Now available as a paperbook, Last Evenings on Earth is the first story collection by Roberto Bolano -- "the real thing and the rarest” (Susan Sontag).

"If you haven’t heard of Roberto Bolano yet, you will soon.” -- Benjamin Lytal, The New York Sun

"I am addicted to the haze that floats above Bolano’s fiction.” --Wayne Kostenbaum, Bookforum

Roberto Bolano’s story collection Last Evenings on Earth was acclaimed by Francine Prose in The New York Times Book Review as "something extraordinarily beautiful and (at least to me) entirely new…. Reading Roberto Bolano is like hearing the secret story, being shown the fabric of the particular, watching the tracks of art and life merge at the horizon and linger there like a dream from which we awake inspired to look more attentively at the world.”

"The melancholy folklore of exile,” as Bolano once put it, pervades these fourteen haunting stories. His narrators are usually writers living on the margins and grappling with private (and often unlucky) quests. Set in the Chilean exile diaspora of Latin American and Europe, and peopled by Bolano’s beloved "failed generation,” these stories are unimaginably gripping. One story begins: "Mauricio Silva, also known as ‘The Eye,’ always tried to avoid violence, even at the risk of being considered a coward, but violence, real violence, is unavoidable, at least for those of us born in Latin America during the fifties and sixties and were about twenty years old at the time of Salvador Allende’s death.” Last Evenings on Earth has been hailed as "sheer brilliance” (The San Francisco Chronicle), "vaguely, pervasively frightening” (The Nation) and "brilliant” (Kirkus Reviews). The stories, as Publishers Weekly noted are "perfectly calibrated: Bolano limns the capacity of a voice to carry despair without shading into bitterness.”

ROBERTO BOLANO was born in 1953 in Santiago, Chile, and later lived in Mexico, Paris, and Spain: he wrote nine novels, two story collections, and five books of poetry, before dying in July 2003 at the age of 50. Seven more of his books are forthcoming from New Directions.

Date of Publication: April 2007

Excerpt: "Phone Calls," from Last Evenings on Earth

B is in love with X. Unhappily, of course. There was a time in his life when B would have done anything for X, as people generally say and think when they are in love. X breaks up with him. She breaks up with him over the phone. At first, of course, B suffers, but eventually he gets over it, as people generally do. Life, as they say in the soap operas, goes on. The years pass.

     One night when he has nothing to do, B manages to get through to X after ringing a couple of times. Neither of them is young any more and age is audible in their voices transmitted from one side of Spain to the other. They renew their friendship and after a few days decide to meet up again. Both have been through divorces, suffered new illnesses and frustrations. When B gets on the train and sets off for the city where X lives, he is not yet in love. They spend the first day holed up in X's flat, talking about their lives (in fact X does all the talking, B listens and asks a question now and then). That night X invites him to share her bed. B doesn't really want to sleep with X, but he accepts. When he wakes up in the morning, he is in love again. But is he in love with X or with the idea of being in love? The relationship is difficult and intense: X is on the brink of suicide every day; she is having psychiatric treatment (pills, lots of pills, but they don't seem to be helping at all), she often bursts into tears for no apparent reason. So B looks after X. His attentions are loving and diligent but clumsy too. They mimic the attentions of a man who is truly in love, as B soon comes to realize. He tries to show X a way out of her depression, but all he does is steer her into a dead end, or what she considers a dead end. Sometimes, when he is on his own or watching X sleep, he thinks it is a dead end too. As a kind of antidote, he tries to remember his former loves, he tries to convince himself that he can live without X, that he can save himself on his own. One night X asks him to go away, so B takes a train and leaves the city. X goes to the station to see him off. Their farewell is tender and hopeless. B has booked a sleeper but he can't get to sleep until very late. When he finally falls asleep, he dreams of a snowman walking through the desert. The snowman is following a border, and probably headed for disaster. But he presses on regardless, arming his will with cunning: he walks at night, when freezing starlight sweeps the desert. When B wakes up (the train has already arrived at the Sants Station in Barcelona), he thinks he understands the meaning of the dream (if it has a meaning) and finds some degree of solace in it as he makes his way home. That night he rings X and tells her the dream. X says nothing. The next day he rings X again. And the day after. X's attitude is increasingly cold, as if B were receding further into the past with each phone call. I'm disappearing, thinks B. She's rubbing me out and she knows what she's doing and why she's doing it. One night B threatens to catch a train and turn up at X's flat the next day. Don't even think about it, says X. I'm coming, says B, I can't stand these phone calls any more, I want to see your face when I'm talking to you. I won't open the door, says X, and then hangs up. B simply can't understand. For a long time he wonders how it is possible for the feelings and desires of a human being to swing from one extreme to the other like that. Then he gets drunk or tries to lose himself in a book. The days go by.

