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Shade said: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:
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:
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?
Shade said:Alas, I didn't finish it - but will no doubt return in due course.
I was interested to hear about Memories of My Melancholy Whores being pirated in Colombia, to the extent that the sellers were offering copies at people's car windows. Raises two questions:
1. Can you imagine people in the English speaking world getting so excited about a piece of literary fiction?
SillyWabbit said:No, sadly not!
2. How the hell do you pirate a novel? Photocopy it and staple all the pages together...?
evie said:So 100 Years of Solitude is good? It's on my list. Wabbit, I feel like you do all the time (I'm to lazy to quote, but about finishing the book and feeling the energy of one hundred years that has just passed through your hands). It's amazing...sort of like coming back from another plane of conciousness, it's almost painful, but so sweet.
I got hooked on Hispanic authors over this past summer (mostly Isabel Allende, Pablo Neruda, and Marquez). I read (and loved) Of Love and Other Demons, and later Chronicle of a Death Foretold. I had to put Love in the Time of Cholera down for a while, but am beginning it again now. Last time I hit a slump around page forty...it's almost as though I feel I'm unworthy of reading it, like there are infinite deeper meanings that I can't fathom and so am doing the book an injustice by reading it. But I love it all the same.