As ever one isn’t quite sure what to make of Aira’s fiendish mind. Is it that of a genius or a madman? This story involves, among things, cloning Octavio Paz and his tie, pirate’s loot, a lecherous writer, big blue worms. All of which occurs at a Venezuelan literary festival. It’s dotty, but it also feels calculated, in the way that extreme improvisation needs to be underpinned by an unlikely coherence. It’s reminiscent of Saer, rather than Borges, lacking the blind man’s love of logic. It’s also reminiscent of Aira’s cinematic compatriot Lucia Seles, another who comes from a small town on the edge of Buenos Aires, with his roundabout tales that engage but infuriate. There’s a fine line between madness, the artistic equivalent of scratching an itch until you bleed, and otherworldly genius, which the margins of Argentina’s capital seem to provoke. Bolaño describes Aira as one of the best Hispanic writers of his generation in the introduction, and who are we to argue with Bolaño?
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