Antwerp [Hardcover]

"All I can come up with are stray sentences," the narrator of Bolano's Antwerp writes, "because reality seems to me like a swarm of stray sentences." At its worst, Antwerp can feel like 56 disparate parts of stray sentences bearing little relation to each other, not quite composing a whole.

The action in Antwerp is a puzzle to figure out. There's a young red-headed woman dominated by a cop, a writer named Bolano struggling to write, a murder, and a hunchback. Part of the job of the reader is to try to make connections in the muddle of seemingly random passages and repeated phrases.

Roberto Bolano's well-deserved popularity is founded in the mastery and wild inventiveness of his novels like 2066, The Savage Detectives, and By Night in Chile. Since his death in 2003, nearly everything he has written, even some pieces never really intended for publication, are being translated into English. The problem readers have is sorting out what is a minor, inferior work and what is another masterpiece of the caliber of 2066. Of course, even the notes, drafts, and failures of a great writer can be more interesting than the great works of a lesser writer, but Antwerp may be a piece only for the most dedicated fans of Bolano.

Many of the themes and elements of Bolano's best work appear here: the desire for artistic creation, cryptic murders, desolation, and surprising uses of language. The poetry in Antwerp jostles its attempt to be a novel and ends up creating a strange hybrid between a long prose poem and detective fiction. The problem is it does not come together very well. The confusion the reader feels in the tenth section is never satisfyingly resolved by part fifty-six. Even Bolano in his introduction suggests it was an experiment created for himself and not necessarily intended for publication. Antwerp is a fascinating footnote to an incredible body of work, but not the punctuating mark that English readers might hope for in one of the last new publications of his work.

I agree with the views C. Richards expresses in the lead Customer Review, above. Antwerp differs categorically from Bolaño's mature novelistic output -- the fully-formed tales such as "By Night in Chile" and "The Savage Detectives" that build story lines rich enough to communicate the author's considered view of the world. Antwerp, with its frustrating fragmentation and hallucinations, never manages fully to dislodge the impression that it is a cobbled assemblage of pages. There is no journey, only a seeming lack of intention. Yes, there is textual inventiveness in the series of vignettes. But if Bolaño meant this as an experiment in metafiction, I join in saying it cannot be called a success.

To avoid disappointment a reader must alter her or his expectations before delving into Antwerp. In fact, as Richards advises, it may be best if you take a pass on Antwerp unless you count yourself among the hardy crew of Bolaño aficionados. To those souls I offer these words.

One way to prepare for the book is to adopt the manner of a detective. Treat Antwerp as a sheaf of papers you've seized from the drawer of a prospective master, your own Poe-like discovery. The author's preface -- the most interesting pages in the book -- reveals that Bolaño, revisiting the unpublished material 22 years after its creation, viewed the pages with a quizzical eye. Abetting your adopted role of detective are the physical contours of the book. It is a strangely slight object, jacketless, black in color, an intimate notebook, divorced from any larger context, as if casually set aside. In his fiction Bolaño often foregrounds the work of detectives, their search for connections, for meaning. And so, in mimicry, the reader will profit by entering that frame of mind while thumbing through Antwerp's pages. As many of Bolaño protagonists come to learn, your detective work will yield false leads, confusion, drudgery, and uncertain revelations. Principal payoffs in this instance are occasional poetic passages, mordant observations ("Nothing lasts, the purely loving gestures of children tumble into the void" (p. 51)), and points of humor ("Some people choose the worst moments to think about their mothers" (p. 71)). You know not to expect answers, or (in this book) a sustainable melody.

Another way to approach Antwerp is to imagine it as a derivative of a fully-formed novel that doesn't exist. If you are one of those readers so in love with an author, or a particular book, that you search for illumination in the author's notebooks, journals, log-books, flotsam and jetsam, then here is another occasion to indulge your passion. I had a sense while reading Antwerp that it was not so much a novel as a preparation for a novel, notes toward a novel. But is it even a novel? Because it contains a record of Bolaño's own emotional crises and features his dreams and autobiographical nuggets, the work resists the label of fiction. Some critics say it is a collection of prose poems. However viewed, the text contains signs that Bolaño, by reputation an author proudly meticulous when it came to the fabrication of his books, felt Antwerp was slipping from his grasp: "No work could justify the slowness of movements and obstacles" (p. 62); "There's something obscene about this" (p. 64); "Poor Bolaño, writing at a pit stop" (p. 66); and a dangling reference to "undisciplined writing" (p. 51). Yet Bolaño needed to write.

When the day comes that a full-scale biography of Roberto Bolaño is published, the pages of Antwerp will contribute heavily to the analysis of his early years of residence in Europe, beginning in 1977. On the evidence of the book's distressing fragments and multiple references to illness, these impoverished years were a difficult period of transition in the author's life: "My innocence is mostly gone and I'm not crazy yet" (p. 52); "I no longer ask for all the solitude in the world, but for time" (p. 62); "Nervous collapse in cheap rooms" (p. 32); "But you write ... and you'll get through this" (p. 44). It sounds strange, but the rueful voice I heard throughout Antwerp was that of someone still confident that greatness awaited.

Antwerp is, in my view, an appurtenance to Bolaño's legacy -- an unsolid outbuilding located on a sprawling literary estate, far from the main mansion. It is a necessary stop only for the most devoted visitors. Ready for an afternoon meander?

(Mike Ettner)

i do not mean to write a helpful review, but I could provide an opinion. I did like the book very much.
Prose poem is a fine word for it. Sand drawing is another. Montage, dissolves, and POVs are part of the form and content of this magnificent writing.
If mystery and detective novels are partly relying on the readers "wanting to know". This writing slows down the readers "wanting to know" into
frames and display us the frames and pixels of it, very beautifully. How to create poetry out of stories and moving images. How to make sense of day and night that involve so many characters seen and unseen, if not unnecessary. one wrote in a previous review that the book was not satisfying. might be true, but that did not bother me in any way. as for me, things get puzzled out. a very interesting mapping of sequences. the book is more than scribbles that will work as future footnotes and quotes.
a strong physical experience of being in and out of someone's body. reminds me of rilke, lautreamont, and de nerval.

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