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*Bolaño. Llamadas telefónicas. 1997. 204 pp.

Not a novel, but a collection of short stories, some written in a flat, monotonous style. At times, you are waiting for some kind of epiphany, some kind of point to the story, that may or may not come. There's nothing brilliant here in the writing itself--much exorcism of demons, a few memorable images.

In my effort to become an instant Bolaño expert, I've learned that he admired the poetry of my friends Miguel Casado and Olvido García Valdés. He knew who Frank O'Hara was, and Carson McCullers. He looked down on Isabel Allende (who doesn't?) and Antonio Skármeta. He considered himself more a poet than a novelist.