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The Hermetic Impulse Ethan Osterman
What a relief to come into the light, even if it’s a shadowy half light, what a relief to come where it’s clear Roberto Bolaño, the Savage Detectives My first encounter with Morrell was immemorable, either in a library or a café somewhere—not that it makes much of a difference to you, or even to me. The inclusion of insubstantial details, he tells me at some point, is a nervous habit of all liars, and also of all truthful men. How do you tell the difference, I ask, already aware of the answer, already ashamed of my stupidity. But that’s beside the point, too. It’s a dreary afternoon; I’m reading (or really, rereading) Borges while the rain runs down the glass in little rivulets, forking and coming back together again, sometimes beading up, sometimes suspended in the dead air like vagabond constellations, before retreating again to the window sill or the damp earth. Really, I guess I’m mostly watching the rain. It’s a shame, or a dishonor, that he never won the Nobel, he says to me. His voice is soft, and the lines of his face are like the ridges of an antique globe. His English has the unmistakable affectation of a Spaniard. It takes me a moment to realize that we’re having a conversation about Borges—it takes a moment to realize that we’re having a conversation at all. But I eventually respond; I’m far out of my depth. Later on I tell him: I can’t even find a
