The Third Reich by Roberto Bolaño
Alright, Paris Review, here’s my gripe: my home address has the letter “a” in it. So put to paper (or text bar) and without getting too specific, the top line of my address appears as “133a ________ Street.” This was apparently too much for you guys to handle. I bought a subscription last fall during a promotion you offered which started me on the Winter 2012 issue, but also gave me the previous three, thus allowing me to read your serialized publication of Bolaño’s ne’er-seen novella The Third Reich in its entirety. A few days later, a manila envelope appeared in my mailbox here at 133a ______ street holding all but the final installment of the story. And I really liked it. I read ahead, skipping all of the other content for later in the process. But how does it end? How could it? That would have to wait until the winter issue arrived.
…In May. Only after I called your offices to inquire as to why it never came. When I was told that my address wasn’t valid, so the post office returned it. And no one bothered to clear it up. Everything is straightened out now; I’m not upset, I’m just vent-blogging (blog-venting?). But I can’t seriously be the only subscriber with a letter in his or her street address, can I? Maybe I am. Anyway, the only real tragedy was that I had to wait seven months to find out what happened.
But I’ve read it all now, and I like it! I’m a big fan of the Giovanni’s Room/Tender is the Night/Death in Venicemeandering Mediterranean vacation novel, and The Third Reich offers an exciting twist to that convention.
