speculate that, far fromtrying to conceal its very miscellaneous character, Bolao himself would haveunderscored it, assigning the book to the same category as Putasasesinas and El gaucho insufrible.The fifth section deals entirely with writers and books. Again,these are occasional pieces, written on assignment, mostly prefaces and the oddreview, as well as a few stray obituaries (like Camilo JosCelas) and pieces written to celebrate the publication of a book (like Noteson Jaime Bayly). At the end comes what is certainly one ofBolaos last pieces, Sevilla Kills Me, a fragment of an unfinished speechthat he planned to read at the first Encuentro de Escritores Latinoamericanos[Conference of Latin American Writers], organized by the publishing house SeixBarral and held in Sevilla in June 2003. Bolao traveled to Sevilla withouthaving finished the speech, reading instead Los mitos de Cthulhu, which wasalready written. Its clear that if finished, Sevilla Kills Me would join thecompany of the insufferable speeches. Its content, in any case, makes plainthe context in which one must view the back-slaps and knuckle-raps, the winksand cuffs that Bolao deals his contemporaries, particularly the young LatinAmerican writers who, justifiably or not, constantly cite him as an influence. The Private Life of a Novelist, the last of the sections into whichthis volume is divided, consists of four short pieces in which Bolao recallshis education as a reader and reflects on his literary kitchen, permittinghimself to offer some advice on the art of writing stories and providing someclues to The Savage Detectives. The book ends with one of the last interviews that Bolao gave, if notthe last. The interview was conducted by Mnica Maristain, forthe Mexican edition of Playboy, and it came out on the day he died.Bolao sent written answers, and claimed hed had fun with it. The result is akind of sketch, for which Bolao posed with characteristic openness and irony. In putting together this book, it was necessary to overcome somescruples about doing so without the express consent of the writer. But, as weveseen, Bolao himself more than once announced his intention of preparing acollection of his journalistic pieces, which provides an initial alibi forproceeding in his stead. Theres room nevertheless, for reasonable doubt as towhich pieces Bolao might or might not have decided to include, what hisselection criteria might have been, and how he might have ordered the pieces. Inthese matters theres no guidance to be had, so an attempt has been made toproceed as neutrally as possible, without relinquishing minimal standards oforganization. There has been no censorship, nor were any pieces automaticallyruled out (with the exception, previously noted, of those published in Catalanthat couldnt be located in the original version). Another matter are theundiscovered pieces that will doubtless surface here and there once this volumehas been published. There are unlikely to be many of them. In any case, thisvolume isnt defined by its zeal for exhaustiveness, particularly since it wasdecided at the outset not to reprint a number of very old pieces, publishedduring the years when Bolao lived in Mexico. To include them in this volumewould have meant disrupting the notable harmony of the elements of which it ispresently composed. Also, there was some hurry to get these pieces into readershands. This haste was motivated by a wish that they be read while the memory ofthe writer was still fresh, and as I write these lines, a year has not yetpassed since his death. At the end of the volume, the source for each piece is provided, alongwith a few explanatory notes. It can be seen here that only in exceptionalcases, when a piece is of particular interest, has it been included withoutdefinite proof of publication. Our aim has been simply to gather Bolaosscattered writings, not to provide a place for unpublished pieces, or to pretendto make inroads into his posthumous body of work, which is immense. At this point, it seems unnecessary to justify our choice of title he chose it. All of the collected pieces were written by Roberto Bolao duringpauses in his incessant creative labors, or between parentheses, and thaturgency inevitably shines through in this volume, most of its pieces written inthe course of the writers increasingly desperate struggle with death to finishthe monumental 2666, which will surely confirm him as an utterlyexceptional novelist, an essential figure. We began by saying that this volume amounts to something like apersonal cartography of Roberto Bolao and comes closest, of everything hewrote, to being a kind of fragmented autobiography. That the pieces itcontains are as the author stressed of a basically literary nature,doesnt contradict this assertion. Borges boasted more aboutthe books hed read than the ones hed written. In the self-portrait at thestart of this volume, Bolao, assiduous reader of Borges, claims to be muchhappier reading than writing. Criticism is the modern form of autobiography, says Ricardo Pigliain Formas breves [Short Forms]. And he adds: Writing fiction changeshow we read, and a writers criticism is the secret mirror of his work. SergioPitol says something similar in El arte de la fuga [The Art of Escape],a book that, like Piglias, bears a certain family resemblance to BetweenParentheses. One might suggest other precedents for this kind ofconfessional writing through reading, understood as an autobiographical approachto the fiction writer, but what has been said will suffice to justify