20 Years

It's been 20 years.

20 years

since Belano died,

20 years since he stopped working

on 2666, 

ignoring the advice

of his doctors
knowing it would get in his way,

that his feverish devotion

to this story

meant he had to obsess over it

the minor variations

that strummed among the words

that rattled inside him,

the way his stories always did

how they clouded his thoughts

and yet revealed themselves

so perfectly

in his stories

and never so well

as within the pages

of 2666.

20 years

and at the time

I didn't even know

he existed,

had never read anything by him,

and wouldn't for another six years?

Only six years?  Is that right?

Even in the ballpark,

even if a year or two more,

so close,

so close

to the living lifetime

to know this man was still alive,

still capable of understanding

what he had accomplished

from a deserved acclaim

and not the absurd backlash

that was to follow

in the jealous words

of those who were never going to understand him

much less appreciate him,

expecting their pet and petty favorites

were more relevant

than one of the best writers

humanity has ever produced.

20 years gone,

and sure,

20 years later

a lot has been published posthumously,

and there's yet prospects for more,

and some of us

still relish the thought

that there's more yet

we haven't read,

that will somehow

still be new.

For a writer like Belano,

who belonged to posterity

even when he was writing himself

away from it,

subsuming his life into

the last great manuscript of his life,

20 years is a small drop in the bucket.

But it is still a tragedy.

The Chilean

Because he became
a citizen of the world
it can almost

sometimes

be easy to forget,

although certainly

not if you'd been Belano,

that he was Chilean.

In the last years of his life
I was in college,

before I'd ever heard of him,

and I became immersed
in the poetry that suffused
certain elements of campus,

and in that process

I took a class

that explored new poetry,

and welcomed visiting poets,

one of which
was Chilean.

To this day

I will always define

the experiences of those days

by the results of that poet's visit

to the classroom one day.

This was in the aftermath of 9/11,

you understand,

the immediate days and years

in its wake.

You will often hear

college campuses 

explained as bastions

of liberal thought,

which was certainly true

in my experience too,

although maybe that's not really it

and it's really that so many students

come from different backgrounds

where they have not yet experienced

or learned or considered

wider ideas

than was in their home life

and don't know how to process

whether to embrace wholesale

or whatever the alternative,

what they learn

outside the classroom.

At any rate,

in this classroom

that day,

my classmates responded in horror

that a Chilean would compare

Chilean tragedy

in the form of a general in white

and the country he held in his gloved grip

to the American tragedy

of 9/11.

Later, 

I would have no problem

comprehending Belano's perspective,

since it defined him,
and why he traveled the world

in response,

and yet at the time
I found myself baffled
that the professor made no counterargument
that I alone understood
how little this classroom

understood the world
around it.

What else could possibly be the point?

And then there's Melville

Somewhat earlier than all of these
would be Melville,
a kind of patron saint for this tradition,
who wrote of the strange collaborations

amongst mankind

on the unforgiving scourges

of the sea,

reaching his impossible crescendo,

impossible since it broke his reputation,

his career, his ambition

but not his merit or future potential,

in the tale of Moby-Dick,

a Belano since the tragedy
of confinement at sea
omits everything
not aboard the Pequod,
which is to say,

as a later writer did,

Ahab's wife,

a Larrson since the result
was so unrelenting,

a Hemingway since this was a man

who understood the toil of the race,

the unrelenting hostility

one cannot simply redeem

on a whim

in order to solve

but rather face

with courage or otherwise,

one's terrible fate,
which brings us back
to Belano,

who sacrificed his future
in order to ensure it.

As these things go.

The Vagaries of Hemingway

If Belano and Larrson

wrote of the violence

inflicted by men

upon women,

then on the surface

it would be absurd

to conjure Hemingway

who was and has become

a problematic

embodiment 

of the masculine

into this conversation,

and yet if you lift the veil,

was not Hemingway

as concerned

as Belano or Larrson

in the mysterious distance

between a man and a woman?

These are writers 

vital

to our understanding

of the world.

They explore
in their mysterious ways

what it means to be a man

and what it means to be

a woman

and how these worlds

collapse amongst each other

and sometimes

come together

and not always

in tragedy.

