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Gabriel García Márquez

Wabbit

New Member
Great writer! :)

Let me first thank Mile-O for sending me the link to the Macondo site :) It's a great site with lots of information about him and his works. I urge anybody to check it out! Macondo

Anyway, point of my posting. Yes. there is a point! Amazing, huh? I was reading about his life. What an amazing life this guy has lived. I got to one part and thought WOW :) such a passion, that's great! I wanted to share it with you. here is what it says:

"And then it happened: his epiphany. On January 1965 he and his family were driving to Acapulco for a vacation, when inspiration suddenly struck him: he had found his tone. For the first time in twenty years, a stroke of lightning clearly revealed the voice of Macondo. He would later write:

"All of a sudden -- I don't know why -- I had this illumination on how to write the book.... I had it so completely formed, that right there I could have dictated the first chapter word by word to a typist."

And later, regarding that illumination:

"The tone that I eventually used in One Hundred Years of Solitude was based on the way my grandmother used to tell stories. She told things that sounded supernatural and fantastic, but she told them with complete naturalness.... What was most important was the expression she had on her face. She did not change her expression at all when telling her stories and everyone was surprised. In previous attempts to write, I tried to tell the story without believing in it. I discovered that what I had to do was believe in them myself and write them with the same expression with which my grandmother told them: with a brick face."

He turned the car immediately around and headed home. There, he put Mercedes in charge of the family, and he retired to his room to write.
And write he did. He wrote every day for eighteen months, consuming up to six packs of cigarettes a day. To provide for the family, the car was sold, and almost every household appliance was pawned so Mercedes could feed the family and keep him supplied with a constant river of paper and cigarettes. His friends started to call his smoke-filled room "the Cave of the Mafia," and after a while the whole community began helping out, as if they collectively understood that he was creating something remarkable. Credit was extended, appliances loaned, debts forgiven. After nearly a year of work, García Márquez sent the first three chapters to Carlos Fuentes, who publicly declared: "I have just read eighty pages from a master." Towards the end of the novel, as yet unnamed, anticipation grew, and the buzz of success was in the air. As finishing touches, he placed himself, his wife, and his friends in the novel, and then discovered a name on the last page: Cien años de soledad. Finally he emerged from the Cave, grasping thirteen hundred pages in his hands, exhausted and almost poisoned from nicotine, over ten thousand dollars in debt, and perhaps only a few pages shy of a mental and physical breakdown. And yet, he was happy -- indeed, euphoric. In need of postage, he pawned a few more household implements and sent it off to the publisher in Buenos Aires.
One Hundred Years of Solitude was published in June 1967, and within a week all 8000 copies were gone. From that point on, success was assured, and the novel sold out a new printing each week, going on to sell half a million copies within three years. It was translated into over two dozen languages, and it won four international prizes. Success had come at last. Gabriel García Márquez was 39 years old when the world first learned his name."


WOW.


You can read the rest of the ( long ) article if you wish on the main site. He is really a great writer and can't recommend 100 years enough! :)

Regards
SillyWabbit
 
I would but it wouldn't do much good. :(

They're all rather moist. :eek:

RaVeN
(If you're that damn concerned you could loan me yours....I promise to give 'em back) :D
 
Could you show me something in a regular non-menthol please? :)

*Hmmm, very nice* :eek:

Now twirl around a bit and think happy thoughts. :D

*Very, VERY nice* :eek:

Wait,.. is that a carrot stain in the crotch? :(

RaVeN
 
Hey Wabbit, you didn't tell me that the book was a pick for Oprah Winfrey's book club.

You know of course that I'll never be able to read it in public :eek:

RaVeN
 
lol

Damn woman! DAMN HER! At least she is getting people to read something great. Maybe there is some kinda hope for those that watch her show!!!


Regards
SillyWabbit
 
I've been unable to find a good hardback copy of One Hundred Years at a decent price yet but just picked up Of Love and Other Demons to add to my pile. One of these months I'll get to test the Marquez waters with it.

RaVeN
 
GREAT :) I am glad you did! I think it is a better introduction to him than 100 years.

I hope you enjoy it Raven! :) It has many many very beautiful lines in it that I had to re-read again and again! Enjoy!

Regards
SillyWabbit
 
Hi there. I read "La Marionette". I also read a novel but i dont remember the title (it's different in English).
La Marionette:

If for a moment God would forget that I am a rag doll and give me a scrap of life, possibly I would not say everything that I think, but I would definitely think everything that I say.


I would value things not for how much they are worth but rather for what they mean.

I would sleep little, dream more. I know that for each minute that we close our eyes we lose sixty seconds of light.

I would walk when the others loiter; I would awaken when the others sleep.

I would listen when the others speak, and how I would enjoy a good chocolate ice cream.

If God would bestow on me a scrap of life, I would dress simply, I would throw myself flat under the sun, exposing not only my body but also my soul.

My God, if I had a heart, I would write my hatred on ice and wait for the sun to come out. With a dream of Van Gogh I would paint on the stars a poem by Benedetti, and a song by Serrat would be my serenade to the moon.

With my tears I would water the roses, to feel the pain of their thorns and the incarnated kiss of their petals...My God, if I only had a scrap of life...

I wouldn't let a single day go by without saying to people I love, that I love them.

I would convince each woman or man that they are my favourites and I would live in love with love.

I would prove to the men how mistaken they are in thinking that they no longer fall in love when they grow old--not knowing that they grow old when they stop falling in love. To a child I would give wings, but I would let him learn how to fly by himself. To the old I would teach that death comes not with old age but with forgetting. I have learned so much from you men....

