The definitions of “charlatan” are varied, but all humorous. Some: “a mountebank or Cheap Jack who descants volubly to a crowd in the street;” “one who puffs his wares; a puffer;” “an empiric who pretends to posess wonderful secrets;” “a quack.” The most universal: “an assuming empty pretender to knowledge or skill; a pretentious impostor.” Whenever a skilled craft like, say, writing fiction, for example, is sold to the unwitting in a package marked “magic” or “secret,” the seller, without fail, is a charlatan.

 

So it goes with the contemporary world of the so-called “writing industry,” in which thousands of copies of hundreds of books are sold yearly which contain the secrets of the craft of writing. Add to that the white tower version, where hundreds of Creative Writing programs across these great United States give willing (and more importantly, paying) students an education from published writers in the program’s permanent or visiting faculty who may or may not be at all interested in teaching.

But let’s stick to the books. What I need is Magic, O wizard alchemist of the writing life! And I’ve got rupees to burn so give it up. A quick incant through the interweb’s list manifests these promising titles: Writing Magic: Creating Stories that Fly; The Magic of Writing: How to Write and Publish the Book That Is Inside You; and of course, Capturing the Magic of Fiction Writing. But damnit my double skinny latté is cooling off and I’ve got to get this Art made like now! If you’re like so many hurried American professional Artists you don’t have time for some weirdo Hippy potions, you need results. Try: Schaum’s Quick Guide to Writing Great Stories; Writing Under Pressure: The Quick Writing Process; or the all-in-one style A Quick Guide to Writing a Book: From Ideas to Publication. But you’re not some Yuppy mainstream schmuck, are you? You are a true rebel, an individualist Emerson would envy. What you need are the secrets that those other typewriter monkies don’t know; that’ll get the Art out. If so, drop some change on: Show; Don’t Tell!: Secrets of Writing; Writing for Story: Craft Secrets of Dramatic Nonfiction; and for the Dan Brown in us all, Trial and Error: A Key to the Secret of Writing and Selling. I could go on and on like this, but you get the gist: no matter what kind of Artist you are, there’s a book out there that’s been specially, secretly and magically designed to turn YOU into a true writing craftsman.

The overwhelming popularity of this discourse on writing is enough to turn anyone off to any book that deals with the subject. But Six Memos for the Next Millenium is a different sort of book. In fact it’s exactly the opposite. Six Memos is a book about reading, about the value of reading in a go-go iWorld where the information and insight we get most often, from the internet most likely, is for all intents and purposes, magical. The essays contained in this book are prophetic; they were written in a year before the internet, or home computers for that matter, were as ubiquitous as they are today. Calvino understood that in the late 1980’s our global society (before there was one to speak of) was at the brink of a new era, one in which knowledge acquired through books, literary books specifically, would soon take a back seat to a different kind of knowledge, one that was instant and effortless, invisible and intangible. He doesn’t say this outright but the thought is implied by the titles of the essays: Lightness, Quickness, Exactitude, Visibility, Multiplicity; apply these gerunds to the things we value about the world around us today and you’ll see to what extent Calvino understood the direction in which we were moving.

The titles of the essays refer to literary aspects he takes as values. Simply put, they are guides to reading and writing. Each essay focuses on writing or writers, from the Classical to the Modern era, that embody these aspects. What we find out is that on a deeper and more simple level, these are ways to think and be. So really Six Memos is a philosophy book written like a book on literature written like a book on writing. But in this case it’s written from the perspective of someone who knew that the only way to be a writer is to read deeply and widely, and to write.

This review was written by Edgar Alan Poe for Graham’s Magazine in May, 1842. Contained in these paragraphs are ideas that revolutionized the way storytellers thought about their craft. If ever there was a review that actually surpassed its subject in complexity and insight, this is it.


Twice-Told Tales, By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Two Volumes. Boston: James Munroe and Co.

    We said a few hurried words about Mr. Hawthorne in our last number, with the design of speaking more fully in the present. We are still, however, pressed for room, and must necessarily discuss his volumes more briefly and more at random than their high merits deserve.

    The book professes to be a collection of tales, yet is, in two respects, misnamed. These pieces are now in their third ret publication, and, of course, are thrice-told. Moreover, they are by no means all tales, either in the ordinary or in the legitimate understanding of the term. Many of them are pure essays, for example, "Sights from a Steeple," "Sunday; Home," "Little Annie's Ramble," "A Rill from the Town. Pump," "The Toll-Gatherer's Day," "The Haunted Mind," "The Sister Years," "Snow-Flakes," "Night Sketches," and "Foot-Prints on the Sea-Shore." We mention these matters chiefly on account of their discrepancy with that marked precision and finish by which the body of the work is distinguished.

