They weren’t his friends, though my brother chose to think they were.

Much like the apocryphal "last recordings" of Eric Dolphy which continued to arrive for years, the Bolaño caravan into English continues long after his death. There have been a number of jewels in recent years so I suppose a dud was inevitable. I am quick to qualify, the book is only inert as being an undercooked fancy. An Italian woman recounts her adolescence when after her parents died she and her brother were left to their own devices. Did a weird community develop a la [b:The Cement Garden|9957|The Cement Garden|Ian McEwan|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1166111732s/9957.jpg|1189398]? No, she worked at a salon while her brother hangs out with disagreeables at a gym. What follows is the slimmest of ideas. It can barely sustain the introduction of pivotal character two-thirds of the way through the novella. The effect is jarring. There is but a single aesthetic flourish around p.92 where the Master becomes apparent. That said, I didn't feel any hope in this text, not a philosophical hope but a literary one where somehow the plot could find its legs.

I remain ready to be convinced otherwise, but this wasn't the best way to spend a rainy afternoon.