirse que durante su juventud debió vivir un sinfín de experiencias en Chile y posteriormente en el D.F, que le marcaron profundamente y que después plasmará sobre el papel (principalmente en su novela Los detectives salvajes, que tengo pendiente); el segundo por priorizar durante toda su vida el hecho de escribir sin importarle lo más mínimo la opinión de les demás, por lo que se dedica a trabajar de cualquier cosa que le permita mantenerse sin más, circunstancia que por otra parte le recompensa con poder disfrutar de plena libertad para poder decir exactamente lo que quiere decir sin tener que someterse a los editores o a los gustos del mercado, lo que le permite, a su vez, ser muy crítico pero también tener que pagar el precio de sentirse solo y rechazado por no acceder a venderse; y el tercero, por la preocupación mostrada por el bienestar futuro de sus hijos cuando supo que estaba gravemente enfermo, escribiendo hasta el final su novela 2666 que finalmente no pudo acabar y dejando instrucciones concretas de cómo quería que se fuera publicando para asegurar que los beneficios económicos que se generaran cubrieran los gastos de los niños.Yendo al contenido del poemario citaré como ejemplo de texto crítico el siguiente:La Poesía LatinoamericanaAlgo horrible, caballeros. La vacuidad y el espanto.Paisaje de hormigas.En el vacío. Pero en el fondo, útiles.Leamos y contemplemos su diario discurrir:Allí están los poetas de México y Argentina, de Perú y Colombia, de Chile, BrasilY BoliviaEmpeñados en sus parcelas de poderEn pie de guerra (permanentemente), dispuestos a defenderSus castillos de la acometida de la NadaO de los jóvenes. Dispuestos a pactar, a ignorar,A ejercer la violencia (verbal), a hacer desaparecerDe las antologías los elementos subversivos:Algunos viejos cucú.Una actividad que es fiel reflejo de nuestro continente.Pobres y débiles, son nuestros poetasQuienes mejor escenifican esa contingencia.Pobres y débiles, ni europeosNi norteamericanos,Patéticamente orgullosos y patéticamente cultos(Aunque más nos valdría aprender matemáticas o mecánica,¡Más nos valdría arar y sembrar! ¡Más nos valdríaHacer de putos y putas!)Pavos rellenos de pedos dispuestos a hablar de la muerte En cualquier universidad, en cualquier barra de bar.Así somos, vanidosos y lamentables,Como América Latina, estrictamente jerárquicos, todosEn fila, todos con nuestras obras completasY un curso de inglés o francés Haciendo cola en las puertasDe lo Desconocido:Un Premio o una patadaEn nuestro culo de cemento.Epílogo: Y uno y dos y tres, mi corazón al revés, y cuatro y cinco y seis, está roto, ya lo veis, y siete y ocho y nueve, llueve, llueve, llueve…Otro poema que me ha encantado ha sido el que sigue:Lola PaniaguaContra ti he intentado irme alejarmeLa clausura requería velocidadPero finalmente eras tú la que abría la puerta.Estabas en cualquier cosa que pudieraCaminar llorar caerse al pozoY desde la claridad me preguntabas por mi saludEstoy mal Lola casi no sueño.También este:Tu lejano corazónNo me siento seguroEn ninguna parte.La aventura no termina.Tus ojos brillan en todos los rincones.No me siento seguro En las palabrasNi en el dineroNi en los espejos.La aventura no termina jamás Y tus ojos me buscan.Y podría añadir aquí cualquier fragmento de Prosa del otoño en Gerona. Un ejemplo: “La pasión es geometría. Rombos, cilindros, ángulos latidores. La pasión es geometría que cae al abismo, observada desde el fondo del abismo.”Esto no es finalmente una reseña de la Universidad Desconocida, es mi tributo personal a Roberto Bolaño porque lo merece. Lo seguiré leyendo sin duda alguna.
What do You think about The Unknown University (2013)?
I really have to separate this volume into two sections: the bulk of the book are Balaño's umpublished poems, the other half are "poems" in very loose sense; they resemble more of a prose designation. The first part I would give anywhere between 2-3 stars. Balaño's poetry is heavily influenced by Beat poetry, which often works to detriment. There are fragments of brilliance, but most often he reproduces their tropes way too much. The section which deserves the most attention is the middle section that resembles Balaño's prose. This section deserves 4 stars easily. What this collection highlights is how poetry influences Balaño's prose. Having the two side-by-side is quite informing. I cannot view Balaño as a poet. That being said, this volume represents an interesting literary experiment. Whatever the deficiencies may be, and there are ones to be found, it rises well above Mexico City Blues.
—James
This a collection of Bolaño's poetry from the early eighties up to the late nineties. One of the books in this, The Romantic Dogs, is coming out in English soon if its not out already. You should buy it. He was really into Parra and Efrain Huerta and Gilberto Owen and Vallejo. It's not stuff that's going to appeal, I don't think, to most American poets. At least, if some American was writing poems as simple, linguistically, as a lot of these are people would probably laugh, but it isn't about that so much as the mood he can make inside a poem and they way he can stack images up and juxtapose them to whatever the desired effect is. There's a poem in this book where he meets Ernesto Cardenal in a dream and is asking him who will get into Communist heaven and Cardenal assures him that everyone will. It's sad and beautiful and ugly, as are his novels.
—Brandon
Gave this collection a pretty good going over. Often with collections rating/reviewing can be a difficult proposition: I loved several of the poems in here, failed to connect with many more, and probably missed many as I skipped around. So, I'll simply say that I definitely prefer Bolaño's prose -- a preference that is probably informed by my being limited to English translations. That said, I even preferred the prose poems in this collection to much of the verse. I also appreciated that this is a bilingual edition, so I could at least get a stronger sense of the original word order and sound of Bolaño's writing.
—Seamus Thompson
