more on Bolaño

"Half-done we remain, neither cooked nor raw, lost in the vastness of this endless trash heap, wandering and getting ourselves wrong, killing and begging pardon, manic-depressive characters in your dream, Father, your limitless dream that we have unravelled a thousand times and more than a thousand times again, Latin American detectives lost in a labyrinth of crystal and mud . . . lost in the misery of your utopian dream, Father, lost in the variety of your voices and abysses, manic-depressives in the uncontainable room in Hell where you cook up your Jokes..."