I have learned that everybody wants to live at the top of the mountain without realizing that true happiness lies in the way we climb the slope.

I have learned that when a newborn first squeezes his father's finger in his tiny fist, he has caught him forever.

I have learned that a man only has the right to look down on another man when it is to help him to stand up. I have learned so many things from you, but in the end most of it will be no use because when they put me inside that suitcase, unfortunately I will be dying.
 
Speedy, who wrote those lines? Was it Marquez? And if so, where from, because I am not certain :) Novel? Shorty story?

Regards
SillyWabbit
 
Isn't Marquez now dying because of some terminal illness? Cancer, or something? I've got a strange feeling that I've read about it somewhere, but I'm not sure if it's truth. Does anyone here know?
 
I read it in a newspaper here in Greece. Yes, he said he had cancer and he was going to die when he wrote it but i think he is still alive. Anyway its great. Don't you agree?
 
Yeah, I agree, it's very wonderful. I agree completely with all my heart and soul. It's the kind of thing I say often, myself :)

Thanks for posting it! :)

Regards
SillyWabbit
 
OK Wabbit, help me out here...

At the minute I am toiling - toiling - my way through Gabriel García Márquez's legendary masterpiece One Hundred Years of Solitude. One thing I can say about Márquez's books is that I never fail to start them, and somehow over the years I have accumulated a number of his novels as well as this one, all of which incidentally show the man's idiosyncratic and perfectly-pitched ear for a title: Love in the Time of Cholera; Of Love and Other Demons; Chronicle of a Death Foretold. Yet I can't say for sure that I have finished any of them (though I am sure I have begun them all), and none has left any trace on my memory, other than his equally fine ear for opening lines:

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.

It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds would always remind him of the fate of unrequited love.

And he is lauded, and how - Nobel Prize laureate for one, and One Hundred Years of Solitude evokes such mountainous comparisons as "the greatest revelation in the Spanish language since the Don Quixote of Cervantes" (Pablo Neruda), "a South American Genesis" (New York Times Book Review) and - why not? - "the most obvious comparison is with Homer's Odyssey" (Spectator).

And the book starts so brilliantly, with stuff like this:

Every year during the month of March a family of ragged gypsies would set up their tents near the village, and with a great uproar of pipes and kettledrums they would display new inventions. First they brought the magnet. A heavy gypsy with an untamed beard and sparrow hands, who introduced himself as Melquíades, put on a bold public demonstration of what he himself called the eighth wonder of the learned alchemists of Macedonia. He went from house to house dragging two metal ingots and everybody was amazed to see pots, pans, tongs, and braziers tumble down from their places and beams creak from the desperation of nails and screws trying to emerge, and even objects that had been lost for a long time appeared from where they had been searched for most and went dragging along in turbulent confusion behind Melquíades's magical irons. "Things have a life of their own," the gypsy proclaimed with a harsh accent. "It is simply a matter of waking up their souls."

Wow. So why has my reading of the book followed an exponential decay in pages per day - first 75, then 50, then 36, then 24... so that now, on page 264 of 420, I am so seriously considering letting the bloody thing drop that I am reduced to making this post to persuade others to persuade me of its worth?

It is something to do with my brain, I think, and a couple of wires there that have failed to connect. Because while I am not incapable of reading books which require attention and perseverance, I don't seem quite to have the reservoirs of these qualities to cope with a South American magical realist epic. The problem is just the accumulation of detail and density of incident that made the first few pages so delightful. At no point may your attention drift for - literally - two lines, otherwise you will end up on the next page seeing a reference to an event, or character, whose first mention you missed completely. Márquez is constantly prodding you like this: Aren't you listening? Do keep up. And with his love of page-long paragraphs, sparsity of dialogue and no white line breaks, each 20-page section can seem like a novel in itself.

And also! He deliberately - charitably one might say wittily - frustrates the reader's attempts to keep on top of what is happening by naming characters similarly: so we have José Arcadio, Aureliano, another José Arcadio, Aureliano José, Arcadio, Aureliano Segundo, José Arcadio Segundo, José Arcadio again, two more Aurelianos, and seventeen brothers of a particular generation all of whom are called Aureliano. And that's just the men. These fall into six generations of the family, a tree for which is provided at the start of the book, but the density of the prose and speed of events, plus the fact that people sometimes continue to appear in the book after they have died, makes it difficult to keep track of the timelines.

All of which leads me to the despairing and frustrating position of getting an occasional half-page glimpse of something great before it all becomes lost again in the melée of brothers and nephews and great-great-grandsons. One erudite and enviable reviewer on Amazon says:

In One Hundred Years of Solitude, Marquez creates a novel to show the nature of time. For this reason, there is no single main character in focus, nor does the novel follow a regular timeline. Instead the names of the characters are repeated and the flaws of each generation are magnified. As the generations grow, time speeds by and stagnates. The family is one drawn toward nostalgia and solitude, unable to feel love and charity. Because of this they are condemned to an ever decreasing circle where the passing of generations bring a concentration of loneliness.

Now to me, even as I let out a low whistle of admiration, this bears as much connection to my reading of the novel as the "it's like Lord of the Flies" review of Jesse Jameson and the Curse of Caldazar did to that book. But there, ahum, all comparisons between Sean Wright and Gabriel García Márquez must stop. Still, can anyone else give me a key to unlock the brilliance that I just know - somewhere, if I can find it - the book possesses?
 
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