If the pages of Roberto Bolano's posthumously unwritten 'Gaucho Marx' are haunted by a specter, it is the imminence of an immanance that never comes to pass, or rather the Permanence of a World Wide Insurrection against the soul-deadening szygy of Trade- which is synoecist precisely because it is expansionary- and Settlement- which is perennially schizophrenic by reason of being so impredicatively imprecise as to constitute the hieratic locution of its own locust like horde.
Borges, in his burlesque incarnation as the libidinous, too-necessary-to-exist, Liebnizian gagster, Gaucho Marx, unites 'Jerusalem to Benares': id est, on the one hand, the Ivrim & the Arya- Sinai's Jerusalem and what it will always already have become for vast Northern steppe lands- and, on the other, the infloldingly infinite labyrinth of jaguar haunted jungles which lure both Semite & Steppe nomad, than desultory Death, yet farther South.
Not that Bolano's 'Gaucho Marx' actually bothers with any such notions, concentrating instead on taking cheap shots at best selling Indian authors- like Rabindranath Tagore ('I never forget a beard, but since you are Victoria Ocampo's beard, I'll make an exception'- what? it's funny in Spanish especially if you jiggle your eyebrows and gesture suggestively with a cigar) and Jawaharlal Nehru ('Like the covers of his books, Nehru Jackets enclose shite.'- which is funny in any language provided you've met an Indian diplomat or a relict of Swinging Sixties Carnaby Street- or Natkat Singh who is both) and Sri Aurobindo ('fuck off you great big bearded Bengali retard. Seriously. Just fuck the fuck off you utterly worthless cunt.' Not particularly funny, but an immortal truth that transcends language and is, thus, an esprit de escalier worthy of the Superman toiling up Urania's spiral Staircase towards the Omega point of Tielhard's salon.)
Okay, you can give over with the retching, granted this is my worst post ever, still, I think I've given you an idea of why people like Borges's Gaucho Marx are just too metaphysically necessary, therefore real, to ever actually exist. Why? Because conatus now entails being comic in a manner more meaningless than Existence itself. So, and ever sadder than we can know, all that can be or be thought about- Parmenides's pining as the Quantum Zeno of every Divorced Dad's, Singles' Complex, House of Night- is re-runs of a Seventies sitcom by, not Ruth Barcan, which would be bad enough, but Barcan-Kripke, which is like totally fucked.
For which, needless to say, I personally blame David Cameron.
That boy aint right.
Mind it kindly.
Aiyayo.
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