Roberto Bolaño (1953 — 2003), poet, novelist, twenty-first century literary trend and pot smoking vagabond, has been translated to English yet again. Fresh off of finishing the epic Savage Detectives, Bolaño’s massive journey into his Mexican literary and sexual roots, I’m ready for more. Thankfully, Vulture got their hands on an excerpt:
GODZILLA IN MEXICO
by Roberto Bolaño
Listen carefully, my son: bombs were falling
over Mexico City
but no one even noticed.
The air carried poison through
the streets and open windows.
You’d just finished eating and were watching
cartoons on TV.
I was reading in the bedroom next door
when I realized we were going to die.
Despite the dizziness and nausea I dragged myself
to the kitchen and found you on the floor.
We hugged. You asked what was happening
and I didn’t tell you we were on death’s program
but instead that we were going on a journey,
one more, together, and that you shouldn’t be afraid.
When it left, death didn’t even
close our eyes.
What are we? you asked a week or year later,
ants, bees, wrong numbers
in the big rotten soup of chance?
We’re human beings, my son, almost birds,
public heroes and secrets.