    Of the Essays just named, we must be content to speak brief. They are each and all beautiful, without being characterised by the polish and adaptation so visible in the tales proper. A painter would at once note their leading or predominant feature, and style it repose. There is no attempt effect. All is quiet, thoughtful, subdued. Yet this repose may exist simultaneously with high originality of thought; and Mr. Hawthorne has demonstrated the fact. At every turn we meet with novel combinations; yet these combinations never surpass the limits of the quiet. We are soothed as we real; and withal is a calm astonishment that ideas so apparently obvious have never occurred or been presented to us before. Herein our author differs materially from Lamb or Hunt or Hazlitt — who, with vivid originality of manner and expression, have less of the true novelty of thought than is general supposed, and whose originality, at best, has an uneasy are meretricious quaintness, replete with startling effects unfounded in nature, and inducing trains of reflection which lead to no satisfactory result. The Essays of Hawthorne have much of the character of Irving, with more of originality, and less of finish; while, compared with the Spectator, they have vast superiority at all points. The Spectator, Mr. Irving, and Mr. Hawthorne have in common that tranquil and subdued manner which we have chosen to denominate repose; but, the case of the two former, this repose is attained rather by the absence of novel combination, or of originality, than otherwise, and consists chiefly in the calm, quiet, unostentatious expression of commonplace thoughts, in an unambitious unadulterated Saxon. In them, by strong effort, we are made to conceive the absence of all. In the essays before us the absence of effort is too obvious to be mistaken, and a strong undercurrent of suggestion runs continuously beneath the upper stream of the tranquil thesis. In short, these effusions of Mr. Hawthorne are the product of a truly imaginative intellect, restrained, and in some measure repressed, by fastidiousness of taste, by constitutional melancholy and by indolence.

    But it is of his tales that we desire principally to speak. The tale proper, in our opinion, affords unquestionably the fairest field for the exercise of the loftiest talent, which can be afforded by the wide domains of mere prose. Were we bidden to say how the highest genius could be most advantageously employed for the best display of its own powers, we should answer, without hesitation — in the composition of a rhymed poem, not to exceed in length what might be perused in an hour. Within this limit alone can the highest order of true poetry exist. We need only here say, upon this topic, that, in almost all classes of composition, the unity of effect or impression is a point of the greatest importance. It is clear, moreover, that this unity cannot be thoroughly preserved in productions whose perusal cannot be completed at one sitting. We may continue the reading of a prose composition, from the very nature of prose itself, much longer than we can persevere, to any good purpose, in the perusal of a poem. Thislatter, if truly fulfilling the demands of the poetic sentiment, induces an exaltation of the soul which cannot be long sustained. All high excitements are necessarily transient. Thus a long poem is a paradox. And, without unity of impression, the deepest effects cannot be brought about. Epics were the Spring of an imperfect sense of Art, and their reign is no more. A poem too brief may produce a vivid, but never an intense or enduring impression. Without a certain continuity of effort — without a certain duration or repetition of purpose — the soul is never deeply moved. There must be the water upon the rock. De Beranger has things — pungent and spirit-stirring — but, like all immassive bodies, they lack momentum, and thus fail to satisfy the Poetic Sentiment. They sparkle and excite, but, from want of continuity, fail deeply to impress. Extreme brevity will degenerate into epigrammatism; but the sin of extreme length is even more unpardonable. In medio tutissimus ibis.

    Were we called upon however to designate that class of composition which, next to such a poem as we have suggested, should best fulfil the demands of high genius — should offer it the most advantageous field of exertion — we should unhesitatingly speak of the prose tale, as Mr. Hawthorne has here exemplified it. We allude to the short prose narrative, requiring from a half-hour to one or two hours in its perusal. The ordinary novel is objectionable, from its length, for reasons already stated in substance. As it cannot be read at one sitting, it deprives itself, of course, of the immense force derivable from totality. Worldly interests intervening during the pauses of perusal, modify, annul, or counteract, in a greater or less degree, the impressions of the book. But simple cessation in reading would, of itself, be sufficient to destroy the true unity. In the brief tale, however, the author is enabled to carry out the fulness of his intention, be it what it may. During the hour of perusal the soul of the reader is at the writer's control. There are no external or extrinsic influences — resulting from weariness or interruption.

    A skilful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents such incidents — he then combines such events as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect. If his very initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there should be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one pre-established design. And by such means, with such care and skill, a picture is at length painted which leaves in the mind of him who contemplates it with a kindred art, a sense of the fullest satisfaction. The idea of the tale has been presented unblemished, because undisturbed; and this is an end unattainable by the novel. Undue brevity is just as exceptionable here as in the poem; but undue length is yet more to be avoided.

