Maria, over at Las Obras de Roberto Bolaño, recently pointed to a blog, Caravana de Recuerdos, that’s packed with smart commentary about 2666. So I went over and poked around a bit, and while there’s a lot to be learned there, one observation in particular leapt out at me:
“…it’s clear from the outset that either Santa Teresa or death is really the main ‘protagonist’ of this section. Unlike other parts of the book, this one is the only one where a deed, ‘the crimes,’ takes the place of a named human being in the title.”
The idea that the protagonist of The Part About The Crimes is death, or the trans-historical, almost metaphysical force behind the crimes, helps answer a question that’s been in the back of my mind for some time—just who is narrating this novel?
As I noted in an earlier post, while the dominant voice in this section is the documentary/reportorial/forensic voice, it actually contains numerous narrative registers. The commentators at Caravana note this as well, and further point out the “fluidity and ease” with which Bolano shifts between the third and first person in the section devoted to Florita Almada.
Anyway, I thought that if the protagonist of the section is death or the crimes, then death or the crimes, or whatever malevolent force is ultimately behind them, must also be narrating the section to a degree. So, of the many voices that speak up in this section, one that frequently hijacks the narration is the mocking, misanthropic, misogynistic, homophobic, you-name-it force that saturates the environment of Santa Teresa. Numerous examples of this voice taking over the narration could be cited, but here are two: the disheartening (to say the least) discussion of the numerous ways to rape a woman that Steve cites, and Dan’s observation that the description of Harry Magaña as a “self-sucking faggot” seems dropped into the narration out of nowhere. Jeff, of course, rightly points out that Magaña is a less honorable character than we first assumed (he’s one of the few characters seeking to right a wrong, but he commits more than a few of his own in the process), but I do think this is one of those instances where the force behind the crimes inserts itself in the narration and mocks and slanders someone trying to stem the tide of violence engulfing the city. And in Magaña’s case the mocking (if not the particular epithet) is doubly deserved because his methods partake of and perpetuate the very thing he’s trying to fight.
Kudos to you, David. This is, thus far, just about the closest anyone has come to explaining the homophobia of the text in a way that I find both plausible and (perhaps) justifiable.
Glad I’m reading your blog. It’s helping me find ways of appreciating a book I am increasingly inclined to cast aside.
Thanks Dan. Glad you are finding some use for my two cents.
Daryl, in this week’s dream log over at Las Obras de Roberto Bolaño, notes that Bolaño actually revealed the identity of the narrator of the section, so I couldn’t resist checking it out (it’s easily Googled). At first I thought, well, there goes my theory, but the more I think about it the more I’m convinced it doesn’t support or refute my contention about the crimes being one narrative voice among many. So I’m still giving Bolaño the benefit of the doubt.
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