I finished One Hundred Years of Solitude under an oak tree a few yards from a noisy fountain on a hot California evening. Gabriel García Márquez‘s epic about the birth and ruin of the magical city of Macondo, had kept me awake until the small hours of the morning for the past few weeks. It was my first García Márquez novel and I found it completely unlike anything I have ever read. Now, after many nights of turning from side to side in the reading bed; in silent amazement at the excesses of the Buendías; angry shock at their misery, and – always – in bewilderment at the writer’s genius, the book has ended with a final horrible sting in its scorpion tail. I find myself deluged with events and symbolisms which merge somehow into a sweeping meditation on the human condition that not only pierces the heart, but gouges it out, and wrings it dry.
Surely, in this inebriated condition, the worst thing to do would be to write a review. Hence, I refrain.
Of all the books that sit unread on my shelf, there is only one that I could possibly choose now. It was inevitable… .
Related blog posts: