Hello, world. It has been a while, I will give you that. But here is the reason why: so many things were happening!
One of those things: I finished One Hundred Years of Solitude (finally!).
I say finally, because I have had a long and somewhat troubled relationship with the novel. When I came into possession of it a few years ago, I found that I was not able to get more than 100 pages in without getting distracted by something else and having to put the book down. This happened again, that next summer. And then again, the following autumn. Usually, I would have called it quits and given up on Marquez, as I have not hesitated to do with other authors and other books, but I did not. Two weeks I picked up the saga of Macondo again. Today I have finished.
And what a finish it was. The final line goes something like this:
Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages) would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.
[That should not spoil anything for you. Still read the book–you will be hypnotized by its cyclic ways.]
At first, I was satisfied–both with myself for having finally finished the novel and at Marquez for having finished his novel is such a way. To be quite honest, I had no idea how he was ever going to wrap things up just a few pages from the end, and with such finality.
Then, I started thinking about the close. My mind was immediately transported here:
Despite being lulled by the beauty of Marquez’s prose, I felt a bit like I was in a movie where a character waits for a tense/climactic moment and throws out the title of the film. I was shocked–because usually when such things occur I want to boo (if watching a film) or throw the book across the room (if reading, obviously)–they just feel so cheap to me–but I was hesitant to do so with Marquez.
Could I do that with such a book? Granted, it was not as heinous as the examples that T-Rex gives, but it was still a title-in-an-important-place moment. What to do?
In the meantime, back to it. Seriously.