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Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Garcia Marquez. By John von Daler

    
              Any book that starts with a sentence like

"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."

             has to be worth reading.


And "One Hundred Years of Solitude" lived up to its initial sentence. So much of Garcia Marquez turned reading into dreaming and dreaming into revelation. I, for one, will never forget the gypsies who came every year in March, bringing with them to Macondo the secrets of civilization: eyeglasses, magnets, false teeth, and so much more.
                Now Marquez is dead and I suppose he will be remembered for decades and then forgotten for more decades and then remembered again, according to the whims of cultures. I know that circuses and bordellos and gypsy caravans will escort his memory wherever and whenever it is reborn. And then we will once again be reminded that, as one of his characters once said,
               
"Things have a life of their own...It's simply a matter of waking up their souls."


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