That feeling you get when you’ve passed the 80% mark in a book. You hold in your right hand the last small chunk of pages. Plot mysteries are revealed one by one, with every turn of the page. You start to smile as you realize that your hypotheses were mostly wrong, but that the truths are all much more interesting and exciting. The words get more sexual.

I just finished reading The Third Reich by Roberto Bolaño. I’d read him before, so the weirdness didn’t turn me off at all.

But the ending wasn’t as romantic and satisfying as it was in the other books of his that I’d read. He kept insinuating things that would happen to the main character, but never completely following through. Or following through, but limply.

I’m off now to read one of his books again, only this time in Spanish. I’m not sure this is such a good idea.