Only on those occasions, and others of equal urgency, did he realize the truth of words that he liked to repeat in jest: ‘I do not believe in God, but I am afraid of Him.'” p. 304
I’ve been trying to catch up on some reading while in Turkey including Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera. Several factors point to the conclusion that everything Gabriel Garcia Marquez creates is literary gold: He is the first Columbian and fourth Latin American to ever win the Nobel Prize for Literature, he arguably popularized Magical Realism, and One Hundred Years of Solitude is 432 pages of beauty. Despite these obvious accolades, I couldn’t imagine any of his other novels being as poignant, enlightening, articulate, or magical after reading 100 Years of Solitude. Additionally I was annoyed that the book cost me a whopping $15.00 for some paper (I could have a new dress for that price). But of course, it was worth it and I now intend to (slowly) make my way through his entire life works (Philip Roth’s as well).
You have to know languages when you go to sell something,’ she said with mocking laughter. ‘But when you go to buy everyone does what he must to understand you'” p. 63
Love in the Time of Cholera is different than 100 Years of Solitude. It’s much more “real” and much less “magical,” but only in a literal sense. The book is filled with an incredible and wise outlook on love, that isn’t exactly clear, however if you put the intricate story together, it weaves a skillful narrative of the true condition of human love. No, it’s not a fairytale love story written by Nicolas Sparks, it is the exact opposite and yet every bit as touching. It does not depict a nostalgic fantasy, but rather is based in a harsh (albeit exaggerated) truthful light. Someday I’ll find the time to compile all of his insight specifically about love and comment on them. In the meantime, enjoy some of Marquez’s gems that are not on the topic of love.
“No one described him better than he did when someone accused him of being rich. ‘No not rich,’ he said. ‘I’m a poor man with money, which is not the same thing.'” p. 167