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شبانه‌ی شیلی

شبانهی شیلی، یکی از برجستهترین آثار ادبی معاصر، نخستین کتاب بولانیو بود که، متاسفانه در سال مرگ او، به زبان انگلیسی ترجمه شد و او را به نویسندهیی مشهور در تمام دنیا تبدیل کرد. شبانهی شیلی داستانی بسیار خواندنی و سنجیده با لحن شاعرانه و شاخههای فرعی فراوان است که به مسالهی ادبیات در دیکتاتوری و جهتگیریهای اهالی ادبیات در شرایط دیکتاتوری میپردازد. شبانهی شیلی فریاد اعتراض بوشبانه‌ی شیلی، یکی از برجسته‌ترین آثار ادبی معاصر، نخستین کتاب بولانیو بود که، متاسفانه در سال مرگ او، به زبان انگلیسی ترجمه شد و او را به نویسنده‌یی مشهور در تمام دنیا تبدیل کرد. شبانه‌ی شیلی داستانی بسیار خواندنی و سنجیده با لحن شاعرانه و شاخه‌های فرعی فراوان است که به مساله‌ی ادبیات در دیکتاتوری و جهت‌گیری‌های اهالی ادبیات در شرایط دیکتاتوری می‌پردازد. شبانه‌ی شیلی فریاد اعتراض بولانیو به تمام نویسندگان دوره‌ی دیکتاتوری از جمله خودش است. نشر خارپشت ترجمه‌ی دقیق این کتاب را که با متن اصلی اسپانیایی مقابله شده است در اختیار خواننده قرار می‌دهد تا خواننده‌ی ایرانی هم مثل خوانندگان سراسر جهان بتوانند از ارزش این کتاب مهم بهره ببرند. تفاوت‌ها آشکار است.بخشی از کتاب شبانه‌ی شیلی:شبی فهمیدم نه‌رودا مرده است. به فرول زنگ زدم و گفتم پاب‌لو مرد. فرول گفت سرطان کشت‌اش، سرطان. گفتم بله سرطان. برویم مراسم ختم‌اش؟ فرول گفت من که می‌روم. گفتم من هم بات می‌آیم. گوشی را که گذاشتم انگار کل ِگفت‌وگو را خواب دیده بودم. روز ِبعد به گورستان رفتیم. فرول خیلی باسلیقه و شیک لباس پوشیده بود. مثل ِارواح شده بود اما شیک بود. تو گوش‌ام زمزمه کرد ملک‌ام را به‌ام پس می‌دهند. جمعیت ِانبوهی آمده بودند و راه‌رفتنا مردم به‌مان می‌پیوستند و بیش‌تر هم می‌شدیم. فرول گفت این بچه‌خوش‌گل‌ها را ببین! گفتم خودت را مهار کن. به چهره‌اش نگاه کردم. به چندغریبه چشمک می‌زد. جوان بودند و انگار حال ِخوشی نداشتند اما من احساس می‌کردم همه از خوابی بیرون افتاده‌اند که در آن حال ِخوش و حال ِبد چیزی غیر ِتصادف‌های متافیزیکی نبود. می‌شنیدم پشت‌سرم کسی فرول را شناخته است و می‌گفت این‌یارو منتقده فرول است. کلمه‌ها از خوابی بیرون می‌آمد و به خوابی دیگر وارد می‌شد. بعد کسی با هیجانی تب‌دار بنای فریادزدن گذاشت و دیگرانی تب‌دار و هیجان‌زده باش هم‌صدا شدند. فرول پرسید این اداواصول‌های زشت چی است؟ جواب دادم مشتی رند اند، نگران نباش با گورستان فاصله‌یی نداریم. فرول پرسید پاب‌لو چی شد؟ گفتم آن‌جلو است تو تابوت‌اش. فرول گفت خیلی ابله ای! هنوز آن‌قدرها هم که تو فکر می‌کنی مجنون نشده‌ام. گفتم به‌دل نگیر. جواب داد نمی‌گیرم. چه‌حیف که دیگر تشییع‌جنازه‌ها مثل ِقدیم نیست. گفتم واقعاً. فرول گفت مشایعت ِمرده آداب ِخاص خودش را می‌طلبد، منظورم یادکردن از مرده و باقی ِماجرا است. گفتم به‌سبک ِفرانسوی‌ها. فرول گفت اگر جاش بود نطق ِغرایی در بزرگ‌داشت ِپاب‌لو می‌نوشتم. بعد گریه‌اش گرفت. با خودم گفتم لابد خواب می‌بینیم. وقتی بازوبه‌بازو از گورستان بیرون می‌آمدیم مردی دیدم که به قبری تکیه داده بود و خوابیده بود. لرزه‌یی به جان‌ام افتاد...

Title : شبانه‌ی شیلی
Author :
Rating :
ISBN : 9786009371914
Format Type : Paperback
Number of Pages : 125 Pages
Status : Available For Download
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شبانه‌ی شیلی Reviews

  • s.p
    2018-10-24 08:29

    Sordel, Sordello, which Sordello?‘Literature is like phosphorus,’ wrote Roland Barthes, ‘it shines with its maximum brilliance at the moment when it attempts to die.’ This view of literature existing at the precipice of the posthumous comes alive through Roberto Bolaño's Father Sebastian Urrutia and his deathbed confessions that make up the long night of By Night in Chile. Told in a single continuous paragraph—a style that hints with the flavor of Thomas Bernhard—Bolaño keeps the pressure and tension of his politically charged satire to a controlled maximum as if it were a horror novel while Urrutia takes us room by room through his haunted house of Chilean history. From his early days as a fledgling literary critic and poet spending time along with Pablo Neruda at the estate of Chile’s foremost critic, to travels in Europe and teaching Marxism in secret classes to the new regime, Urrutia attempts to rationalize his life and battles with his shame before the judgement of the shadowy ‘wizened youth’ that haunts him and his memories. Behind every curtain may wait a new horror, in every basement a sinister torture scene, yet these unspeakable terrors lurk just outside the candle-light of narrative, making them all the more sinister as we step along in the warm and surprisingly comical blaze. A perfect blend of all things Bolaño, By Night in Chile is a dazzling display of narrative that culminates upon the association and juxtaposition of seemingly separate elements to plunge a sharp dagger deep into the heart of Chile’s political climate. ‘That is how literature is made in Chile.’By Night in Chile is the blessed union of Bolaño’s prose and poetry. Each sentence coils and crawls smoothly and effortlessly like a satirical snake through gardens abloom in allegory and metaphor. The novel in a method similar to how a poem serves as a near-hallucinogenic impression of reality, residing in the Garden of comical and bizarre events that function like a translucent veil both masking and giving glimpses into the Fall and damnation lying just beyond our grasp. The episode of falcons being used to murder pigeons before they can cover the cathedrals in excrement is a masterpiece of situational comedy, but also a startling metaphor for the Pinochet regime hunting down and snuffing out any opposition to their own structure¹ Bolaño is an expert at embodying the essence of a place or person, often stacking details together that build towards an impression that takes the reader off-guard and instills a sense of bewilderment and wonder at the image being presented. Perhaps the most impressive aspect of Night, however, is the spirit of the short story—a form in which I find Bolaño to be at his best—and the episodic nature of the novel. Like walking through a nightmare, Urrutia recounts his life through swirling episodic reflections that blend into one the way a fever-dream seamlessly morphs from one notion to the next by riding a wave of emotion and produce a work greater than the parts of the whole through the way the episodes communicate and comment upon one another.‘My silences are immaculate.’While Urrutia, a member of a conservative priesthood Opus Dei which served fascist uprisings, has much to feel guilt over in his actions, it is his inactions that are most unbearable to him and the ‘wizened youth’. One has a moral obligation to take responsibilty for one’s actions, and that includes one’s words and silences, yes, one’s silences, because silences rise to heaven too, and God hears them, and only God understands and judges them, so one must be very careful with one’s silences. I am responsible in every way.The novel is much like jazz where the notes you don’t play are equally important to the ones that are played. Urrutia did his part, played his role and was never chastised for it. Even when he feared for his reputation after teaching the private lessons to Pinochet and his generals (a humorous sidenote is that the generals are far more concerned with the personal life of one attractive female theorist than her actual ideas), nobody seemed to care. However, it was his inability to stop it, to say no, to do anything to dam up the onslaught of history even for a moment that will serve as his everlasting personal tombstone. Similar to Urrutia is the young novelist Maria Canales² who wishes to be a integral part of the literary scene, hosting salons and mingling with all the poets and politicians. Like Urrutia who was able to turn a blind eye to the horrors around him, Canales ignored the political interrogations and tortures going on in her very own basement during her salons. ‘I would have been able to speak out but I didn't see anything,’ Maria tells him, ‘I didn't know until it was too late.’ Willfully neglecting reality, we will all wind up bemoaning our fates, dismissing our responsibility, and realizing it is too late for all of us.By Night in Chile is sure to haunt any reader who dare cross the threshold. A perfect elixer of all Bolaño's finest elements, this is a novel that dances and sways with the ethereal beauty of his poetry but punches with the raw intensity and eloquently abrasive power of his novels. History is making itself before our very eyes, and what are we doing to control the tides? Will we be a voice of reason, or simply march to the beat of whatever drum imposes itself. Will we get out alive, or will it be too late by the time we realize where we are. A frequent refrain echoing across the novel is critic Farewell’s line ‘Sordel, Sordello, which Sordello?’, dredging up Dante’s Sordello who was cast into purgatory for being unable to confess his sins before death. By Night in Chile is Urrutia’s feverish, disjointed confession, one that brings about the flames of hellfire in an attempt to avoid them. Bolaño's novel is full of pure rage and humor that never blinks or stands down. 4.5/5And then the storm of shit begins.¹It is interesting to note the names of the two gentlemen that recruit Urrutia for this mission are Mr. Raef and Mr. Etah. A simple reversal of the letters reveals the truth hiding within their power.² Maria Canales and her husband’s story finds inspiration in that of Michael Townley and Mariana Callejas, which bears a near resemlance to the version found in this book.I am highly indebted to a good friend for the full novel experience.

