Like most other artists, writers are self-obsessed. The art becomes the art, so to speak. Rock musicians sing a lot of songs about rock, blues musicians often sing about the blues, Captain Beefheart exists, and “serious writers” write about writing and writers. Seriously. To varying degrees.

The Savage Detectives is that sort of story. It’s either the transparently autobiographical story of its author, Roberto Bolaño (who becomes Arturo Belano within the narrative) or the story of the futility of the art of poetry personified by the semi-mythical Cesarea Tinajero. Either way, it’s an odd one. Arturo Belano and his friend Ulises Lima are the only narrative constants, but neither is a narrator; instead, the novel is narrated by a large number of characters who are mostly writers or who are involved in the world of the literary avant garde in Latin America and Spain.

Like I said, it’s an odd one.

Bolaño’s novel was named one of the ten best books of 2007 by The New York Times Book Review, and I don’t disagree—I just don’t think I can recommend it to most people. It presumes a great deal of interest in writing (as an art), poetry, and Latin America. When you’re marketing that to an English-speaking audience, you’re approaching sub-niche status… no matter how sublime the translation.