My Little Lumpen Reviewita

I read my first Roberto Bolano novel yesterday. I read the whole, slim A Little Lumpen Novelita in about three or so hours. I held the book in my hands, the real thing, wore my glasses to make out the font, sped through it. I confess to believing that I'd never read a Bolano novel. I felt like I'd missed the Bolano boat just as I've missed the iPod boat for music. I still listen to CDs or the radio and have no music on my phone. It seems too late to start doing that. It seems too late to start reading Bolano (oh, and Rushdie -- I've never read Rushdie and then there's DeLillo -- I've not read enough DeLillo to say I've read DeLillo through). I have noticed and winced every time a Bolano novel comes out because all the Glitter and Litter Aties exclaim so loudly, and I'm a contrary soul. I didn't want to read them. A Little Lumpen Novelita has such a good title, though, and it's so very short, and it was the real thing, a photo on the cover, pages, a font that I couldn't manipulate, no light to strain the eyes. I held it in my hands and read it in a few hours. Did I like it? I liked it as much as I ever liked Hemingway, if that tells you something. Those short, manly sentences -- perfectly crafted and perfectly -- well - perfect. Emotions powerful and clipped to a point. Bolano perhaps wrote a woman's voice as a woman, and that might be his achievement. Admiration is not the same thing as like, much less love. Cold. A Little Lumpen Novelita is curiously perfect and cold, but I didn't really like it.