Bolaño.

I'd been reading a lot about Roberto Bolaño of late, in the Believer and perhaps in The New York Review of Books and I suppose elsewhere as well, the Believer article written by Rodrigo Fresán and including not a few accounts of conversations with Bolaño, before and during his illness that killed him, where he resembles the obsessive endearingly out-of-synch high school friend whose family was just slightly off and who you started out by pitying until you realized that he was infinitely smarter than you; whether from fear or from jealousy, I dropped all such friends when I claimed to be growing up.