“purportedly, Bolano used to write for 20, 40 hours at a time before passing out and then waking up and doing it all over again”

[source otherwise uninteresting]

and from a profile in the NYT — nicely-crafted but again underwhelming:

His subjects are sex, poetry, death, solitude, violent crime and the desperate glimmers of transcendence that sometimes attend them. The prose is dark, intimate and sneakily touching

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