     One night, six months later, B calls X. X recognizes his voice immediately. Ah, it's you, she says. Her lack of warmth is positively chilling. Yet B senses that X wants to tell him something. She's listening to me as if no time had passed, he thinks, as if we had spoken yesterday. How are you? asks B. What's new? After a few monosyllabic replies, X hangs up. Perplexed, B rings her number again. When he gets through, however, he decides to remain silent. At the other end X's voice says: Well, who is it? Silence. Then she says: I'm listening, and waits. The telephone line is transmitting time - the time that came between B and X, that B could not understand - compressing and stretching it, revealing a part of its nature. Without realizing, B starts to cry. He knows that X knows who is calling. Then, silently, he hangs up.

     Up to this point the story is banal; unfortunate but banal. It is clear to B that he should never ring X again. One day there is a knock at the door; it is A and Z. They are policemen and they want to ask him some questions. In connection with what, B would like to know. A is reluctant to say; but Z, after clumsily beating around the bush, comes out with it. Three days ago, on the other side of Spain, someone killed X. At first B is shattered; then he realizes that he is a suspect and his instinct for survival puts him on his guard. The policemen ask him about his movements on two days in particular. B can't remember what he did or whom he saw on those days. Naturally he knows that he didn't leave Barcelona   -- in fact he didn't leave his neighbourhood or even his flat -- but he can't prove it. The policemen take him away. B spends the night at the police station. At one point during the questioning he thinks they are going to take him to the city where X used to live and, strangely, this prospect appeals to him, but in the end it doesn't happen. They take his fingerprints and ask if he will agree to a blood test. He agrees. The next morning they let him go home. Officially, B has not been under arrest; he has only been helping the police in a murder enquiry. When he gets back to his flat, he collapses onto the bed and falls asleep immediately. He dreams of a desert and of X's face. Shortly before waking, he realizes that they are one and the same. From which it is fairly simply for him to infer that he is lost in the desert.

     That night he puts some clothes in a bag, goes to the station and takes a train to the city where X used to live. The trip, from one side of Spain to the other, lasts all night.   Unable to sleep, he thinks about all the things he could have done but didn't do, all the things he could have given X, but didn't. He also thinks: If I had died, X wouldn't be coming all the way across Spain in the other direction. Then he thinks: And that is precisely why I am the one who is still alive. For the first time, during that sleepless trip, he sees X's true worth; he feels love for her again, and, for the last time, half-heartedly, he despises himself. When he arrives, very early in the morning, he goes straight to X's brother's flat. X's brother is surprised and confused, but invites him in and offers him a coffee. He is half dressed and his face is wet. B notices that he hasn't had a shower; he has only washed his face and wet his hair a bit. B accepts the offer of a coffee, then says that he just found out about the murder of X, explains that he has been questioned by the police, and asks what happened. The whole thing's been awful, says X's brother, making coffee in the kitchen, but I can't see what you've got to do with it. The police think I might be the killer, says B. X's brother laughs. You've always been unlucky, haven't you, he says. Odd you should say that, thinks B, when I'm the one who's still alive. But he is also grateful not to have his innocence doubted. Then X's brother goes to work, leaving B in the flat. Exhausted, B soon falls into a deep sleep. Unsurprisingly, X appears in his dreams.

     When he wakes, he thinks he knows who the killer is. He has seen his face. That night he goes out with X's brother. They go to various bars and talk about this and that and although they do their best to get drunk, they can't. Walking back to the flat through the empty streets, B says he once rang X but didn't speak. What the fuck for? says X's brother. I only did it once, says B, but I realized that X got lots of calls like that. And she thought they were from me, you see? says B. You mean the murderer is the anonymous caller? Exactly, says B, and X thought it was me. X's brother frowns. I think it was one of her exes; there were quite a few of them, you know. B says nothing in reply (it's as if X's brother hadn't understood at all) and they continue in silence until they reach the flat.

     In the lift B thinks he is going to throw up. He says: I'm going to throw up. Hold on, says X's brother. They walk quickly down the passage, X's brother opens the door and B rushes in looking for the bathroom. But when he gets there, his nausea has subsided. He is sweating and his stomach aches, but he can't throw up. The toilet with the lid up looks like a toothless mouth laughing at him. Or laughing at someone, anyway. After washing his face, he looks at himself in the mirror: his face is white as a sheet. He spends what is left of the night dozing fitfully, trying to read and listening to X's brother snore. The next day they say good-bye and B returns to Barcelona. I'll never go back that city again, thinks B, because X doesn't live there any more.

     A week later, X's brother calls to tell him that the police have caught the killer. The guy was harassing her with anonymous phone calls, he says. B doesn't answer. An ex, says X's brother. Well, it's good to know, says B. Thanks for calling. Then X's brother hangs up and B is alone.