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Another recently read...

Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. I finished this a few weeks ago, but haven’t had the moment to blog about it. This book surprised me. I imagined something stuffy and rambling, in the tradition of the English literature that so many of my friends covet. (Not that this is English literature, but it’s on so many of the same top novel lists that I assumed it had a similar style.) This book could hardly be accused of rambling. In a single paragraph, a character may be introduced, experience an epic love, and then die a bloody death. It took me half the book just to learn how to read the pages and keep up with the pace and intricate complications of family and place. Once I began to comprehend the paragraphs and could keep the characters separate and distinct in my mind, I loved the book. The rich layers made for a depth and ease of meaning that is lost in most novels. (It reminded me of my beloved Godfather movies. I had to watch them all about three times before I could finally catch all the nuances and linking references.)

This book also inspired me to take greater chances in my writing. Marquez could mix surreal altercations of reality with blunt statement so that I could believe the impossible. In his world, there may be men eternally hounded by little yellow butterflies, or scholars that remain in their room receiving guests after they die simply because the solitude of death didn’t suit them, or women that live to be a hundred and twenty and outlive even their great-grand children. These things are simple facts just like this particular child was born to this woman, that father prefers his coffee black and the seasons number four.

I wrote my story in ink and have yet to transcribe it. (A task I loathe.) I have no idea how successful my story is, but I like the concept. I created characters capable of expressing only one sentiment their entire lives, such as “I love you” or “I’m sorry I’m so busy” or “I’m leaving” and applied them to my standard plot of early love, degradation of self and inevitable heartache. Yes, I really only have one plot to all my stories.

I need to live more lives.

An interesting side note, my copy of this novel was old, yellowed and tattered. As I neared the end, sections kept falling out of the book. No matter. I’d read those parts already. I just set hem aside. Yet, as soon as I finished the last passage, the entire book fell apart, never to be read again. If you’ve read the book, you’ll know how strangely prophetic this was. Wonderfully chilling.

posted by Scribbler @ Wednesday, November 02, 2005