Gabriel Garcia Marquez
I remember reading, at the end of The General and His Labyrinth, a paragraph that I interpreted as the likes of such a man would never pass this way again, but, although, at this time, that's fitting, Marquez's words, in that last paragraph, are much more profound: they drift past boundaries and echo.
And so it is with regret and with gratitude that I re-post this post, because for or a short time the world was given the blessing of Mr. Marquez whose words tumbled golden from the depths of a deep soul.
At the time, the price of One Hundred Years of Solitude: $2.95. |
Glorious book jackets. |
Márquez's seamless ability to incorporate magic realism into his novels does surprise, delight and astound. In One Hundred Years of Solitude, there is a focus on ice. Nothing unusual--sans magic, but try to explain ice to someone who has never seen it. For example how would you explain ice to an individual from Amazonian Lost Tribe? (And, yes, speaking of amazing things there are still a few tribes out there!) Could you describe ice so that they could understand? And, more importantly, if you put a piece of ice in the person's hand, how would they react? What would they think? In that context and in the context the novel, ice moves from the ordinary to the miraculous.