I’m trying to wade through Roberto Bolano’s 2666 at the moment for the second time, because every “best of” list hails Bolano a genius, and this novel in particular, as a masterpiece, and I feel like there’s something wrong with me, that I missed something the first time through since I was so underwhelmed by it. This sounds like a gross generalization, but I’ve never really enjoyed Latin American writing. I hate Marquez. I think he’s too dense, using 15 words when one will suffice. I fund Puig and Allende and Fuentes the same. It’s not that they are flowery or rambling; it’s a stark kind of density, if that makes sense. A level of detached, insignificant (to me) descriptive detail that I just don’t enjoy, a gut reaction that I also have to some Joyce, curiously. I’m 450 pages in to 2666, round two, and couldn’t really tell you who the characters are. I have always enjoyed the first part, which tells the story of four literary academics and their messed up personal and academic lives (maybe I find something in them to relate to), but the rest of the book is littered with characters that I don’t find memorable, so many that it’s hard to keep track of who is who, or why I’m supposed to care, what their significance is to the plot. Even in some of his less epic novels that I’ve read, like The Skating Rink and Distant Star, I’ve disliked most of the characters and felt little empathy with them. Sigh. Well, you can’t say I haven’t tried. I just can’t jump on the Bolano bandwagon. Maybe I really am destined to just be a chick lit writer after all.