    We have said that the tale has a point of superiority even over the poem. In fact, while the rhythm of this latter is an essential aid in the development of the poem's highest idea — the idea of the Beautiful — the artificialities of this rhythm are an inseparable bar to the development of all points of thought or expression which have their basis in Truth. But Truth is often, and in very great degree, the aim of the tale. Some of the finest tales are tales of ratiocination. Thus the field of this species of composition, if not in so elevated a region on the mountain of Mind, is a table-land of far vaster extent than the domain of the mere poem. Its products are never so rich, but infinitely more numerous, and more appreciable by the mass of mankind. The writer of the prose tale, in short, may bring to his theme a vast variety of modes or inflections of thought and expression — (the ratiocinative, for example, the sarcastic or the humorous) which are not only antagonistical to the nature of the poem, but absolutely forbidden by one of its most peculiar and indispensable adjuncts; we allude of course, to rhythm. It may be added, here, par parenthese, that the author who aims at the purely beautiful in a prose tale is laboring at great disadvantage. For Beauty can be better treated in the poem. Not so with terror, or passion, or horror, or a multitude of such other points. And here it will be seen how full of prejudice are the usual animadversions against those tales of effect many fine examples of which were found in the earlier numbers of Blackwood. The impressions produced were wrought in a legitimate sphere of action, and constituted a legitimate although sometimes an exaggerated interest. They were relished by every man of genius: although there were found many men of genius who condemned them without just ground. The true critic will but demand that the design intended be accomplished, to the fullest extent, by the means most advantageously applicable.

    We have very few American tales of real merit — we may say, indeed, none, with the exception of "The Tales of a Traveller" of Washington Irving, and these "Twice-Told Tales" of Mr. Hawthorne. Some of the pieces of Mr. John Neal abound in vigor and originality; but in general, his compositions of this class are excessively diffuse, extravagant, and indicative of an imperfect sentiment of Art. Articles at random are, now and then, met with in our periodicals which might be advantageously compared with the best effusions of the British Magazines; but, upon the whole, we are far behind our progenitors in this department of literature.

    Of Mr. Hawthorne's Tales we would say, emphatically, that they belong to the highest region of Art — an Art subservient to genius of a very lofty order. We had supposed, with good reason for so supposing, that he had been thrust into his present position by one of the impudent cliques which beset our literature, and whose pretensions it is our full purpose to expose at the earliest opportunity; but we have been most agreeably mistaken. We Know of few compositions which the critic can more honestly commend then these Twice-Told Tales." As Americans, we feel proud of the book.

    Mr. Hawthorne's distinctive trait is Invention, creation, imagination, originality — a trait which, in the literature of fiction, is positively worth all the rest. But the nature of originality, so far as regards its manifestation in letters, is but imperfectly understood. The inventive or original mind as frequently displays itself in novelty of tone as in novelty of matter. Mr. Hawthorne is original at all points.

    It would be a matter of some difficulty to designate the best of these tales; we repeat that, without exception, they are beautiful. "Wakefield" is remarkable for the skill with which an old idea — a well-known incident — is worked up or discussed. A man of whims conceives the purpose of quitting his wife and residing incognito, for twenty years, in her immediate neighborhood. Something of this kind actually happened in London. The force of Mr. Hawthorne's tale lies m the analysis of the motives which must or might have impelled the husband to such folly, in the first instance, with the possible causes of his perseverance. Upon this thesis a sketch of singular power has been constructed.

    "The Wedding Knell" is full of the boldest imagintion — an imagination fully controlled by taste. The most captious critic could find no flaw in this production.

    "The Minister's Black Veil" is a masterly composition of in which the sole defect is that to the rabble its exquisite skill will be caviare. The obvious meaning of this article will be found to smother its insinuated one. The moral put into the mouth of the dying minister will be supposed to convey the true import of the narrative; and that a crime of dark dye, (having reference to the "young lady") has been committed, is a point which only minds congenial with that of the author will perceive.

    "Mr. Higginbotham's Catastrophe" is vividly original and managed most dexterously.

    "Dr. Heidegger's Experiment" is exceedingly well imagined, and executed with surpassing ability. The artist breathes in every line of it.

    "The White Old Maid" is objectionable, even more than the "Minister's Black Veil," on the score of its mysticism Even with the thoughtful and analytic, there will be much trouble in penetrating its entire import

    "The Hollow of the Three Hills" we would quote in full, had we space; — not as evincing higher talent than any of the other pieces, but as affording an excellent example of the author s peculiar ability. The subject is common-place. A witch subjects the Distant and the Past to the view of a mourner. It has been the fashion to describe, in such cases, a mirror in which the images of the absent appear; or a cloud of smoke is made to arise, and thence the figures are gradually unfolded. Mr. Hawthorne has wonderfully heightened his effect by mahag the ear, in place of the eye, the medium by which the fantasy Is conveyed. The head of the mourner is enveloped m the cloak of the witch, and within its magic folds there arise sounds which have an all-sufficient intelligence. Throughout this article also, the artist is conspicuous — not more in positive than in negative merits. Not only is all done that should be done, but (what perhaps is an end with more difficulty attained) there is nothing done which should not be. Every word tells, and there is not a word which does not tell.

