2666 coincidences

I have a google alert set up for 2666 and most all of the links are Bolano-related, but now that publicity for the book is starting to wane a little bit, I’m seeing more mundane references. Sometimes they are phone numbers that end in -2666. Even the other day, I got a bill from a construction contractor for $2,666. Anyway, here are a couple of examples.

The Florida Lotto last night:

No tickets matched all six numbers in Wednesday’s Lotto drawing from the Florida Lottery. The numbers drawn were 20-28-29-39-43-49. The 51 tickets matching five numbers are worth $5,957.50 each, and the 2,666 tickets matching four numbers are worth $92.50 each. The estimated jackpot for Wednesday’s Lotto drawing is $8 million.

This one is a little more applicable to the novel. In a news story I saw a mention of House Resolution 2666, a bill related to gun control that was not adopted. The Library of Congress record for it is here. Congressman Bobby Rush introduced the bill in 2007 and named it after local hero Blair Holt.

According to police, Michael Pace boarded an eastbound 103rd Street CTA bus at 103rd and Halsted about 3:20 p.m. on May 10 and started shooting, striking two males and three females, all of whom were students at Julian. Kevin Jones is accused of giving Pace the gun, knowing he wanted to use it to try to kill someone he had argued with. Julian High School student Blair Holt used his body to shield and ultimately save a female friend.

The legislation has been re-introduced this term, but as HR 45 (which just doesn’t have the same ring to it).

Review at Prospect

The Prospect takes a literary look at the novel of the year:

Throughout 2666, literary devices are deployed, violently extended past their limits and discarded. At one point, the number of times different words appear in a conversation is precisely listed; later, an entire page is devoted to the names of human phobias; we also get two solid sides of sexist jokes. All these are just warm-ups, however: Bolano’s testing-to-destruction of literature’s possibilities reaches its apex in his descriptions of the murdered, violated bodies of over 100 women, one-by-one—an incandescent imaginary inquiry that shadows a similar plague of real killings in the Mexican border-town of Ciudad Juarez. In Bolano’s telling, the detail is at once coolly forensic yet never generic: to each there is a story, a circumstance, a particular human absence from the world. It is literature as a kind of after-image, alternately numbing and blinding but always insistent on one point—that no one can consider themselves safe from this violence, which crosses borders and categories as easily as it leaps between words and deeds.

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