Like a Cemetery in the Year 2666

Thick heavy rain. The air conditioning turned up full at work. Like a hospital in the tropics, not that I have been to the tropics, but I have hospitals.
They are always too warm.

I start reading 'The Savage Detectives' by Roberto Bolano again. I read the piece about the author at the back of the book. Rather flick through it; work is busy and breaks are snatched in glimpses during quiet moments. The writer (Biographer? Reviewer?) writes of another novel of his '2666' that it has a sense of 'creeping conspiracy'.

Oh yes. 2666. I remember reading that. That sense of odd undefined wrongness that ran through the book. Not so much the words - or the subject - if '2666' can be described as having a subject, but the tone... the rhythm of the words themselves... set up strange echoes. Oscar Fate, where are you now? - sent to Mexico to cover some boxing match - or matches (too long since I read the book) - lost writers and murders - and reading it was like being followed by the place itself. Insidious.

Reading 2666 would be like reading 'The King in Yellow', a fictional theatre play dreamt up by Robert W Chambers, but 2166 is sprawling and real, and 'The King in Yellow' is in fragments and has never existed.

Rain cleared up.
Sun.
I'm afraid to read 'The Savage Detectives' because 2666 is too perfect.