theguiding role that this book is called to play in the proper reception of RobertoBolao as an author whose influence in the realms of Spanish and Latin Americanliterature has only just begun to be felt. Ignacio EchevarraBarcelona, May 2004Preface: Self-Portrait I was born in 1953, the year that Stalin and Dylan Thomas died. In 1973 I was detained for eight days bythe military, which had staged a coup in my country, and in the gym where thepolitical prisoners were held I found an English magazine with pictures of DylanThomass house in Wales. I had thought that Dylan Thomas died poor, but thehouse looked wonderful, almost like a fairytale cottage in the woods. There wasno story about Stalin. But that night I dreamed of Stalin and Dylan Thomas: thetwo of them were at a bar in Mexico City, sitting at a little round table, atable for arm wrestling, but instead of wrestling they were competing to see whocould hold his liquor better. The Welsh poet was drinking whiskey and the Sovietdictator was drinking vodka. As the dream went on, however, I was the only onewho seemed to feel queasier and queasier, ever closer to the verge of nausea.Well there you have the story of my birth. As for my books, I should say thatIve published five collections of poetry, one book of short stories, and sevennovels. Almost no one has read my poems, which is probably a good thing. Mybooks of prose have some loyal readers, probably undeservedly. In Consejosde un discpulo de Morrison a un fantico de Joyce[Advice from a Morrison Disciple to a Joyce Fanatic] (1984), written incollaboration with Antoni Garca Porta, I talk about violence.In The Skating Rink (1993), I talk about beauty, which is fleeting andusually meets a disastrous end. In Nazi Literature in the Americas(1996), I talk about the pathos and grandeur of the writing career. InDistant Star (1996), I attempt a very modest approximation ofabsolute evil. In The Savage Detectives (1998), I talk about adventure,which is always unexpected. In Amulet (1999), I try to give the readerthe impassioned voice of a Uruguayan woman who should have been born in ancientGreece. I omit my third novel, Monsieur Pain, whose plot isindecipherable. Though Ive lived in Europe for more than twenty years, my onlynationality is Chilean, which in no way prevents me from feeling deeply Spanishand Latin American. In my life Ive lived in three countries: Chile, Mexico, andSpain. Ive worked at every job in the world, except the three or four thatanybody with a little pride would turn down. My wife is Carolina Lpez* and my son is Lautaro Bolao.Theyre both Catalan. In Catalonia, I learned the difficult art of tolerance.Im much happier reading than writing.*In March 2001, after this piecewas written, Alexandra, the second child of Carolinaand RobertoIts odd that it was bourgeois writers who transported Jos Hernndezs Martn Fierro to the center of the Argentinecanon. The point is debatable, of course, but the truth is that Fierro, thegaucho, paradigm of the dispossessed, of the brave man (but also of the thug),presides over a canon, the Argentine canon, that only keeps getting stranger. Asa poem, Martn Fierro is nothing out of this world. As a novel,however, its alive, full of meanings to explore, which means that the windstill gusts (or blasts) through it, it still smells of the out-of-doors, itstill cheerfully accepts the blows of fate. Nevertheless, its a novel offreedom and squalor, not of good breeding and manners. Its a novel aboutbravery rather than intelligence, let alone morality. If Martn Fierro dominates Argentine literature and its placeis in the center of the canon, the work of Borges, probablythe greatest writer born in Latin America, is only a footnote. Its odd that Borges wrote so much and so well about MartnFierro. Not just the young Borges, who can be nationalistic at times,if only on the page, but also the adult Borges, who is occasionally thrown intoecstasies (strange ecstasies, as if he were contemplating the gestures of theSphinx) by the four most memorable scenes in Hernndezs work, and who sometimeseven writes perfect, listless stories with plots imitative of Hernndezs. WhenBorges recalls Hernndez, its not with the affection and admiration with whichhe refers to Giraldes, or with the surprise and resignationevoked by Evaristo Carriego, that familiar bogeyman. WithHernndez, or with Martn Fierro, Borges seems to be acting, acting toperfection, in fact, but in a play that strikes him from the beginning as not somuch odious as wrongheaded. And yet, odious or wrongheaded, it also seems to himinevitable. In this sense, his silent death in Geneva is highly eloquent. Morethan eloquent. In fact, his death in Geneva talks a blue streak. With Borges alive, Argentine literature becomes what most readersthink of as Argentine literature. That is: theres MacedonioFernndez, who at times resembles the Valry of Buenos Aires;theres Giraldes, whos rich and ailing; theres EzequielMartnez Estrada; theres Marechal, who later turns Peronist;theres Mujica Linez; theres Bioy Casares,who writes Latin Americas first and best fantastic novel, though all thewriters of Latin America rush to deny it; theres Bianco;theres Mallea, the pedant; theres SilvinaOcampo; theres Sbato; theres Cortzar,best of them all; theres Roberto Arlt, most hard done by. WhenBorges dies, everything suddenly comes to an end. Its as if Merlin had died,though Buenos Aires literary circles arent exactly Camelot. Gone, most of all,is the reign of balance. Apollonian intelligence gives way to Dionysiandesperatio