  • Algernon
    2018-11-04 16:51

    I am dying now, but I still have many things to say. I used to be at peace with myself. Quiet and at peace.But it all blew up unexpectedly. That wizened youth is to blame. I was at peace. The opening lines suggests this is a flashback sort of novel, a reinterpretation the past at the end of a long life and an appeal to the reader to hear the narrator's confession. His name is Sebastian Urrutia Lacroix, a Chilean of mixed Basque and French ancestry, a Jesuit priest, a poet, a literary critic, a teacher, a journalist ... an old man now plagued by ill health and by a heavy conscience. Life is a succession of misunderstandings, leading us on to the final truth, the only truth. This is the scope of the story, the challenge that Bolano sets out to prove he can capture the whole essence of life in a novella long confession, and this is what he spectacularly achieves imho. This is also my first foray into his universe, and I feel almost overwhelmed by the scope and the intensity of his vision. I thought I was prepared by the glowing remarks of some of my Goodreads friends, but Roberto Bolano surpassed my already high expectations. I feel now like I have only dipped one foot in to test the waters of the ocean, wondering if I have what it takes to pick up "The Savage Detectives" or "2666". I believe they will be both exhausting and life-altering experiences. Sordello, which Sordello? Dante's Sordello, Pound's Sordello, the Sordello of the 'Ensenhamens d'onor', the Sordello of the 'planh' on the death of Blacatz? The one who rode with Raymond Berenger and Charles I of Anjou, Sordello who was not afraid, who was not afraid, who was not afraid. Who is the wizened youth? Why is an early medieval troubadour so important to the story? I could give you what I think the answer is (view spoiler)[ Father Urrutia's conscience, all the promise and enthusiasm of a young intelligent man who thought he could change the world with his verses(hide spoiler)]. It would be better though for each reader to try to come with his or her own answers, reconsidering their own youth and aspirations. The same could be said about all the rest of my commentaries here - attempts to decode the parables and the metaphors that so enrich the text. The poet Bolano suggests and asks questions, of our intelligence and of our hearts. It is up to us to fill in the blank spaces and to give or withhold absolution for Father Urrutia. I believe there will be as many interpretations as there are readers. Some symbols are easier to understand than others, especially when they shine so brightly as the poet laureate Pablo Neruda. Urrutia meets him right after he comes out of the seminary, at the country farm of one of his mentors, the critic Farewell. Here is the night filled with stars over the Andes, here is the sensuality and the confusion and the endless possibility of youth. What would Urrutia do with the gift of the night?Next symbol: a Paris saloon during the Nazi occupation. A diplomat and a German officer delight in intellectual conversations, as an exiled Guatemalan painter dies slowly of sorrow, gazing over colour drained Paris rooftops. What can it mean? The rewards of culture and of intelligent friends, but are they enough to built your whole life on? Far from the idle but agitated and often indiscreet chatter of the Parisian salons, the Chilean writer and the German writer enjoyed a free-ranging conversation, touching on the human and the divine, war and peace, Italian painting and Nordic painting, the source of evil and the effects of evil that sometimes seem to be triggered by chance, the flora and fauna of Chile ... In his middle age, Father Urrutia is a name to be reckoned with in the world of letters, and his friendship with the critic Farewel continues, but darker themes are now the subject of their conversation: What's the use, what use are books, they're shadows, nothing but shadows. [...] I see whores stopping for a fraction of a second to contemplate something important, then heading off again like meteorites ... Whores coming and going, a river of tears ... There is no comfort in books ... There is a hill in Austria called Heldenberg, a place of ghosts and misplaced ambitions, a monument to all the 'heroes' of war throughout history. Make what you will of it (view spoiler)[ I see here the hollowness of big words and big ideas that ignore our human frailty(hide spoiler)] And they saw neither statues nor tombs but only desolation and neglect, until at the very top of the hill they discovered a crypt that looked like a safe, with a sealed door, which they proceeded to open. Inside the crypt, sitting on a grand stone seat, they found the shoemaker's body, his eye sockets empty as if he were never to contemplate anything but the valley spread out below Heroes Hill, and his jaw hanging open, as if he were still laughing after having glimpsed immortality... An emotionally drained Urrutia makes a pact with the Devil (taking the form of two shady characters with fateful nicknames, Mr. Raef and Mr. Etah). Urrutia accepts a sponsorship to take a long paid vacation through Europe, studying the old churches there. I see in this episode the narator's questioning his religious convictions, in particular the often brutally enforced supremacy of Catholicism (view spoiler)[. That's what I read in the metaphor of the hawks defending the church steeples from pigeon shit(hide spoiler)]. A old priest on his dying bed in Andaluzia, a Fra Antonio, is the catalyst of possible change in the narrator's worldview: I have been thinking, he said, maybe this business with the falcons is not such a good idea, it's true they protect churches from the corrosive and, in the long term, destructive effects of pigeon shit, but one mustn't forget that pigeons or doves are the earthly symbol of the Holy Spirit, are they not? After his trip to Europe, Urrutia decides to come back to Chile, as the political troubles surrounding Allende and Pinochet governments are heating up. This is by far the most important question that needs to be answered in an artist, in my humble opinion. Should Urrutia be a cold eye critic and passive oberver of history? Or should he burn up with passion and go out into the streets to make a difference? Should he keep quiet about the crimes and lies surrounding him, in order to preserve his life from the likes of Mr. Etah and Mr. Raef? Or should he risk it all for what is most probably a lost cause?The section opens with a statement I have no trouble at all adopting for my own: For me, things had been going well, but not for my country. I am not a fanatical nationalist, but I do sincerely love the land of my birth. But how can we practice what we preach when secret commandos are kidnapping and torturing people by their thousands, starting with the leaders of opinion? Most of us, myself included, will turn into chameleons or ostriches, hiding our heads in the sand and pretending that life goes on as usual. The governing symbol of the times for Father Urrutia is the Judas Tree, mostly referred to in connection with a literary salon he frequented during the times of trouble. We were bored. we read and we were bored. We intellectuals.Because you can't read all day and all night. Splendid isolation has never been our style, and back then, as now, Chilean artists and writers needed to gather and talk, ideally in a pleasant setting where they could find intelligent company. After the political dillema what else is there to say? Urutia gets old and the only thing left for him to answer is what did he do with the gift of youth? Figments of the imagination that throng unbidden as one goes into the night of one's destiny. My destiny. My Sordello. On the one hand, Urrutia was all his life a champion of culture as the engine of social progress, praising young Chilean poets and novelists in the pages of his critical essays: That is how literature is made. Or at least what we call literature, to keep ourselves from falling into the rubbish dump. On the other hand, he has been living under the Judas Tree, and the choices he has made will one day haunt each of us, if we accept that we have a conscience and we are willing to listen to it: We're all writers, and in the end we all have to walk a long and rocky road. Bolano, through the voice of Father Urrutia, is sounding the horns of the Last Judgement, a terrible warning about the waste of our youth and of our energies in trivial pursuits, while the whole edifice of civilization crumbles over our heads. I am put in the mind of two literary references that I am a bit too lazy to track down, but I hope they are popular enough to ring a bell. First, there is the one about living in the gutter, but looking up at the stars. Culture representing the stars, I believe. Secondly, there's the one about stumbling over the truth from time to time on our journey through life, but most of the time dusting ourselves off and continuing the journey as if nothing of matter has happened. Bolano has done his duty. It is up to us what we do with his truth. Is there a solution? Sometimes the earth shakes. The epicenter of the quake is somewhere in the north or the south, but I can hear the earth shaking. Sometimes I feel dizzy. Sometimes the quake goes on for longer than usual, and people take shelter in doorways or under stairs or they rush out into the street. Is there a solution? I see people running in the streets. I see people going into the Metro or into movie theaters. I see people buying newspapers. And sometimes it all shakes and everything stops for a moment. And then I ask myself: Where is the wizened youth? Why has he gone away?

