I have been reading the same book for ten months, a monster by Roberto Bolaño, and writing the same novel for 5 years. In the book I am reading, which is sitting beside me now like a sphinx, prostitutes are murdered in droves and the persons responsible remain out of reach of the Mexican police force, who are incompetent or overwhelmed.
In the book I am writing, which sits on a whirring hard drive by my knee, nobody is dead yet. I want to correct this, but also I doubt that I ever will. On that same hard drive, which spits out the Tetris theme as I type, through headphones perched on the corner of a tiny desk, there are 4 other abandoned novels.
1. The Misfortunates – in the 1920s, a man with a form of malevolent vampirism cheats mortality by sustaining himself via schadenfreude. His memory is fallible. He discovers he is the Wandering Jew, the man who laughed at Christ as he carried the cross to Golgotha.
2. In The Nidhogg’s Mouth (or ‘Londerground’) – an orphan, now grown, and his energetic friend become part of an underground videogame collective in a subterranean city of the future, which constantly shifts around and entices all citizens to take part in a collective social network game.
3. Hey! Atlantic Ocean! – an 11-year-old boy crosses the Atlantic from Donegal, Ireland with an anthropomorphic jellyfish. But this story is being told by four different people in four different places, and each version is different, introducing new characters – giants, creatures, pirates. In the end the four storytellers meet. They are siblings, and have gathered for their adoptive mother’s funeral – the woman who first told them the boy’s sea-faring story. They argue about the ‘canon’ ending of the tale and the story collapses on itself, killing the jellyfish and other characters in the process. The boy of the story is left alive, on the shores of Newfoundland, mourning the deaths of his friends.
4. The Backwards Pilgrim – a man without faith walks the Camino de Santiago de Compostela in the opposite direction intended by the followers of St. James the Apostle. He writes a guide for those who follow and learns three ghost stories along the way. There is no ending.
5. The Age of Openness (current?) – a dozen Londoners collide over the course of a single day, as told by an unknown narrator. A former Call of Duty champion with carpal tunnel, an impatient local news journalist, a charity PR scouring Tinder for pointless romance, an unemployed Spanish immigrant, and others. All of the characters are linked. One of them, an Algerian professor of computing, gives a lecture on artificial intelligence. The narrator, we learn, is an AI she invented.
I hate all of these books. I say “books” when I mean “files”. A yellow folder of word processor documents filled with text that will never be complete enough to love, nor skant enough to delete.
The book I am reading, 2666 by Bolaño, is really five books. They were put together against the author’s wishes following his death, but the characters and places are nonetheless meant to intertwine. One of the characters is a tall German author called Archimboldi. In the first book he is the focus of a group of critics, who travel to Mexico trying to find him. They are unsuccessful. The middle three books do not mention him. The fifth book is called “The Part About Archimboldi”. I am still eighty pages away from it.
I do not know why any of this is important.