I’m reading Bolaño’s The Savage Detectives right now. I read his Nazi Literature in the Americas back in May and I liked it enough—I even have a draft about it somewhere—though who knows if I’ll ever post it. It is a weird and Funny book and think he and I are both trying to say the same thing a lot of the time: artists can be the fucking worst.
Filthy sponges, sometimes/a lot.
I’m trying to make my way through Savage Detectives, but it’s a lot of the same thing, over and over, so much nothing, and then suddenly Everything. I’m such a shit head about fiction, I need to get my head on straight. I lug the book’s fat ass with me everywhere I go, determined to prove I can explore outside of the realm of non-fiction.
The book accompanies me to the pool, where I divide my attention between reading and people-watching.
And swimming, duh.
There is a couple at the pool, I’ve seen them twice now. They appear to be in their late fifties. The woman always gets in the water, but her husband (?) does not. Instead, he stands by the pool in tight black pants, no shirt, and a comically large cellphone holster attached to his belt. She swims laps and he follows her on foot, up and down the length of the pool.
When she’s done, he takes photos of her with his phone as she gets out of the pool, which she seems fine with (perhaps she even encourages it?)
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