  • Mike Puma
    2018-10-25 13:33

    Reread. Re-5-starred. Reviewed, if ever so slightly.But first, the obligatory digression.Out, damned Scot! Out!—Lady Shakesbeth, wherever it was she said such things.A fitful night’s recollections of a not quite literary life, a not quite political life, a not quite religious life—historically situated (Pinochet’s Chile), fantastically relived and recounted, sometimes at a meandering pace, other times at feverish pace, with belt-fondling, falconry, and pigeonshit. How postmodern can one get?Abreviating and reasking the question posed by the Scot (or the ‘damned Scot,’ if you prefer): “Why did you write a list of scenes or incidents that might be used in future novels?” I’ll refer to only the scene in the would-be novelist’s basement, it reappears if I’m not mistaken in several Bolaño novels—Ryan would know; the guy’s much more knowledgeable about RB than I. I suspect, RB repeats that scene for two reasons: 1) to make it real, to readers across his works, a line of continuity, as it were, and 2) because it was real—a real event which occurred in the lives of some subset of Chilean literati which may have taken on post-Pinochet mythic status. But, for someone who’s read only the first third of the novel, well my friend, might I humbly suggest pulling this down from your ‘seduced and abandoned shelf’ for reconsideration?This is the novel I usually recommend to people who are just starting out on Bolaño. I'm sticking to that suggestion

  • Daniel
    2018-11-17 08:38

    What I have come to appreciate reading Bolaño's book is the fact that he takes you on several small journeys getting you from plot-point to plot-point. You almost don't realize that he is doing it until you finish one of these tangents and get led carefully back to the main storyline. That Bolaño trusts his talents enough to introduce characters that are only there to make a single point, that they exist in the novel just to die or to cease to exist just so some small nuance of Chile, the Church or his personal imagination can be revealed is truly something. For instance, a "Guatemalan Painter" is introduced and given depth and perspective before being assigned his lonely fate which is to fade away to nothingness despite having great talent just so that the author can depict the grim experiences of displaced foreigners and to introduce Don Salvador Reyes to Ernst Jünger. He introduces Salvador Reyes and rounds him out as a character, portrays him as a man of principles and position, an erudite pillar of society. The meeting of the three men (the painter, Reyes and Jünger) only accomplishes one single thing, a book translated in French is passed from Reyes to Jünger providing the context for the only mention in the history of World War II of a Chilean ever taking part in the greatest conflict known to man. As if to say, one of us took part in this great endeavor, and although nothing of the man exists or of the painter who made possible the acquaintance with the German officer and writer, but one of us was there and here is the proof (Ernst Jünger who documents the existence of our participant). And displaced and erased we may be in this gigantic, Western history, at least ONE of us was there. One Chilean. One man. One proof. And without further explanation, the whole tale falls under the title "Landscape: Mexico City an hour before dawn" as painted by an unnamed Guatemalan artist. It is a poem, not a story. Bolaño does this to you again and again with such a light touch in these side-stories hidden among what is actually happening. And if you focus too closely on what is more obviously happening to Urrutia Lacroix as he becomes party to Mr. Fear and Mr. Hate, to the falconers and their destruction of spirit, to the Marxists he teaches and disowns, to the suppressed homosexuality of Farewell and the more literary circles, to the duality of his roles as liberal writer and conservative critic, and the old man denouncing and finally ceasing to renounce his wizened youth only at the end, etc.If you look at only these more blatant metaphors you will miss the really fine morsels hidden in the tedious little filler pages, poetry masquerading as fluff, revelation in the side-notes.

  • Tijana
    2018-10-22 13:35

    Elem: Čile noću (a zašto su imali potrebu da tako prevedu naslov Čileanski nokturno - ne znam) je prva Bolanjova knjiga dovoljno pregledna da radnju mogu da sažmem u dve rečenice. Jer je zapravo novela. Ili da možda probam da je sažmem u jednu rečenicu: teško je i ponekad sramotno biti književni kritičar prosečne ljudske hrabrosti (male) za vreme Pinočeove diktature. A inače, ovo ima sve tipične odlike Bolanja: fenomenalno je napisano, tempom koji kida, besprekorno meša stvarno i izmišljeno (malo guglanja pokazalo mi je da je najsumanutiji koncept u knjizi - spisateljski parti u prizemlju dok u podrumu pinočeovci muče ljude - direktno, avaj, preuzet iz života), struktura je ajmo reći neuobičajena sa ubacivanjem pričica koje kao da se prekidaju taman gde ne treba, ali sve deluje savršeno promišljeno i funkcioniše kao živ i zdrav organizam tj. besprekorno (dobro, i ovu sam reč već iskoristila, ali kad odgovara).

  • MJ Nicholls
    2018-10-19 08:55

    Oh shut up, Roberto. SHUT. UP. What is this cobblers? Why do you want me to read the rambling deathbed memoir of a Chilean priest who can’t let a sentence end and couldn’t find a paragraph break in a tower of cassocks? Why don’t you establish this character as an actual character? Why did you write a list of scenes or incidents that might be used in future novels instead of, to quote The Guardian—“a beautifully written analysis of Chilean literary life?” It gives me no pleasure to play devil’s advocate in a glistening ocean of five-star reviews, but I threw in the towel one-third through this petite cowfart in the Roberto canon. His work is better when it’s longer, i.e. 2666. Clearly.

  • Dimitri
    2018-10-21 08:50

    Vecchio e malato, padre Sebastian Urrutia Lacroix, critico letterario, scrittore, membro dell’Opus Dei, compromessosi ma non troppo con il regime di Pinochet, deve difendere la propria reputazione, ora che è tornata la democrazia, dagli attacchi di un misterioso giovane invecchiato. “Cerchiamo di essere persone civili.” Ricorda così in modo più o meno attendibile momenti della sua vita, pescando dai “pozzi neri della memoria”, con lo scopo forse di ottenere una assoluzione e anche una autoassoluzione. Padre Sebastian ha conosciuto Neruda; ha recitato poesie al chiaro di luna a un insospettabile scrittore; si era perfino chiuso in casa a leggere i greci, mentre fuori gli eventi precipitavano. “Poi ci fu il colpo di Stato e quando smisero di bombardare il presidente si suicidò e tutto finì. Allora io rimasi immobile, con un dito sulla pagina che stavo leggendo, e pensai: che pace. Mi alzai e mi affacciai alla finestra: che silenzio.”“Silenzio” e “tacere” sono parole che si ripresentano spesso in queste 120 pagine. Nessuna scena di violenza viene descritta. C’è però l’immagine potente e ricorrente dei falchi usati dai preti per tenere i piccioni alla larga dalle chiese. “Tolsi il cappuccio al falco e gli dissi vola, Rodrigo, e proprio allora prese a soffiare un vento come d’uragano e la mia tonaca si sollevò come una bandiera piena di furia, e ricordo che gridai di nuovo vola, Rodrigo, e poi sentii un volo plurale e malsano, e le falde della tonaca mi coprirono gli occhi mentre il vento spazzava la chiesa e tutt’intorno, e quando riuscii a togliermi dalla faccia il mio personale cappuccio scorsi sagome informi per terra, i piccoli corpi insanguinati di vari piccioni che il falco aveva depositato ai miei piedi.”Oppure la violenza aleggia minacciosa, proprio come un falco, grazie a una apparentemente innocua domanda, posta da un generale a una riunione di militari, a proposito di una presunta spia comunista. “E’ una bella ragazza?”Oppure la violenza rimane nascosta nel seminterrato di una villa elegante nei sobborghi di Santiago, mentre al piano di sopra critici e scrittori – compreso il nostro “eroe” – partecipano a una festa. E se uno degli invitati, ubriaco, si perde tra le mille stanze e apre una porta che non doveva aprire e vede qualcosa che non doveva vedere, che cosa fa?Con senso della misura, immagini potenti, situazioni e parole che si rincorrono, e con forti dosi di ironia soprattutto nei dialoghi (quello tra padre Sebastian e Pinochet è un pezzo di bravura), Bolano esplora la coscienza di padre Sebastian e la coscienza collettiva di una nazione. E non solo di quella nazione. La letteratura non si occupa solo di eroi. Un bel giorno padre Sebastian fa una domanda alla donna che abita in quella villa elegante nei sobborghi di Santiago. “E si è pentita? Come tutti, padre. Sentii che mi mancava l’aria. Poi si guardò intorno tranquilla, serena, a suo modo coraggiosa, e vide la sua casa, e disse che è così che si faceva letteratura in Cile.”

  • Fabian
    2018-11-09 09:33

    With confidence & style, Bolano continues his attempt at crystallizing the exploits of the literati in Latin America—here more specifically, in Chile. In very little (this is a novel composed solely of TWO paragraphs!) the stream of consciousness vacillates between various moods and anecdotes—it is indeed very similar to the transcendental musings of Auxilio Lacouture atop her fortress of the UNAM in “Amulet”, a novel that is far superior, w-a-a-a-y more magical, than this one.At times the Chilean writer (through his main character) seems elitist, carelessly name-dropping and highlighting national events which just happened to cross his (the Jesuit priest’s) chic life at certain points (meetings with Pinochet, talks with Neruda). I am wary of Bolano’s ubermodern valentine to all the South American radical thinkers & innovators involved in the Arts (writing prose and poetry, above all). How come? Bragging rights are okay, in moderation, but that the entire book is a large, albeit disorganized and run-on rant asks way too much of the reader. It is fun to get lost in all this confusion… the nebulousness is always an attractive facet, so that is a plus. But here I felt I missed more than what was originally intended for the reader “to get.” It is too personal, it has too many hidden facts which are always (Intelligently? Dumbly?) locked away from our common knowledge. The reader is immediately marginalized. You feel left out; sadly, truly uninitiated to a world seen only through the teeniest of peep holes.

