I read One Hundred Years of Solitude a few years ago and found it haunting. It spoke truth.
Love in the Time of Cholera is a deeply insightful, sweetly-sad book about life and love. Those of you who follow my rambling book review postings might know that I have little appetite for such books. I get frustrated: why should I care about these people? I rarely identify with characters in these books, who it seems, almost by the demands of the plot are capable of the most eye-rolling hijinks.
This wasn’t my favourite book, but I can fully appreciate the technical and artistic skill of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. This author is like the great Russian novelists – he can fully and seemingly effortlessly take you too a different time and place.
I haven’t lived in 19th century Moscow, nor early 20th century Colombia, but somehow these authors incorporate me effortlessly. It’s a special magic, and Marquez has it in spades.
This is a winning book for a lot of people. Not just for me. Gabriel Garcia Marquez is good enough to warrant another read however. I’m thinking of The General in his Labyrinth.