That all three died

without a clear understanding

of their true place in the world

would be the tragedy,

and yet in their wake

we are more able to celebrate

the best we have to offer
for all our sorry experiences.

The Parallels in Larrson

When I think about it
the parallels with Stieg Larrson

are striking.

Think about it:
both Belano and Larrson
died before their masterworks
were published,
Belano with 2666,

Larrson before the Millennium Trilogy.

And when you really think about it,

Lisbeth Salander
would be that missing piece
of 2666,

although of course
her presence
would utterly change it,
the way her continuing story
changes each succeeding chapter

within hers.

These were writers ahead of their time
then and, alas,
now.

The Parts of 2666, Part 8

The only thing missing
as far as I'm concerned,
the only thing
Belano could really have included
had he time to finish 2666 himself,
would have been
a story
from the perspective
of a missing girl,
not the crime
but the tragedy,
the heart of the story,
really,
and as these days go
probably what would have been
the key to having the book celebrated

as it should be.

As it is, though,
the hole in things
is sometimes
necessary.

Which is also to say,
I never considered
2666 remotely incomplete.

The Parts of 2666, Part 7

How you read a book
is sometimes
as important
as the book itself.

For instance,
the version of
2666

that I bought
for myself
was the book
split into
three volumes,
which helped me
to digest
its five sections,
to feel undaunted
by the challenge.

Later,
when I devoured
all Belano's short books,
it was in hindsight
only natural
to break it down
to smaller sizes.

This is how I would recommend it
to everyone,
although if you're one
to be impressed 
with bulk,
you can purchase it that way, too.

2666 is,

after all,
the gift that keeps on giving.

The Parts of 2666, Part 6

Belano left
2666 incomplete.

Today I still have no clue
what this means,
if like The Canterbury Tales

he literally didn't finish writing it;
but to my mind
it's perfect as it is;
or if he somehow had
further layers of this onion
to wring tears from,
which would be fascinating
to see peeled.

Perhaps someday
we'll know more
but I am content
with what we were given
from what he gave us
as is.

The Parts of 2666, Part 5

As with most Belano stories,
the final part
revolves around a Nazi,
and for Belano,
this is the part
that of course explains everything,
and it's maliciously cyclical,
and all the parts connect,
an ouroboros,
like the world around it,
some dark reflection
set somewhere in the mythical future,
which is to say, the ever-present today,
forever wallowing
in original sin.

The Parts of 2666, Part 4

The fourth part
is the most difficult read,
a coldly clinical
listing
of all the terrible murders,
the heart of the story,
the part that matters,
the part that is most reflected,
sadly,
in the real world,
the part that was a crisis
nobody cared about,
although sometimes I wonder
if anyone really cares
about any of them
or simply reaps the benefit
of pretending...

The Parts of 2666, Part 3

The third part
is elusive
in the sense
that if you're 
a bad reader
you will think
it's about a journalist
who is in Mexico
to write about boxing,
but it's really about
the state of journalism,
how it's too easy
for journalists
to be led astray,
which is to say
cultural observers,
book critics, say,
who can't understand
what's really important,
political commentators,
persons on social media,
perhaps,
too busy chasing their own tails,
like that movie
in that decade
with all the movies about American presidents,
Wag the Dog,
something we have certainly
not learned at all,
not in twenty years,
not in a hundred,
all the while promising ourselves
to never, ever repeat
the mistakes of the past,
even while obsessing
over reporting
the minutiae of the present
as if it matters
as if we have finally found

some perspective.

Anyway, Belano's journalist
is smarter,
which is to say,
Belano is;
that's why Belano
is so important
to our times,
and why he was a prophet,

same as they ever were.

The Parts of 2666, Part 2

The second part
was where a lot of critics
lost the plot,
since Belano plotted
the book in
seemingly unrelated sections,
although of course
the second part makes complete sense

once you've read all of them;

This is the part where the missing girls
begin to mean something
and the book means nothing
unless you care about the missing girls;

I daresay you're not much of a reader
unless you understand that
or much of a human being,
for that matter.

The Parts of 2666, Part 1

2666 opens with the part about the critics,
who find themselves
in an obsessive quest 
to find all the books extant

from their favorite writer.

I confess,
in the early going,
when I decided to do the same
with Belano
it was with a certain sense
of irony
that I knew I was doing the same.