  • Kris
    2018-11-14 12:44

    In Bolaño's stream of consciousness narrative, he presents the deathbed confessions of Father Sebastián Urrutia Lacroix, a Jesuit in Chile who also wrote as a literary critic and a poet. Through a spellbinding combination of feverish memories and anecdotes, dreams and nightmares recalled, and desperate justifications of past actions and inaction, Father Sebastián leads the reader through an evocative and disturbing picture of life and art in Pinochet's Chile. I found the novel mesmerizing. In one long paragraph, Bolaño moves deftly through Father Sebastián's life, using the priest's fears about his own choices and actions as a means to point an accusing finger at the Chilean literati, at modern society in Europe and the Americas, at all of us.

  • Jonfaith
    2018-11-07 14:35

    There are a pair of immediate observations concerning By Night in Chile. The first involvees its lyrical quality; this is more a cycle of poems than mere standard novella. Episodes unfold and the focus clips along back to the Narrator, who isn't as unreliable as I first guessed. The second acute sense from the book is one of dread. There are a number of darkened hallways, closed doors, and isolated hilltops in the book. One gathers gradually that it isn't sage to look around too closely.Confining itself to the Gothic whsiper, By Night in Chile does echo in one trope. There's certainly depth and poetic violence; what I think seperates Bolano is the imaginary bibliography; that Borgesian codex of spectral works which exist in world just so close yet distant from our own dusty trevails.

  • Pegah
    2018-10-30 11:57

    روبرتو بولانیو سال ۱۹۵۳ در سانتیاگوِ شیلی متولد شد و سال ۲۰۰۳ در پنجاه سالگی بر اثر نارسایی کبد در اسپانیا از دنیا رفت. پدرش راننده ی کامیون و مشت زن و مادرش معلم مدرسه بود. در نوجوانی مدرسه را ترک کرد، چون می خواست فقط کتاب بخواند، کتاب هایی که خیلی شان را از کتابفروشی ها می دزدید. او که در پانزده سالگی همراه خانواده اش شیلی را ترک کرد، در بیست سالگی، همزمان با کودتای پینوشه، به این کشور بازگشت. به گفته ی خودش در این سفر دستگیر شد و چند روزی در زندان ماند، و به طور اتفاقی توسط دو دوست قدیمی آزاد شد؛ که البته در واقعیتِ این روایت تردید است. پس از ترک شیلی باقی عمرش را در کشورهای مختلف زندگی کرد و برای درآوردن خرج زندگی به هر کاری، مثل نگهبانی و ظرف شستن، دست زد. او در اصل خودش را شاعر می دانست و زمانی که بچه دار شد، چون فکر کرد از راه نثرنویسی بهتر می تواند پول دربیاورد، شروع کرد به داستان نوشتن و فرستادن شان برای مسابقات و مجله ها. و هم این داستان ها او را تبدیل کرد به مهم ترین نویسنده ی نسل خودش در آمریکای لاتین، که جوایز متعددی را به خصوص بعد از مرگ نصیبش کرد، نویسنده ای که امروزه عده ای اهمیتش را نه فقط برای ادبیات امریکای لاتین، که حتا برای ادبیات جهان هم پای اهمیت کابریل گارسیا مارکز می دانند. این خود پارادوکس عجیبی است برای بولانیوِ سرکشی که اغلب نویسندگان بسیار مشهوری چون مارکز و آلنده و پاز را به مسخره می گرفت و حتا گروهی تشکیل داده بود که جلسات شعرخوانی آن ها را به هم بریزد.او بورخس را محبوب ترین نویسنده ی خود می داند و معتقد است نویسنده‌ها دوجورند: آن‌هایی که فقط نویسندگان مقلد به وجود می‌آورند و آن‌ها که راه را برای کاشفان و تجربیات تازه باز می‌کنند. خودش بورخس را در دسته‌ی دوم قرار می‌دهد و البته باید خودش را هم در همین دسته‌ی دوم قرار داد. ________بولانیو در کتاب شبانه‌ی شیلی در قالب کشیشی که به ادبیات علاقه دارد و با اسم مستعار به نقد آثار ادبی زمان می‌پردازد، از اوضاع نا به‌ سامان کشور و جنگ می‌گوید. از نویسندگان بزرگ شیلیایی یاد می‌کند که دیگر هیچ کس به خاطرشان نمی‌آورد. از رئیس‌جمهورهای بی‌سواد شیلی یاد می‌کند که یکیشان هیچ نخوانده بود حتی انجیل را ( و از قضا یکی از موسسان حذب دموکرات مسیحی بوده!) و دیگری که فقط رمان‌های عاشقانه می‌خوانده! کشیش از تجربیات حضورش در خانه‌ای می‌گوید که میزبان محافل ادبی شبانه‌ بود در حالی که در همان زمان در سرداب خانه از زندانیان بازجویی انجام می‌شده و گاهاً برخی کشته می‌شدند. در وصف زن میزبان، ماریا کانالس، در انتقاد به افراد روشن‌فکرنمای زمان می‌نویسد:دوست‌دار هنر بود. دوست داشت همدم نقاشان، پرفورمنس‌آرت‌ کاران و ویدئوآرت‌ کاران شود، شاید چون سوادشان کمتر از نویسندگان بود یا او اینطور می‌دید. بعد قاتی نویسنده‌ها شد و دید آن‌ها هم چندان باسواد نیستند. کی‌ می‌داند چقدر خیالش آسوده شد. آسودگی‌ای خاص شیلیایی‌ها. از ما مردمِ این کشور خدازده انگشت‌شماری واقعاٌ بافرهنگیم، بقیه از دم ابله‌اند. حتی آدم‌های خوش‌مشرب و دوست‌داشتنی.بولانیو کشیش و شاعر شیلیایی‌ای را روبه روی ما نشانده است که زیر بار تمام این آشوب ها روحیه ی خود را از دست داده و شعرهایی که می سروده، از کلاسیک و آپولویی دچار حس و حالی افسارگسیخته و دیونی سیایی می شود و دست به نوشتن مقاله های انتقادی می زند و ازعجز، ترس، اراده مضحک و کسالت بی حدواندازه ی مردم شیلیایی می نویسد که به گفته ی خودش انگار داشت در بیابانی داد می زد و تنها کسانی فریادها و گاه زوزه هایش را می شنیدند که معنای نوشته هایش را می فهمیدند و چنان کسانی زیاد نبودند.بولانیو شیلی را در آن دوران به درخت ارغوان یا همان درخت یهودا تشبیه می‌کند. "درختی بی برگ و مرده‌گون که ریشه در اعماقِ خاکِ سیاه داشت، خاکِ سیاهِ غنیِ ما که کرم‌خاکی‌های چهل سانتی‌متری‌اش شهرتی دارند."کشیش، شاعر و منتقد بزرگِ ما در سراسر داستان توهماتی از دیدن یک جوانک تکیده دارد. جوانک تکیده‌ای که به او می‌خندد، نزدیک می‌شود، نسبت به او ناباور است و درنهایت دور می‌شود و در سطرهای پایانی بولانیو به ما می‌گوید که جوانک تکیده خود او است، سباستیان ئورروتیا لاکروآ، کشیش، شاعر و منتقد بزرگ شیلیایی."از خودم می‌پرسم جوانک تکیده کجا است؟ چرا رفت؟ آرام آرام حقیقت به سانِ جسدِ مرده‌ای پدیدار می‌شود. جسدِ مرده ای که از ته دریا یا کف مجرای آب بالا می آید. سایه اش را می بینم که بالا می آید. سایه اش سوسو می زند. سایه اش جوری بالا می آید که انگار از تپه ای بر سیاره ای فسیلی بالا می کشد. بعد در تاریک روشن بیماری ام چهره ی تندخو و لطیف اش را می بینم و از خودم می پرسم: من جوانک تکیده ام؟ ترسی شدید دامن گیرم می شود و میپرسم من همان جوانک تکیده ام که فریادهاش به گوش احدی نمی رسد؟ آن جوانک تکیده‌ی بدبخت منم؟ بعد چهره ها با سرعتی دورانی از برابر چشمهام می‌گذرد. چهره‌ی آن‌ها که ستایش‌شان کرده‌ام، دوست‌شان داشته‌ام، ازشان بیزار بوده‌ام، بهشان رشک برده‌ام و خوارشان شمرده‌ام. چهره‌هایی که ازشان حمایت کرده‌ام، بهشان حمله کرده‌ام، خودم را در برابرشان مقاوم کرده‌ام و بیهوده پی‌شان بوده‌ام. بعد توفانِ گُه آغاز می‌شود."

