It occurs to me (sitting in Metropolis Coffee on the far north side of Chicago) that Bolaño’s 2666 is like a swatch of felt: lots of fibers pressed together, the center essentially singular and dense, but the edges spidery and frayed though still connected to the whole.
But is this the right metaphor? We often talk of a shorter narratives being woven together to create a larger work, and that verb implies more forethought and design than felting, but it also implies much more interconnectivity what with the woof wrapping itself around the warp.
Bolaño’s book is designed, and it contains moments or places of interconnectivity where it seems to bend back and touch itself, but it also leaves the reader with the idea that said touching could be a phantom sensation. Its fibers are pressed next to each other and may even sometimes twist around one another, but they are not woven.
I have read three fifths of 2666. If I change my mind about its feltedness, I’ll let you know.
(Originally typed up with my phone, but, when that wouldn’t work, later copied to and edited on a regular computer.)
