Sunday, April 11, 2010

The Snow Novel

by Roberto Bolaño, trans. by D. Matus

My literary works, April 10, 1980. Obsessed

with legs in bedrooms where everything is feminine

even I, who killed an air conditioner and mummifies

hounds. No writing in the rhythm of my days

without money, or love, or looks; only dark

bedroom secrets where I'm surrounded by silk

stockings, canaries, and slices of the moon. However

when I write I can say entertaining things

that interest people. Abstract pianos

in silent ambush, my own silence that

surrounds the writing. Maybe only the indiscriminate,

arriving at the terminal where "my talent"

expresses itself through the combustible cracks

of my neck in the snow novel.

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