First, some marginalia, or, what I wrote in the back of the book: “In Rulfo, there is a relentlessness.” And: “If Earth is purgatory, then what of Heaven and Hell?” That is, if when we die we remain on earth, gossiping with each other in our graves, haunting each other in our homes, then neither heaven nor hell exist; only life, this perpetual, relentless thing we have to do. Or is it, as Susana San Juan, in the role of the crazy woman who might just be the most sane, believes, that only hell exists?

Further additions to a labyrinthine syllabus: Ricardo Piglia, José Hernández, Juan Emar, Osvaldo Lamborghini, Domingo Miliani, Pere Gimferrer, Alonso de Ercilla, Philip K. Dick, Ruben Darío, Manuel Rojas, Archilochus, Lina Meruane, Alejandra Costamagna, Nona Fernández, Pablo Azócar, Diamela Eltit, Pedro Lemebel, Pezoa Véliz, Rodrigo Lira, Javier Tomeo, Olvido García Valdés, Miguel Casado, Roberto Brodsky, A.G. Porta, Sergio Pitol, Rodrigo Rey Rosa, Andrés Neuman, J. Rodolfo Wilcock, Antoine Bello, Johnathan Swift, Javier Cercas, Jorge Herralde, Gabriel Ferrater, Enrique Lihn, Alan Pauls, Helen Hanff, H. Bustos Domecq, Manuel Mujica Láinez, José Donoso, Daniel Sada, Petrus Borel, Marcel Schwob, Carmen Boullosa, and Rodrigo Fresán.

The other day, over lunch, my wife and I talked about Rimbaud. Except, we didn’t. I couldn’t remember his name. Nevertheless, we were talking about the writers of the no, writers who, for whatever reason, just stopped writing. And, of course, Rimbaud is the most famous of those writers who chose to refuse, which is why we were at least trying to talk about him. The next day, or some day between then and now, I was reading Bolaño’s Between Parentheses on the train. In particular, I was reading his short piece “A Perfect Story,” which is all about Beerbohm’s short story “Enoch Soames,” which he (Bolaño) originally read as part of  Ocampo, Borges, and Casares’ Anthology of Fantastic Literature. (Can you now begin to understand the labyrinth I am always lost in?) Between Bolaño’s description of the story and his ranking it as one of the best 15 stories he’s ever read (whatever that means; and he knew it probably meant nothing), I decided to read it for myself. It should not come as a shock to discover that Beerbohm’s story is now, to me, one of the best stories I’ve ever read (again, that means nothing, but still). It’s something like watching Chris Marker’s La jetée or reading Cortazar’s “Continuity of Parks,” except it’s also funny and entertaining. But, if I say anything more, then I’ll have said too much, for in some respects, discovering Beerbohm through Bolaño was both revelatory and ruinous, and I don’t want to ruin the story for you too, if you haven’t already read it. Thankfully, “Enoch Soames” is in the public domain. How perfect.