By Night in Chile
by Roberto Bolaño (Nocturno de Chile, 2000)
translated from the Spanish by Chris Andrews (2003)
New Directions (2003)
130 pp

By-Night-in-ChileI’m getting on better with Roberto Bolaño now than I was before. By that I mean that I am converted. After finding 2666 a brilliantly written mess and Nazi Literature in the Americas a horrific human mess (again, brilliantly written), I wanted to go back and read the first of his books translated into English: By Night in Chile. What I found here was a clearer vision of the savage politics of the last century, particularly of Latin America. Bolaño has a way of presenting the politics in an almost farcical way . . . for a while — and then it becomes a horrific climax (sadly missing in 2666; but there the horror was throughout in clinical understatement).

In a way, By Night in Chile is the first conventional novel I’ve read by Bolaño. It has a beginning and an end and narrative cohesion. Still it is not that conventional. On a first look, stylistically it reminded me of Imre Kertész’s Kaddish for an Unborn Child — both are powerfully stated first person narratives laid out in a virtually unbroken style. By Night in Chile is a 130-page single paragraph (Kaddish is around the same length but was mostly one long sentence — but it did have a few paragraph breaks!). This might be offputting, or at least intimidating, to some people. It is both to me because somehow you have to navigate through all that text. What I’ve found time and again, however, is that the authors who attempt this style are usually very good at utilizing it for purpose, and somehow they pull it off without making it a cumbersome mass.

Here, the style is definitely not cumbersome. It produces a narrative pace that gives the reader little time to breath, let alone think, an effective device in this context where the speaker doesn’t want you to have time to consider his words to see what he is and is not saying. Our narrator is Father Sebastian Urrutia Lacroix, a priest who has served the church, even entering the ranks of Opus Dei, and who has served the Chilean government. Sometimes he has served one through the other. He’s pulled himself up on his death bed, “propped up on one elbow” and lifting his “noble, trembling head,” to offer a final confession.

I am dying now, but I still have many things to say. I used to be at peace with myself. Quiet and at peace. But it all blew up unexpectedly. That wizened youth is to blame. I was at peace. I am no longer at peace. 

The confessional tone, however, is misleading because ultimately he admits to no wrong, and we know he’ll be ellusive from the start. In the middle of the first page we see that we are dealing with someone who is weighed down by something he is unwilling to name and therefore unwilling to accept.

One has to be responsible, as I have always said. One has a moral obligation to take responsibility for one’s actions, and that includes one’s words and silences, yes, one’s silences, because silences rise to heaven too, and God hears them, and only God understands and judges them, so one must be very careful with one’s silences. I am responsible in every way. My silences are immaculate.

Father Urrutia Lacroix then narrates his youth, and we know that he recognizes he was a more innocent person then, indeed he constantly feels chastized by his memories of his youth. But even at this point of his narrative he avoids responsibility for what was to follow:

And a year later, at the age of fourteen, I entered the seminary, and when I came out again, much later on, my mother kissed my hand and called me Father or I thought I heard her say Father, and when, in my astonishment, I protested, saying Don’t call me Father, mother, I am your son, or maybe I didn’t say Your son but The son, she began to cry or weep and then I thought, or maybe the thought has only occurred to me now, that life is a succession of misunderstandings, leading us on to the final truth, the only truth.

While attending seminary and after, our narrator wanted to be a literary critic. He had enough talen to become attractive (mentally and physically) to the prominent critic Farewell. Through Farewell he meets the other prominent figures of the arts and politics of his youth, including Pablo Nerruda. There is something compelling in these people, and it affects how he feels about his responsibilities flowing from his station in the church.

And I heard one of the women saying Father, won’t you try some of this or that. And someone was talking to me about a sick child, but with such poor diction I couldn’t tell if the child was sick or dead already. What did they need me for? If the child was dying, they should have called a doctor. If the child had already been dead for some time, they should have been saying novenas.

This back story eventually leads our narrator to a special assignment to help preserve the European cathedrals, which are being soiled by pigeon droppings. When he arrives in Europe, Father Urrutia Lacroix is surprised but unaffected by the manner the custodians of the cathedrals have chosen to fix the problem: they have become falconers, and they send their hawks up to violently purge the area of the pigeons (the irony of the church’s killing doves is not lost in the text).

This episode leads directly to the next episode both literally and figuratively. In a way, Father Urrutia Lacroix’s assignment can be seen as a primer for more important political work that is no less violent and disturbing. It ultimately leads him to Maria Canales, whom he now says was merely an acquaintance, no one he knew well, no one who knew him well. (Maria Canales is a stand-in for Mariana Callejas.) This is the horrific climax. This is the complicity our narrator seeks to strip from himself. However, though we never know just how complicit our narrator was, whether he had an active role in the horrors is a side note for Bolaño. Much more important to him here (and in Nazi Literature in the Americas) is his and others’ passive role in the horrors, particularly those who can hide under aesthetics. Our narrator sums it up nicely in one line:

That’s how literature is made in Chile.

