The Savage Detectives is a novel about poetry and poets that contains, at most, two poems. It is a novel divided into two sections that have been split into three sections, it is a novel that is 75% devoid of any charm, it is a novel set more in Mexico City than any other city, but the only elements of Mexico City it contains are street names. It is a novel that made me want to yell "Who even cares?!" out loud on the Subway, it is a novel about unwashed poets in cluttered little rooms. It is a book that made me think about its author and how insufferable he must have been. This book, I just can't recommend it and I feel like a bit of Philistine for saying that, but that's my main reaction to it. "Hey Brigham, what'd you think of the Savage Detectives?" "Ehh, can't say I recommend it." And, like I said, I feel a bit of a fool or failure for saying that, but again, who even cares?
This review from the Observer does a good job of summing the book up if you need a summation.