Nazi Literature’s presentation as a collection of encyclopedic entries about writers made for a pretty easy read. Its dour cover (pictured above) obscures just how funny a lot of the book is, mingling tales of opportunists, failsons, pseudo-intellectuals, and pathetic dorks in with accounts of true monsters—murderers, runaway Nazis, Pinochet deathsquad-members, etc.

This and Last Evenings on Earth made for an inspiring starting-point with Bolaño, to the extent that I’ll give 2666 a try soon enough.