  • Joaquín Jiménez
    2018-10-31 11:50

    "Chile, Chile. ¿Cómo has podido cambiar tanto?, le decía a veces, asomado a mi ventana abierta, mirando el reverbero de Santiago en la lejanía. ¿Qué te han hecho? ¿Se han vuelto locos los chilenos? ¿Quién tiene la culpa? Y otras veces, mientras caminaba por los pasillos del colegio o por los pasillos del periódico le decía: ¿Hasta cuándo piensas seguir así, Chile? ¿Es que te vas a convertir en otra cosa? ¿En un monstruo que ya nadie reconocerá?"En tan solo dos párrafos (uno regordete y de gran personalidad versus uno más desnutrido en extensión, pero efectivo), Bolaño construye magistralmente un relato que cuenta las reflexiones y recuerdos de un cura Opus Dei durante una noche de fiebre. Este recurre a la memoria para reconstruir su historia, cargada de frivolidad y silencios durante una época en la que ser callado y frívolo era, precisamente, un privilegio. La narración se torna rápidamente un viaje introspectivo que revisita los lugares de encuentro entre el cura y los círculos literarios de la época, mientras que, como telón de fondo, la dictadura militar en Chile se hace presente como un espacio latente, silencioso.La reconstrucción biográfica del cura se siente mucho más real con la ficcionalización de figuras tan renombradas en Chile como Pablo Neruda o Pinochet, quienes no participan activamente del relato pero están ahí, igual de inmortalizados que en la realidad, para provocar un influjo de historicidad y veracidad al relato. Bolaño se toma la licencia de retratar a un Pinochet caricaturizado, quien se muestra como un letrado que ha leído Palomita blanca de Lafourcade y quiere aprender marxismo. Esta sensación de realidad se refuerza con el constante renombre del canon literario y el depósito académico que, siento, está muy bien representado con el personaje de Farewell.Más allá de la pulcritud en la prosa de Bolaño y su genialidad como escritor, creo que lo más importante de este libro radica en el significado que carga el protagonista de la novela. Siento que está muy bien construido y representa la Historia (en mayúscula) de la dictadura, ese discurso oficial que por un lado calla a las víctimas y, por otro, se convierte en cómplice producto de su propio silencio. La genialidad de Bolaño está en encontrar una nueva forma de representar el horror, a través de la indiferencia y la frivolidad con que los organismos de poder (en este caso, el eclesiástico) esconden la vulnerabilidad de las víctimas y aparentan sentirse tranquilos con lo ocurrido. Nocturno de Chile muestra la panorámica de esa voz oficial que cree estar en paz consigo misma pero que, tan pronto cuando las luces se apagan, se desarma y diluye entre la fiebre y los escombros de la noche. Hay que leer más a Bolaño, sí o sí.

  • Dhanaraj Rajan
    2018-10-25 11:55

    I found the book initially intimidating. It is a book that contains just two paragraphs and the second paragraph is just a line that appears at the last page of the book. Besides there were names, obviously from Chilean literati, of which I knew nothing. I had tried this book once earlier and abandoned it after 25 pages.The second effort at reading it was a huge success. At least, in matters relating to the act of reading it. For, I sat at a stretch and read it in a day. Although I loved the language and the small episodes involving different characters (eg: Pablo Neruda, Ernst Junger, General Pinochet, etc.), still I felt that I was somehow at a distance form the novel and its message. Later when I came to know that it was a subtle satire on Chilean political and literary situation, I knew the reason for me not getting it completely. I searched for the background details.And then, my understanding took a new turn. Everything revealed itself in different colour. It is a novel in which an elderly priest at the tail end of his life, remembers his entire life in retrospect. He also had the reputation of a good critic and a mediocre poet. As his life was ebbing away, he was confronted by few questions raised by his conscience. As a result he embarks on a journey back to his past in an attempt to justify all his actions. Nota Bene: The religious authorities stood along with the dictatorships that resulted in the oppression of ordinary folks. And it was he (the priest belonging to Opus Dei) who taught the doctrine of Marxism to the General Pinochet and his allies.When the priest recounts this event to his friend Farewell, his friend becomes speechless. And the priest asks him the following question: "Did I do the right thing or not?" When he gets no answer from his friend he repeats the question in a different formulation. He asks: "Did I do my duty, or did I go beyond it?" By now Farewell is awake and answers with the following question: "Was it a necessary or an unnecessary course of action?" To which the priest replies: "Necessary, necessary, necessary." I sincerely think, these questions and answers reveal what goes on in a totalitarian regime. What the regime says is right and listening to it is the duty and to comply is the only necessary course of action. Or else, you will end up a blood soaked body without life. I mean, unimaginable torture and the inevitable death.So the priest/poet/literary critic finds himself doing what was needed of him. He wrote in praise of novels that were approved by the regime even though they were totally crap. The literary person and the righteous priest in him come to life now and then and force him to create poems that are appropriate to the situation. But fearing the consequences, he destroys them immediately after composing them. He wanted to be a man of history. That is, he went along with history in its flow. Bolano writes/the pries thinks: "An individual is no match for history. The wizened youth [the conscience] has always been alone, and I have always been on history's side."Recently I read Imre Kertesz' The Holocaust as Culture. The similar point is discussed in it too. Kertesz makes a shattering observation when he writes the following: "The Kantian categorical imperative - ethics in general - is but the pliable handmaiden of self-preservation."

  • Sarah ~
    2018-11-15 14:37

    "أنا ، الإنسان الذي صنعَ اسماً على نحوٍ ما ، بل اسمان ، أحدهما مشهور ، وبعضُ الأعداء والكثير من الأصدقاء .."هذا أفضل تقديم لشخصية بطل الرواية وعلى لسانه أيضاً .القس سباستيان أوروتيا لاكروا ، الأديب والشاعر والناقد ، ذو النزعة التشكيكية ، والميال للإرتياب والمتصالح معَ نفسه إلى حدٍ ما ، "كنت في سلامٍ مع نفسي ، صامتْ وفي سلام " ، يأتي ماضيه ويلاحقه .فهو مصمم على وجود عدو "يهلوس بوجوده" يطلق عليه اسم " الشاب الهرم ".وهو يحتضر يحكي قصصاً من الأدب والتاريخ و السياسة وعن تشيلي ..في شبابه تعرف على ناقد وصحفي شهير : يدعى فارويل ، كلاهما يقدسان الشعر ونيرودا على وجه الخصوص ..,وكانا رفيقين لفترة طويلة وشهدا الكثير معاً .في المنتصف تقريباً حينَ أصيب بالإكتئاب وذهب في جولة لأوروبا من أجل التعرف على طرق للحفاظ على الكنائس القديمة ، نفاجأ بالقساوسة الذين يحتفظون بالصقور من أجل صيد الحمام "المتهم" بتلويث سطوح الكنائس .وهو فعل وحشي يجعلك تتساءل مطولاً عن ما أرادَالكاتب توصيله هنا .حينَ يعود إلى تشيلي ، ويقع الإنقلاب الشهير (11/9/1973) حينها أطاح الجنرال بينوشيه بالرئيس الليندي ..وما تبعه من أفعال النظام الجديد ..تحدث الأب الغارق بين كتبه ، عن كل شيء تقريباً : من فقدان الأصدقاء وموت نيرودا" وفقدان الحرية ، وحظر التجول وتعليمه لـ بينوشيه وجنرالاته الإشتراكية وما تعنيه .:)ولكنه لم يتحدث عن العنف والقتل والتعذيب والإختفاءات ، فقط برر لمرة واحدة صمته " هو لم يعرف ، هو لم يعلم ماكانَ يحدث حقاً " ..روبرتو بولانيو الذي يستخدم السخرية المبطنة يصور مجتمعاً محافظاً يعيشُ أياماً صعبة ويعاني تحت نير من حكموه وتغلغل فيه النفاق والكره والعنف بين كل طبقاته ، الرواية مليئة بأسماء الأدباء والذي يتردد ذكر الثائر نيرودا أكثر من سواه ..ليل تشيلي ذات الـ 160 صفحة تقريباً والتي كتبها بولانيو بلغة فاتنة ، أعتقد لسبر غورها تحتاج لقراءة أخرى ، فهي عميقة ، ورمزية وساخرة ،وبها الكثير مما يستحق الإقتباس .