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By |2018-02-12T17:03:09-04:00July 24th, 2009|Categories: Book Reviews, Chris Andrews, Roberto Bolaño|Tags: , , , |11 Comments


  1. Max Cairnduff July 24, 2009 at 11:19 am

    I applaud your persistence Trevor. What made you stick with Bolano? With as many pages as you’d read before this, with neither previous book being wholly succesful, what’s pushed you to keep going with him?

  2. Trevor July 24, 2009 at 12:17 pm

    Well, the best response I have is that there was something still there to be found. I didn’t connect with 2666, but it is stunning and obviously the work of a master. Even when I finished it I knew I’d have to read some of Bolaño’s shorter (complete) works, and soon. I’d see a few of them lined up in the bookstore, and I figured if he succeeded in having me read a 900-page beast he’d succeed in getting me through 100 pages.

    I actually did like Nazi Literature in the Americas a lot, though not as much as I liked By Night in Chile. I now have acquired most of Bolaño’s work in English, including a few coming out later this year and early next year. Most of them are very short and have the strange quality of being both direct and ellusive at the same time.

    If you decide to test the waters of Bolaño, I’d recommend starting with some of his shorter work. The themes are there as is his writing talent. Also, some of them have very compelling murder mysteries at the center of them (kind of like 2666, I guess — I’m actually going to be sorely tempted to reread 2666 when I’m done reading all of his other work. I’ll probably give in some day!)

  3. Isabel July 26, 2009 at 9:20 pm

    Max stole my question, but I was wondering the same thing also.

    Kudos for sticking with him and your recommendations.

  4. Randy July 26, 2009 at 10:46 pm

    The only Bolano I have read is By Night in Chile, and the first time through, I was engaged but not fully. I loved the prose, but spent a lot of the time trying to sort out my readerly sympathies for Father Urutia.

    Out of character for me, I re-read this not long after. What a pay off! On the second go I saw how well Bolano tied together all the historical and literary allusions and images. Not a word in this compact novel is filler! A mistake I made was to try and simply categorize Urutia as ‘sympathetic’ or not. I am now really looking forward to his more ‘difficult’ stuff.

  5. Trevor July 27, 2009 at 4:58 pm

    When I finished it I thought about rereading it, but I haven’t done that yet. I hope to do that soon, though. While writing the review so much came to me that I didn’t quite catch the first time, so I can imagine a reread is just the ticket!

  6. Tony S. August 21, 2009 at 11:16 am

    First I tried to read “The Savage Detectives”, gave up after 143 pages, just way too repetitive for me. Then I completely read “The History of Nazi Literature in the Americas” which I enjoyed as a clever pastiche. But I must say I’m still not a Roberto Bolano convert yet. I still have not read that one book that grabs hold of me.

  7. Trevor August 21, 2009 at 4:34 pm

    Perhaps By Night in Chile is your ticket in, Tony. I found it succinct and powerful, and it doesn’t rely on the stylistic pyrotechnics that seem prevalent in his later works.

  8. Mary Creighton October 6, 2009 at 6:41 pm

    Roberto Bolano’s By Night In Chile is I agree, a well-written novel; albeit, a bit feverish in nature. What I most liked about this book is that it offered a fluid and poetic narrative journey, drifting seamlessly into the past and into the future- in and out of lives. It has a very Latin literary quality to it where you find such fluidity in place of the strict obsession with plot symmetry and structure as seen in many British and English novels. The disregard for symmetry makes the novel a piece of poetry: poignant, rhythmic and earnest. Also, given Bolano’s history, he can’t help but include a political edge to his writings.

  9. Richard November 13, 2009 at 3:41 pm

    Very solid review, Trevor! I think you did a fine job focusing on Bolaño’s concerns with complicity in this novel. And I greatly appreciate your side note about Mariana Callejas, which was news to me. By chance, I’ve just started reading a book on the Pinochet years (John Dinges’ The Condor Years: How Pinochet and His Allies Brought Terror to Three Continents) in which Callejas and her CIA husband receive some attention–so this has all come at a useful time for me. P.S. I just posted on Bolaño’s original Spanish version of this novel over at my blog. Would you mind if I linked to your great review here so I could provide a review of the English translation? Thanks in advance for your consideration of my request!

  10. Trevor November 13, 2009 at 11:35 pm

    Hey, thanks Richard! I don’t mind at all if you link to this review — it’s flattering, actually, so link away. When I’m done typing here I’m going to go check out your link. I speak and read fluent Portuguese, so I’ve been tempted to expand that and read some of these books in the original Spanish. Hasn’t happened yet, but it is a goal on the periphery.

  11. Richard November 14, 2009 at 8:40 pm

    The link is now up, Trevor, so thanks again! And good luck with that goal of yours–how cool that you’re so fluent in Portuguese. ¡Obrigado!

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