    In "Howe's Masquerade" we observe something which resembles a plagiarism — but which may he a very flattering coincidence of thought. We quote the passage in question.

    "With a dark flush of wrath upon his brow they saw the general draw his sword and advance to meet the figure in the cloak before the latter had stepped one pace upon the floor.

    " 'Villain, unmuff le yourself ' cried he, 'you pass no farther!'

    "The figure, without blenching a hair's breadth from the sword which was pointed at his breast, made a solemn pause, and lowered the cape of the cloak from his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators to catch a glimpse of it. But Sir William Howe had evidently seen enough. The sternness of his countenance gave place to a look of wild amazement, if not horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure, and let fall his sword upon the floor." — See vol. 2, page 20.

    The idea here is, that the figure in the cloak is the phantom or reduplication of Sir William Howe; but in an article called "William Wilson," one of the "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque," we have not only the same idea, but the same idea similarly presented in several respects. We quote two paragraphs, which our readers may compare with what has been already given. We have italicized, above, the immediate particulars of resemblance.

    "The brief moment in which I averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce, apparently, a material change in the arrangement at the upper or farther end of the room. A large mirror, it appeared to me, now stood where none had been perceptible before: and as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own image, but with features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced with a feeble and tottering gait to meet me.

    "Thus it appeared I say, but was not. It was Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of dissolution. Not a line in all the marked and singular lineaments of that face which was not even identically mine own. His mask and cloak lay where he had thrown them' upon the floor." — Vol. 2. p. 57.

    Here it will be observed that, not only are the two general conceptions identical, but there are various points of similaritv. In each case the figure seen is the wraith or duplication of the beholder. In each case the scene is a masquerade. In each case the figure is cloaked. In each, there is a quarrel -- that is to say, angry words pass between the parties. In each the beholder is enraged. In each the cloak and sword fall upon the floor. The "villain, unmuffle yourself," of Mr. H. is precisely paralleled by a passage at page 56 of "William Wilson.

    In the way of objection we have scarcely a word to say of these tales. There is, perhaps, a somewhat too general or prevalent tone — a tone of melancholy and mysticism.. The subjects are insufficiently varied. There is not so much of versatility evinced as we might well be warranted in expecting from the high powers of Mr. Hawthorne. But beyond these trivial exceptions we have really none to make. The style is purity itself. Force abounds. High imagination gleams from every page. Mr. Hawthorne is a man of the truest genius. We only regret that the limits of our Magazine will not permit us to pay him that full tribute of commendation, which, under other circumstances, we should be so eager to pay.

Roberto Bolaño was a sick man, a spiteful man. He died young from liver failure in 2003; he wrote, like William H. Gass once said from himself, “from hate. Hard.” The Savage Detectives was written in the early years of his illness, but at the end of a life spent writing forcefully and furiously against every kind of obstacle. In his youth Bolaño was dyslexic and things he read twisted into a nest of confused associations. As a young man he wrote poetry that was for the most part ignored. Mature, he riled openly against every critic, jury or author he disliked, frequently reminding the recipients of his derision where exactly they could put their reviews, prizes and novels.

But this ill man could write. He was considered the greatest living Latin American writer at the turn of the 21st century, and the epithet was well-earned. Not since Julio Cortázar has a novelist/poet written such complex works, novels as dense as they are winding, filled with rythmic and extensive chunks of text that you’d hesitate to call paragraphs because they seem like whole stories in themselves.

The Savage Detectives is NOT a mystery, or a thriller, or any other pigeon hole, contrary to the labels above this review. It’s not really like anything. Parts are familiar: the first and third sections are written in the form of a diary; between these the bulk of the novel is told by a slew of narrators, fifty-two in all. But this familiarity is only-surface level. From the first diary we hear the voice of a young poet on the make in Mexico City who’s just joined a group of poets known as Visceral Realists. Guns and blowjobs and drugs and other kinds of hard-boiled fun fill this young poet’s head. In the middle section the narrator’s remember two poets: Arturo Belano and Ulises Lima, whose general vagabundeismo has enough pathos to fill every voice that recalls them with near-infinite sadness bordering on nostalgia. In the final diary section we find failure and disillisuion; nothing turns out like the poets hoped.

In every way that a genre novel would be simple, cliché and stock The Savage Detectives is new and complicated. The novel attacks the way we see the world and each other, and forces a reconsideration of how language and memory are connected: a breath of fresh air from so much of the soft-minded sentimentalism that passes for thinking-people’s literature these days.