I'm about 100 pages into Roberto Bolano's Savage Detectives right now. It's very... weird. At first I got a Murakami-ish feel to the narrator, now a little bit Henry Miller in its bohemian aimlessness and lust for word and sex. There's a lot of weird sex going on and stuff that's strange and over my head. Poets, man. I could never be one.
Well it's like 600+ pages, so I guess I'll let you know how it goes.