  • Fatema Hassan , bahrain
    2018-10-28 13:31

    ^_^هنا حرق للأحداث لا يُنصح به لمن لم يقرأ الرواية بعد . " إخلع الشعر المستعار " تشيستيرتونالروح الوطنية الأصيلة تقابلها النزعة التشكيكية في فضح كل دخيل في عالم الأدب .. هكذا يباغتنا بولانيو الروائي التشيلي روبرتو بولانيو بعد قراءة روايته " التعويذة " للمرة الثانية يتسرب من بين يداي كلما حاولت استجماعه / فهو ماء الأدب / بنسقه المشتت بين حكايا وأحلام وكوابيس لا تملك إلا أن تستثنيه عن المجموعة اللاتينية وعن واقعيتهم السحرية فهو يحلق عالياً ك صقور روايته ليصطاد الحمام الذي يلوث الكنائس بالفضلات ، في صراع الحقائق التي يريدها أن تنصفه نصغي لإعترافات القس سباستيان أوروتيا لاكروا على فراش الموت توجه أكاذيب "الشاب الهرم " حول حقيقة الأدب في تشيلي ( هكذا يصنع الأدب في تشيلي ) ستدور حرب طاحنة بينهما تتخللها شذرات عن شخصيات شعرية وروائية ودينية بارزة ، هذا الفيض المتبادل من قبل بوح القس سباستيان و إنكار واستهزاء الشاب الهرم يأتي في هيئة تضمين سردي ، بمعنى حكاية القس الذي سيحكي عدة قصص أخرى وحقيقة بأسلوب مربك أشبه بالمتاهة و لكنها ستكتشف فيما بعد أنها محاولة من القس لفهم روحه وإنهما هو الشخص الهرم شخصان يقبعان تحت جلدة رأس واحدة أحدهما يشد أزر الحراك الأدبي بروح وطنية عالية والآخر يريد إبراز الوجه الآخر للأدب ، وجه ما تحت الطاولة حيث يكون واجهة للتغاض عن المجريات التاريخية في تشيلي ( إسقاط سلفادور الليندي من قِبل بينوشيه ) وترك مركب الرئاسة لمن هو أكثر كفاءة وقوة للصارع عليه ، حيث تنهال الأوسمة على الأدب الذي يصمت و يبقى الأدب الحقيقي يناجي قمر البلاد في ربوعها أو في المهجر لا حول له سوى كتابة هكذا أدبي ضمني ومبطن بآلاف الألغاز ، ينطلق القس في رحلته متحدثاً عن رغبته العارمة في الانخراط في السلك اللاهوتي وهذا ما يتحقق له ولكن ميوله الأدبية وشغفه بكتابة الشعر والنقد الأدبي يجعله يكتب النقد تحت اسم مستعار" ه أيباكشيه " بطابع متحرر ولكن شعره سيكون باسمه الصريح وبطابع ديني تقليدي في زمن تتراجع فيه القيم التقليدية ليكون شعره أكثر قيمة، يتعرف على الناقد الادبي المشهور فارويل لكي يدخله للمجتمع الأدبي من أوسع الأبواب ، يرد ذكر بابلو نيرودا صافياً رقراقاً كغدير يقدسه القس وكل أدباء جيله في بداية الرواية و في النهاية ستكون جنازته مصدر تيه لهم ، ينطلق القس في رحلة غريبة ليتعرف على حملة موسعة من القساوسة لحماية الكنائس من فضلات الحمائم حيث يقومون بتربية الصقور ، اكثر ما أعجبني في قصة الحمام هذه ان هنالك أجناس وغايات متباينة لتحليق الحمام فوق الكنيسة وليس جميعهم يستحقون القتل ( حمامة بيكاسو ) .يستدعى القس سباستيان لتعليم الرئيس بينوشيه مبادئ الماركسية ( رغبة من الرئيس في الاطلاع على مبادئ العدو الذي أسقطه - الليندي -) و رغم شعور القس أنه أقدم على خطوة خاطئة إلا أنه سيتفاجئ بأن قساوسة البلاد سرعان ما ستسخر للماركسية -الشكلية - حيزًا في كل حلقة تعليمية ، بهذا تكون الديار تتدارس ما صمتت عن الإطاحة به مسبقاً من تعاليم ومبادئ بدل التمسك بها حين كانت ذات منعة و الدفاع عنها حين كانت عزلاء ، تنتهي الرواية بتعرفه على رواية شابة تريد أن تصبح قطب أدبي كحال كل أدباء تشيلي أو أغلبهم ممن يحولون الأدب لقناع ذي خلفية جنائزية ، الأهم لديهم الشهرة و لو كان على حساب جنائز الشعب [email protected] نصيحة @بولانيو يقرأ ك كتلة واحدة حتى يرتوي العقل منه .( الفرد عليه إلتزام أخلاقي بالمسئولية عن أفعاله ، و أيضاً عن كلماته ، وحتى عن صمته ، نعم صمته ، لإن الصمت يصعد الى السماء أيضًا، ويسمعه الرب ، و هو فقط يفهمه ويحكم عليه، و هكذا حذار من الصمت ، أنا مسئول عن كل شيء ، صمتي طاهر ، فليكن هذا واضحًا ،وعلى الأخص فليكن ذلك واضحًا للرب ، ما عداه لا أهمية له ، أما الرب فهو ما يهمني ) ( الحياة سلسلة من الأخطاء تقودنا للحقيقة النهائية ، الحقيقة الوحيدة ) ( في بلد أصحابه من مُلّاك الضياع ، الأدب يعتبر شيئاً شاذًا و معرفة القراءة لا قيمة لها ) ( بماذا تفيد الحياة ؟ فيم تفيد الكتب ؟ ليست إلا ظلالاً )

  • Teresa Proença
    2018-10-23 15:34

    "...o abismo e a vertigem, a pequenez do ser e a sua ridícula vontade, gente que vê televisão, gente que assiste aos jogos de futebol, o aborrecimento como um porta-aviões gigantesco circum-navegando o imaginário chileno. E esta era a verdade. Aborrecíamo-nos. Líamos e aborrecíamo-nos. (...) Porque não se pode ler todo o dia e toda a noite.""Depois, a tempestade de merda abate-se."

  • Auguste
    2018-11-06 08:54

    What a poet Bolaño was! A single-sitting read, so artfully paced, so musical, it leaves you breathless.

  • Nora Barnacle
    2018-11-16 16:52

    Ova knjiga je sjajan izbor, makar za nekoga ko je, kao ja, o čileanskim prilikama znao zanemarljivo malo. Kako bilo, ova je knjiga na mene ostavila prilično jak utisak na razne teme.Čitala sam "Lagunino" izdanje u, rekla bih, veoma dobrom prevodu Igora Marojevića (toliko dobrom da sam uspela da zaboravim sasvim nesretno rešenu recenziju na koricama knjige - zbog čega za malo da je zaobiđem, jer me takvi sadržaji ne interesuju, nenavođenje jezika sa kog je Marojević prevodio - zbog čega sam morala da istražujem je li to onaj Marojević za koga znam da barata (i) katalonskim i tako redom, shodno standardima pojedinih izdavača). Ispostavilo se da je pametnije što sam odabrala to nego hrvatsku verziju sa, na prvi pogled, poetičnijim naslovom "Čileanski nokturno", upravo zbog prevoda, budući da je za adekvatno razumevanje Bolanja (makar ove knjige) neophodna prevodilačka veština dostojna talentu ovog pisca. Razlika između srpskog i hrvatskog rešavanja istog problema je taman kolika i između noći i nokturna iz naslova, pre početka, da bi se održala, izgleda, do kraja koji je kod Marojevića "oluja govana", a kod komšinice "strašno nevrijeme".Čile noću je soba puna ogledala iz koje sam ja izabrala ono koje se odnosi na književnost i uslove pod kojima ona nastaje u Čileu (a, valjda, i na drugim mestima koja su bila osuđena na komunizam, diktaturu, klerofašizam, marksizam i druga crnila istorijskog valera). U tom smislu, Pinočea sam doživela kao scenografski dekor, zajedno sa Alejndeom, i više se bavila pitanjem da li je ostareli mladić koji fantazmagorično progoni pripovedača Ernst Jinger i pod kojim okolnostima se tu upliće baš koji Sordelo jer ima osnova da se aludira na Dantea, Oskara Vajlda, a i sam Sordelo nije zanemarljiva pojava.Knjiga je stilski maestralna: napisana u jednom paragrafu, kao ispovest čoveka u groznici od koje ni čitalac ne može da se spase. Pregnantnije nego u najuspelijim Saramagovim trudovima za ignorisanje interpunkcije, na stotinka strana ovde je, kako neko lepo reče, postignuto crnilo Gojinog mraka u kome ono što najsjajnije blješti nije tema. Zaista ne znam kako je to sve tu stalo: nebo krvavo od golubova koje kolju sokolovi, austrougarski car i obućar, diskrecija (stilska, ne jezička) kojom se govori o gej nazorima pa i pedofiliji, Nerudina sahrana, gvatemalski slikar koji vidi Meksiko siti kroz pariski prozor, književne kritike, mediokritetska književnost, sorei u vilama, Tukidid, Opus Dei, mučenja u podrumima…a nije Sorokin, na primer.Roberta Bolanja smatram vrlo ozbiljnim piscem, uprkos činjenici da inače zazirem od manjka formalnog obrazovanja (pa odozgo i disleksije), hipi fazona, komunističkih agitacija, nevaspitanih protestvovanja protiv autoriteta i izmišljanja novih reči i stilova po svaku cenu. Sudeći po ovoj jednoj knjizi, da dovoljno je on veliki da izađe Markesu na crtu i da kaže da realizam treba da bude produbljen, dakle, infra, a ne nakićen nekakvom magijom. Iako gotovo nikada ne čitam istu knjigu dva puta, ova će se naći na tom spisku, ali, paradoksalno, nisam sigurna da ću Bolanja čitati uskoro. Isto tako, sumnjam da ću ga preporučivati naširoko iako je Čile noću najupečatljivija knjiga koju sam pročitala u ovoj godini, a među prvih desetak najzanimljivijih meni poznatih.Zanimljivo je i ovo: sudeći prema Bolanju, Neruda nije ubijen (sigurno bi on to rekao 2003.), to u prilog onom otkopavanju njegovog groba na koje čekamo poslednjih par godina. Ako je tu izneo istorijski tačnu informaciju, onda će se ipostavi i da se Aljende samoubio, a nije raznet. No, to me manje zanima.

  • Erial Noreste
    2018-10-28 08:38

    Difícil para los que no son chilenos saber que los personajes de esta novela se inspiran en dos instituciones fácticas de la literatura chilena del S.XX: Ibañes Langlois (Urrutia Lacroix), sacerdote del Opus Dei y crítico literario sin contrapeso durante la dictadura; y Alone (Farewell), Hernán Díaz Arrieta, otro crítico conservador "irrefutable", antecesor del primero.Asimismo lo narrado en la novela no es más que una ficción sobre hechos y personajes estrictamente reales. Hechos que constituyen la pagina más negra de la literatura chilena, escrita por siniestros funcionarios desde rincones a los que no llegaba la luz del sol, apenas la hiriente vibración de los fluorescentes: en una oficina de la redacción de cultura del diario El Mercurio, o en los talleres literarios que oficiaba Mariana Callejas en su casa, que era además un centro de tortura:“...fueron varios los intelectuales y artistas que llegaron a la casa de Lo Curro en calidad de visitas. Uno de ellos fue Nicanor Parra, que llegó por intermedio de Lafourcade. Eran las fiestas del 18 de septiembre de 1976 y por alguna razón –“seguramente de curados”, el antipoeta se trenzó en una fuerte discusión con un pintor de apellido Cisternas”. (Mariana Callejas, citada en Wikipedia)Que es lo común a la narrativa de Bolaño. Quizás, el universo espiritual de los personajes. Guardando las distancias entre un entrañable Ulises Lima y un despreciable Urrutia Lacroix, todos, poetas rabiosos, académicos, críticos presuntuosos, o escritores nazis, parecen buscar sin sosiego algo que supera la capacidad del lenguaje para expresarlo.