But eventually it was because

I loved Belano.

So I guess the circle
became complete.

Ravage & Monte Cristo & Belano

I just read a book
called Ravage & Son
and before that
The Count of Monte Cristo
and Ravage & Son
had me thinking
Count of Monte Cristo
even before
Ravage & Son
referenced
Count of Monte Cristo,
but even before that,
Count of Monte Cristo,
being the first time I read it,
had me thinking
Salman Rushdie, Umberto Eco,
in terms of immersive world literature,
but also Belano,
always Belano,
who was the writer 
who best explored the world,
in terms I could understand,
felt as if I had done so already

even when I read him for the first time.

So while it's true that
Ravage & Son
had me thinking
Count of Monte Cristo,
even while I read
Count of Monte Cristo

I was realizing
all over again,
how Belano
right from the start,
felt like classic literature,
and that's really
how I fell in love with him.

Books About Belano

Yesterday
I ordered
my first book

about Belano.

I've had 
a bunch of those
on a wishlist
for years
but never got around
to buying one
until now.

Belano became
my favorite writer
upon the instant
of reading him
for the first time,
and I started buying
all his books
as I found them.

I don't have any author
better represented
in my collection,
and yet
aside from online articles
(far too many 
far too comfortable
asserting this obsession
with Belano
is undeserved)
I guess

I was reluctant
to read about him
in a book
rather than read
Belano himself.

It puts him further
into history
and he was already
snuggly there
when I found him.

Which is to say
in a few weeks

I will have one,
and I will have read it,
and another threshold
will have been crossed.

Alas.

Nazis in the Clouds

A recurring theme
of his books,
and indeed a recurring story
in his books,
is the lingering elusive presence
of Nazis in the Americas,
not the imagined bogymen
of political fantasies
but actual real Nazis
who fled to the Americas
to start over in anonymity
and because that was possible
and because he didn't let them
slip into the amnesia of history,
it's a reminder of what we want to forget,
to ignore,
to pretend was never a reality
before during and after the war,
that it was possible to be a Nazi
and a part of the mainstream
without anyone worrying
what they were up to,
the gross habits of ogres
as they exist
in the real world,
in the Americas
and elsewhere,
performing their daredevil aerial stunts
both literal and metaphorical,
while poets observe
from a distance,
and ensure they are never
forgotten,
much less
forgiven.

All the Short Books

Selfishly,
Belano vindicates me
as a writer
since I have written,
recently,
a lot of short works,
and the fact that he did too
validates the form,
at least for me,
and that's a reason to love him too.

Still Can't Believe, Part 2

Belano considered himself a poet.

Belano considered himself a poet,

and yet

while I'm glad he did

because that version of him

wrote everything he did

which was all the prose

I love so much,

while considering himself a poet,

which produced the attitude,

which produced the vantage point,

which produced the savage detectives

which produced the reputation,

which produced the platform,

which produced the masterpiece,

which produced the version of me

which fell in love with him.

So I think it worked out nicely,

which produces a version of me
which produces a periodic urge

to read his poetry.

But I still consider him

on the basis of his prose.

Still Can't Believe, Part 1

Still can't believe

he's dead,

and was dead

before I ever read him,

although since I considered him

a classic novelist

from the moment I read him,

I suppose

it's only fitting.

Still,

I still can't believe

that he's dead.

Although

many people complain,

now,

somehow,

how many books

a dead author

has released

in the years

since his death.

They complain,

but I certainly never will

no matter how many more
there might be

or when it ends.

As morbid as this might sound

I would be happy 

if I died

before this happens.

That would be funny.

It really would.

The Savage Poet

I address him
as he presented himself,
as the savage poet,
the savage detective,
as Robert Belano,
but of course
he went by another name
as he blazed his trails
through literary history,

and I wish I were him,
as deranged as that sounds,
I wish I were him,
however complicated
and cut short
that savage life of his
proved to be, 

I wish I were him

if only to know

what it was like

to be him,

to be the savage

to howl at the world

to disrupt the mediocrities

of the world

to thumb my nose

and put out my thumb

to the world around me,

to see the world around me

is something other than prose,

than pictures,
to live a life half as impression

as the trail he blazed

so fearlessly,

at least in the words
he left behind.