the fascist nature that the obsessive pursuit of an artform (like writing) can create. Fascism as a game, as a way of life, as an annoying and lame personal hobby that no one cares about. Some interesting inversions of and allusions to detective novels/mysteries and to Nazis post-WWII in South America and elsewhere. also some possible very loose connections to the last part of 2666 but overall this was kind of a slog for me and the first Bolaño I've read that's made me think that maybe the whole posthumous industry around publishing all his lost and found papers is kind of a racket, or maybe I've just been reading too much Bolaño but this one is very different in style than his others.