  • Carolina Paiva
    2018-11-06 10:29

    Bolaño é mestre no uso das palavras. Comecei muito bem esta leitura, adorei as primeiras páginas. Depois, perdi-me, a mistura de histórias fez-me voltar atrás várias vezes. Voltei a gostar muito em algumas partes específicas mas não como no início. Os diálogos entre os personagens são do mais desconcertante possível. Se por vezes me faziam rir à gargalhada, outras ficava com a sensação que eram todos loucos.É um livro pequeno e recheado. Frenético, por vezes. Confuso. Acho que pela primeira vez gostei de repetições de palavras, fizeram sentido e deram intensidade à situação. Ponto extra para a forma como o narrador desconstrói as suas próprias afirmações, como nos faz duvidar. Senti-me enganada e estranhamente atraída. No entanto, se logo no início lhe dediquei a minha total atenção não consegui voltar a fazê-lo em mais nenhum momento do livro. Estava constantemente à espera do grande momento de Bolaño que não chegou a acontecer. Ou talvez já tivesse acontecido logo naquele início (vale a pena regressar ao início). Acaba de forma desconcertante, quase a roçar o estúpido. É perfeitamente possível que não o tenha entendido. Acho que este foi o primeiro escritor-génio que li. (Talvez Saramago também se enquadre aqui, embora de uma forma mais consciente). Parece-me que Bolaño não tem noção do impacto que provoca e portanto é-lhe fácil trocar as voltas de tudo, quase "gozar" com o próprio texto.Tudo começa com um padre (e crítico literário) a relembrar alguns dos momentos mais marcantes da sua vida. Posso também adiantar que tudo acaba assim.Todo o livro é rodeado de uma aura pesada, quase diabólica, na iminência de um desastre.Vou continuar a ler mais de Bolaño. E o próximo será já daqui a uns dias."...em certas alturas, os meus ganidos eram apenas audíveis para aqueles que com a unha do indicador eram capazes de raspar a superfície dos meus escritos, só para esses, que não eram muitos, mas que para mim eram suficientes, e a vida continuava e continuava e continuava, como um colar de arroz em que cada bago tivesse uma paisagem pintada..."

  • Amir
    2018-11-16 15:56

    سختی خوندن کتاب‌های بولانو برمی‌گرده به دو چیز. یکی این‌که بولانو راوی شاعرها و نویسنده‌های شیلی هست. طبیعتا کسی که با این ادبیات آشنایی نداشته باشه نمی‌تونه ارجاعات مسلسل‌وار کتاب‌هاش رو درک کنه. از طرف دیگه نثر خود بولانو نثر مکلفی هست و هیچ‌وقت به ساده و بی‌پرده گفتن تن نمیده. هر دو تای این عوامل باعث میشن بولانو نویسنده‌ی «سخت‌خوان»ی باشه. ارجاعات کتاب رو خوب متوجه نشدم. تا نصفه‌های کتاب داشتم مدام این سوال رو می‌پرسیدم که چرا دارم این کتاب رو می‌خونم تا این‌که از نیمه‌ها به بعد و با شروع سفر راوی کشیش و منتقد ادبی داستان به اروپا، روایت یه کم کمکی رنگ و بو گرفت. یه دو تا صحنه‌ی درخشان هم داشت کتاب و جز این هیچ. به هیچ عنوان به کسی که به ادبیات شیلی آشنا نیست توصیه نمیشه

  • Abailart
    2018-11-08 10:28

    I thought this very good. It's my first encounter with this writer, and although I have seen reviews suggesting his 'difficulty', I have no hesitation in recommending this to anybody. (I thank Mike Puma for suggesting it as probably the most suitable introduction to the author). It's very rich and dense, with startling images and cross-cutting motifs; many extratextual references too, but I hardly think they matter at this stage. Later, I will return to read the book again, as one will return to a film, looking forward to the total experience, reading differently, with more prepared resonance as a reader.Here I'll reveal what struck me immediately. The single paragraph of the novel (well, there's two if you include the seven word paragraph at the end, important as it is) is the confessional of a Priest/Poet/Aesthete/Critic who believes he's dying. He isn't - except of course, he is, as we all are. He's not a sympathetic character, what with his being a coward, a debauch, a hero worshipper, a solipsistic fool (just to begin the catalogue). But he is sympathetic too for the poor man is just anyone. I'm not convinced that this is remotely a book about Chile, despite the confessor's search for the very Christian, very Chilean. I think a reader who goes in fangs bared knowing this Priest is member of (fashionably, what else, negatively connoted) Opus Dei or intuiting that he was part of the establishment that crushed the brave Socialist experiment will miss much of what is actually in the text. That's something ironic, something of the the world of the lovers of literature and the arts generally, that something being you don't approach act and being as a political animal by chattering about representations. There are the precisely controlled traces, just enough, of the horrors of Chile - and, incidentally, Europe and the USA - to help embrace a certain readership into necessary active political studies of the nature of myths , narratives of gods, nations, good and evil, left and right, personal identity. Even Pinochet - who has a speaking part in this novel (during one of the Priest's six stories) understands that to defeat a story you meed to understand it. Bolano, though, goes deeper, and suggests that if you scratch away at any story an utter boredom, acidie, ruination and decay are revealed. Again, here, the reader who knows knows about relating to personalities at a much more positive level (by contrast): the lecher priest who feels Pinochet's hand upon his knee like a myriad desiring multitude of hands; the frightened priest who sees in a namesake baby with eyes and mouth closed himself against the world (while, in this moment also rushing with heterosexual desire) knows nothing of health: for him the world is in ruins, and broken and unstable as much of the imagery of the novel explores.It's useful to have priest-aesthete as narrator. For one thing, such an individual has the ideological permission to be above the mere world of the messily human, and Sebastian (the priest) assumes such permission (as many do do). His torpor (mere boredom) in Chile is followed by aesthetic excitatation springing from one part of Europe to another. In a hymn to his God he praises not the Lord's justice or concern for the oppressed but his own being graced by encounter with "my happiness, passion regained, genuine devotion, my prayers rising up and up through the crowds to the realm of pure music, to what for want of a better name we call the choir of angels, a non-human space but undoubtedly the only imaginable space we humans can truly inhabit, an uninhabitable space but the only one worth inhabiting, a space in which we will cease to be but the only space in which we can be what we truly are..." My guess is that there are priest-aesthetes spouting this all over the world in various forms. There may have been refined monsters in Auschwitz sharing sherries with their local clergy who hissed it too.This particular failed poet longs for a more 'cultured' 'Chile'. He immerses himself in Graeco-Roman 'culture' (clean as a sculpture, and neatly forgetting Aristotle's - and later Aquinas' - emphasis upon the political centrality of being); he longs for 'his' country to open itself to Whitman, Pound, Eliot, Hugo, Borges, Tolstoy (what a truly bizarre conglomerate!); he wilfully, proudly, separates himself from the universe of political events (the real people's acting and being), and regularly joins the grotesque gatherings of third-rate literati, artists and such that chatter in comfortable soirees while beneath them in the basements of a house whose labyrinthine corridors are laid our 'like a crossword puzzle', victims of torture suffer and die. But he's no more a coward than anyone who lives like that. Anywhere, any time. The failure of aestheticism to complete and identity is the torment of this narrator. It is universal. He's allowed limited reflection himself, for instance awareness of his own own poems' division into apollonian and dionysian (such a division, of course, being about as creative, active, poetic as a crossword clue), Where the insistent filmic image of 'zooming' in through the petals of a flower, through the entrance to the Emperor's room through door after door of antechambers, to the 'tunnel of time, back into time's great meat-grinder' (the latter near the end) there's a redemptive possibility, that the frightened story-maker and conservative adult will recognise the wizened youth within and eschew both.

  • LW
    2018-11-14 14:37

    I miei silenzi sono immacolati . Che sia chiaro.Sfido a non aver repentino desiderio di conoscere il cileno Sebastián Urrutia Lacroix ,dopo un incipit cosìOra muoio, ma ho ancora molte cose da dire. Ero in pace con me stesso. Muto e in pace. Ma all’improvviso le cose sono emerse. La colpa è di quel giovane invecchiato. Io ero in pace. Ora non sono più in pace. Bisogna chiarire certi punti. Quindi mi appoggerò su un gomito e solleverò la testa, la mia nobile testa tremante, e cercherò nell’angolo dei ricordi quelle azioni che mi giustificano e perciò smentiscono le infamie che il giovane invecchiato ha sparso in giro a mio discredito in una sola notte fulminea.A mio presunto discredito. Un monologo possente ...lettura a cinque stelle che prima ho fatto da sola e poi ho voluto ripetere con lo spettacolo di Fabrizio Gifuni che ha saputo dare con grande bravura, corpo e voce ,pause e gesti al personaggio in una bellissima interpretazione (per non parlar dell'explicit, memorabile :) (view spoiler)[ E poi si scatena la tempesta di merda(hide spoiler)] )

  • Barry Pierce
    2018-10-20 08:50

    This can be seen as Bolaño's Death of Ivan Ilyich. A dying man recounts his earlier years spent with Neruda et al. This seems to be one of Bolaño's most popular works according to this website and I just cannot think why. The entire novel is one solid block of text, the narrator rambles a lot and it's basically a poor man's version of Amulet. While the prose is as excellent as ever I did find myself fading in and out of this narrative, nothing stuck. It's a pity really. Bolaño is better than this.

