"Meeting with Enrique Lihn," by Roberto BolaÃ±o.
One always needs to ask these things in a BolaÃ±o story, so: Enrique Lihn was very much a real Chilean poet, as was Rodrigo Lira; the other names (last names only) I'm not sure about and Google's not helping. Now then.
I get the feeling that we're getting to the posthumous scrapings of BolaÃ±o now — what we have hear is a dreamlike, perhaps automatic writing-derived narrative of dread, about literature as a lonely, inconsequential, ignored (even by people involved in it) pursuit, in a shifting landscape of impending death.
I read this story, and am now writing this, in the midst of a lot of year-in-film stuff; I'm mostly just sorta thinking of this story as a less sentimental, depersonalized version of Synecdoche, New York. Which I kinda want to see again, if I can bear it.