Roberto Bolaño @ Jerry Bauer
I
Roberto Bolaño gebore in 1953 en oorlede in 2003 is veral bekend vir sy prosa. In hierdie dae lees ek weer die verbluffende 2666, 'n teks wat die grense van die romankuns uitdaag. 'n Paragraaf is 'n vloedgolf van één sin. Karakters verdwyn en kom weer later terug in die storie.
Gebore in Chili, gevlug na Mexiko en Spanje was hy iets van 'n misterieuse figuur. Verslaaf aan dwelms en wagtend op 'n leweroorplanting, sterf hy.
Daar word vertel dat hy die romans geskryf het om sy vrou en kinders aan die lewe te hou. In Spanje was hy 'n bokser, skottelgoedwasser, vullisverwyderaar, sekureiteitsbeampte en as kind glo disleksies. Geboelie op skool en dus ‘n outsider.
Sy pa was 'n bokser en trokdrywer; sy ma onderwyseres. Daar was boeke in die huis, maar nie eintlik hoë letterkunde nie.
In sy lewe het hy die Chileense letterkundige sisteem as snobisties en afwysend ervaar en veral die hooghartige Isabel Allende, geteiken met argwaan. Volgens Ariel Dorfman het hierdie outsiderskap aan hom 'n enorme vryheid gegee. Iets wat 'n mens dan in sy tekste opvang. Teen die grein en modes van sy tyd, skryf hy asof hy eintlik met homself praat. Hy meng genres en breek konvensies af. In ‘n roekelose, asemsnakkende styl wat absolute bewondering afdwing.
2666 verwys (waarskynlik) na die Bybelse Eksodus en die vlug uit Egipte 2 666 jaar nadat God die aarde geskape het. Ander kritici meen weer dis al die bladsye wat hy nagelaat het.
Hierdie roman beslaan vyf afdelings. Die eerste afdeling handel oor die kritici en vier Europese geleerdes, die Fransman, Jean-Claude Pelletier, die Italianer, Piero Morini, die Spanjaard, Manuel Espinoza en Liz Norton, ‘n jong Engelse akademikus op wie die mans verlief is.
Hoe elkeen van hulle smag na haar, word uistonderlik kragtig beskryf.
Hulle ondersoekveld is die misterieuse Duitse skrywer (met ‘n Italiaanse naam), Benno von Archimboldi. Mevrou Bubis, sy uitgewer vertolk ‘n belangrike rol, nes Rodolfo Alatorre, wat beweer hulle was bevriend. Die soektog na die skrywer lewer aanvanklik niks op nie.
Uiteraard omdat identiteite nie “waar” is nie. Mevrou Bubis blyk Barones von Zumpe te wees, net soos wat die identiteit van die skrywer later onthul word. Maar ek wil nie nou ‘n pretbederwer wees nie! Wat ‘n verbeelding!
II
Ek wil egter op sy digkuns die aandag vestig. Dit is altyd 'n wonderlike ervaring om 'n nuwe digter te ontdek en ek is kortom gaande oor sy poësie.
In 1975 begin hy 'n digkuns-beweging, die sogenaamde Infrarealismo in Mexiko saam met Mario Santiago Papasquiaro, José Vicente Anaya, Rubén Medina en José Rosas Ribeyro.
Hulle motto was: “Blaas die breins uit van die kulturele establishment.”
Hierdie beweging was o.a. krities oor die werk van die Mexikaan, Octavia Paz en daar word vertel dat hulle een keer selfs koffie oor hom uitgesmyt het in die openbaar. Paz het vir hom alles verteenwoordig wat hy in die letterkundige establishment verfoei het. (Hierdie leser is ‘n groot bewonderaar van Paz se vermoë om stilte te verwoord.)
Hier is twee verse uit sy bundel The romantic dogs:
Self portrait at twenty years
I set off, I took up the march and never knew
where it might take me. I went full of fear,
my stomach dropped, my head was buzzing:
I think it was the icy wind of the dead.
I don't know. I set off, I thought it was a shame
to leave so soon, but at the same time
I heard that mysterious and convincing call.
You either listen or you don't, and I listened
and almost burst out crying: a terrible sound,
born on the air and in the sea.
A sword and shield. And then,
despite the fear, I set off, I put my cheek
against death's cheek.
And it was impossible to close my eyes and miss seeing
that strange spectacle, slow and strange,
though fixed in such a swift reality:
thousands of guys like me, baby-faced
or bearded, but Latin American, all of us,
brushing cheeks with death.
where it might take me. I went full of fear,
my stomach dropped, my head was buzzing:
I think it was the icy wind of the dead.
I don't know. I set off, I thought it was a shame
to leave so soon, but at the same time
I heard that mysterious and convincing call.
You either listen or you don't, and I listened
and almost burst out crying: a terrible sound,
born on the air and in the sea.
A sword and shield. And then,
despite the fear, I set off, I put my cheek
against death's cheek.
And it was impossible to close my eyes and miss seeing
that strange spectacle, slow and strange,
though fixed in such a swift reality:
thousands of guys like me, baby-faced
or bearded, but Latin American, all of us,
brushing cheeks with death.
(Vertaler: Laura Healy)
Dirty, poorly dressed
On the dogs’ path, my soul came upon
my heart. Shattered, but alive,
dirty, poorly dressed, and filled with love.
On the dogs’ path, there where no one wants to go.
A path that only poets travel
when they have nothing left to do.
But I still had so many things to do!
And nevertheless, there I was: sentencing myself to death
by red ants and also
by black ants, traveling through the empty villages:
fear that grew
until it touched the stars.
A Chilean educated in Mexico can withstand everything,
I thought, but it wasn’t true.
At night, my heart cried. The river of being, chanted
some feverish lips I later discovered to be my own,
the river of being, the river of being, the ecstasy
that folds itself into the bank of these abandoned villages.
Mathematicians and theologians, diviners
and bandits emerged
like aquatic realities in the midst of a metallic reality.
Only fever and poetry provoke visions.
Only love and memory.
Not these paths or these plains.
Not these labyrinths.
Until at last my soul came upon my heart.
It was sick, it’s true, but it was alive.
‘n Mens vind iets van die Beat-generasie in sy gedigte: die swerwer, die junkie, die bum, die visionêr …
Hy is Kerouac versnit met Ginsberg en Borges.
Net koors en poësie roep visioene op …
Die skrywer is oorlede in 2003 in Katalonië, maar hy het ‘n énorme letterkundige testament nagelaat. The Savage Detectives is eweneens ‘n belangrike teks.
© Joan Hambidge