  • Jim Elkins
    2018-11-16 10:42

    A Different Model of How to Attach Politics to LiteratureandWhat it Means to Write a Novel After Novels Have EndedTwo thoughts about Bolano's "By Night in Chile." 1. A Different Model of How to Attach Politics to LiteratureLike others of Bolano's books, Night in Chile is a concerted fusion of two worlds: the society of writers and poets (their parties, their conversations, their lifestyles), and the society of political control (in this case Pinochet's generals and his repressive regime). The narrator in Night in Chile is haunted by his complicity: he actually tutored Pinochet in Marx, and he went to parties at houses in which, as he later learned, people were being tortured and killed.What's interesting here, for me, is how easy it is to imagine either of these by itself. Bolano is always full of anecdotes about writers--this novel could have been a memoir--and he can fill literally hundreds of pages with the names of Latin American writers and poets. In this novel there are just two scenes in which politics intersects the narrator's life, but they're enough to suggest a separate novel--a thriller--in which the narrator is not a writer, but still has the same experiences. This is not the most common way to put politics into fiction, and it feels at once utterly committed and wholly artificial. As if the commitment to write was a promise to write politics and literature, but the impetus to write was to immerse readers in the author's literary world. 2. What it Means to Write a Novel After Novels Have EndedBolano's books are written in continuous narratives streams, which change direction unexpectedly. His stories are capacious enough to welcome any number of inclusions, asides, and diversions. Sometimes complete short stories are embedded in narratives; other times stories break off suddenly, as if the narrator forgot them or the author hadn't decided where they might go. By Night in Chile is 130 pages long and has only two paragraphs, one of which is a single line. 2666 has several novellas, some page-long stories, some series and sequences, and a number of repeated motifs, and yet it doesn't have a comprehensible overall structure like, say, Ulysses or even Gravity's Rainbow. I'm aware of four explanations for this:1. Some people who praise Bolano tend to say that his intentionally collagist narratives are designed that way to match his subjects. Discursive, wandering, associative writing, so the argument goes, is artful, and is only designed to appear improvised or insouciant about form. I'm not convinced of that (as I wrote about "2666" on Goodreads).2. There is another argument that Bolano's books best imagined as counterfeits of stream of consciousness, but again this seems insufficient: not just because not all his narratives represent people thinking or speaking, but because his novels all have plots, with beginnings, endings, discrete episodes, flashbacks, and all the apparatus of fiction.3. A third argument, especially in relation to 2666, is that the book was finished in haste. That may be partly true, but it would not explain Bolano's other books.4. I'd like to try to articulate another kind of explanation. Here's how I ended a brief review of "Amulet" on Goodreads: The authorial voice, and in this case also the narrator's voice, are presented as if they are talking. It's as if this is what happens in a writer's mind when he or she is contemplating the craft and social world of novel writing, before it's time to settle down and write. This would explain an odd effect in Bolano: when you encounter a passage that is beautifully written, it seems somehow out of place, as if it's something that should only happen in the novels that Bolano's characters are forever discussing. Or to put it another way: it is as if novel writing is no longer possible, and the only way forward for the novel is rumination about the novel. (The full context here is here.]My review sparked a short but interesting discussion about Bolano's style. A reader named Milo commented "I like to think of Bolano's work as a kind of fulfillment of what Borges talks about in one of his introductions: 'the madness of composing vast books, of setting out in 500 pages an idea that can be perfectly related orally in five minutes. The better way to go about it is to pretend that those books already exist, and offer a summary, a commentary on them.'"I like the idea that Bolano's fiction is extended commentary on fiction -- which, in the telling, often comes so close to the fiction itself that it's indistinguishable, because a rehearsal has to be as close to the performance as possible. For me this goes with the idea that Bolano writes with an imagined speaking voice, not a writing voice: it's a monologue, sometimes inner, sometimes as if spoken, about literature.But then comes a difficult point. I still think 2666 and other fictions are loosely assembled. Am I to accept all such looseness as an effect of the rehearsal, or of the speaking voice? At what point can I hold the author accountable for the form of the book? How can I not find myself thinking: is every sudden transition or overly long passage or unnoticed resonance expressive? Aren't there passages that could benefit from closer attention, even in an author who writes as he speaks, and thinks as he writes? Or, on the other hand: aren't there passages where a writerly style, apparently produced without the idea of transcribing thought or speech, feels obtrusive?When I posted this on Facebook, I got an interesting response from Fernando Velasquez Pomar. He pointed out that a broken, apparently sometimes careless, almost-spoken style "is precisely the point with the priest/critic, an extremely artificial person whose thoughts come as half-written and, in the end, ponderous." This is an excellent point, and the narrator is also feeling guilty, or at least cloudily complicit. But I'd still wonder why the same way of writing fits very different narrators, for example in "2666."Bolano's prose is very much like a representation of thinking about writing, or pondering writing about novels and poetry. There is a tension, never acknowledged but always present, between the structured narratives that provide the novels' framework, and the wandering thoughts of the narrators. It wasn't possible for Bolano to write about this in the novels, because they are examples of what happens when a person cannot (will not) produce the narrative itself, but only the idea of it.

  • El Avestruz Liado
    2018-10-20 13:27

    Does the world needs another review of "By Night in Chile"? Of course not, so let me just give a few pieces of advice for the prospective reader:- Try to allow yourself some time to read it in a single sit. The book is structured as a single paragraph, so you better read it with as few interruptions as possible.- The first third is rather slow, the very beginning is nice but then it goes into mincing Chilean literature. I guess most of you will recognize some names like Neruda, Parra and Donoso and miss most of rest. How far you want to delve into the literary discussion is up to you, but for most readers reading a literary discussion without paragraph breaks might be asking a bit too much. My advice to them is to endure for a few more pages, once the protagonist meets two guys who want to send him to Europe the tone of the book changes completely.- Unless you are from Chile, chances are you are will end up missing many references that are central to the plot. Try to search for a few of these names in wikipedia: Hernán Díaz Arrieta, Mariana Callejas, Michael Townley and the 1973 Chilean coup d'état. There is even a study guide at: http://www.gradesaver.com/by-night-in.... Now, whether you should read them before or after reading the book is (again) up to you. If you read them before you are going to get spoilers, if you read them after then a reread should be a good idea. Since this is a short book I would go for the later.On a totally unrelated issue, the cover of the original version in spanish is one of the best I've ever seen. It shows some dogs floating in a raft navigating through a storm. What a nice metaphor for a dictatorship! In the very last line of the book you will learn what kind of storm he was actually referring to.

  • Pickle Farmer
    2018-10-18 16:53

    A very memorable, powerful book that asks the very difficult but important question: what is the relevance (if any) of literature to Real Life, especially when said Real Life involves political turmoil? (Specifically a military coup when people are being tortured and killed in basements while literary parties are taking place upstairs.) Is it brave and wise to read Thucycides and Plato when a democratically elected president is being overthrown, or just stupid and detached? With this novella, narrated in the voice of a strongly unsympathetic character, I can see why Bolaño liked "How I Became A Nun" after reading this book. I can also see (more than ever) the super Borgesian influence. Oh, Bolaño. You make my life so much better. More than anything else, Bolaño has shown me that truly great literature can be more often than not be interpreted as strongly political in nature.

  • julieta
    2018-10-25 15:36

    Este es el segundo libro que leo de Bolaño, el primero fue Detectives Salvajes, que es de mis libros favoritos. Este es completamente distinto en estilo, casi como si fuera escrito por otra persona, pero igual me encanto. Es el viaje en la memoria de un personaje que no sabes si te cae bien o mal, un sacerdote entusiasta de la literatura, la poesia. Es un viaje hacia todo tipo de recuerdos, pasan por ahi Neruda, Pinochet, analiza constantemente todo tipo de traumas chilenos, de caracter y de historia, tambien plantea preguntas como, el arte puede ser independiente de la vision politica? Muy bueno, me intriga leer mas libros suyos.

  • Marko
    2018-10-20 15:32

    4.5*

  • Gill
    2018-10-31 09:31

    Although I know of Bolaño, this is the first book that I've read by him.I found it a help that I knew something about Chile and its history. This enabled me to concentrate more on the essence of the book, which is to do with duty, responsibility, freedom, complicity etc etc.Although there were occasions when I found the writing style difficult, I am pleased that I read it. There were sections that were amusing as well as serious eg when the narrator was sent to Europe to research how various churches dealt with pigeon infestations. (A lot of symbolism, as you might expect).Often the language was fabulous, eg the section starting 'Life went on and on like a necklace of rice grains....'I thought the final section of the book, from the first mention of the soirées at Maria Canales and Jimmy's house, was excellent.Available on Openlibrary.