One Hundred Years of Solitude

For the past year or so, since I've actually started reading and attempting to understand literature, I've wanted to read One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Based on everything I have heard, this is as good as anything written in the past 50 years and among the best 20th century literature. Since I generally agree with the consensus and because Marquez writes in a style that I usually find interesting (although I don't know that much about) I had high expectations.

I finished the book in about a week and a half, which for me is pretty good for a book of that length. Marquez is an incredible writer, he expresses exactly what he thinks through simple, gorgeous imagery that leaves the reader (at least me) stunned by its beauty. When I read a good but not great writer, I am impressed by their ability to express thoughts and emotions I know in ways that I am not capable of, or at least not capable of putting into words. What separates a writer like Marquez (or any other great) from writers like these, who are all talented but essentially interchangeable, is his ability to express thoughts and emotions that I have never had but make sense as if I had felt them all along.

What I mean:

"And Aureliano Segundo dying of solitude in the turmoil of his debauches (378)"

If I had somehow had the ability to write the entire book up until this point word for word as Marquez had, I would have almost certainly said,

"And Aureliano Segundo dying in solitude of the turmoil of his debauches"

Because this is how I would explain describe the death of Aureliano Segundo. And my description is wrong, it misses the point of the character and the entire book. If Marquez had chosen to write the sentence that way, it wouldn't stand out among every other sentence I read everyday. But Marquez switches in solitude and of solitude for the entire book, which is why he won the Nobel Prize and kids like me, along with any other person who has a soul, reads this book and are awestruck. But I could talk about Marquez's writing forever and never explain it, so it is better for everyone that I not try too hard.

Personally, I loved the book but can't quite consider it one of my absolute favorites. When I am reading a book like this for pleasure, I base my opinion of a book and an author on the extent to which the writing hits me; the moments when I am fully engrossed emotionally in the writing. With Marquez, these moments are frequent but interrupted by moments where I find my mind wandering and I need to pull myself back to the book. I can blame myself for a lot of this, since I often was reading at work or when I was really tired, which made it hard to lose myself in the book for long periods of time, where I can be awed by the smallest nuances of a writer's brilliance. However, a lot of the time I was reading in situations where I had no obvious distractions but still found my mind drifting as it usually does, which doesn't happen when I am deeply into a book. While nothing there is nothing that feels unnecessary or inefficient, the book at times felt overly long. Marquez's descriptions (especially of characters) are so lavish and deliberately extravagant that I found myself getting lost in imagery and forgetting what was actually happening. Once again, this is probably more my fault.

I also think that this is a book I should re-read every few years since it deals with so many characters at different stages of their lives. I'm sure that if I read it in a few years I will understand and relate to it differently than now.

Verdict:
This book is as good as advertised, if you are reading it (assuming you are reading this) and get bored STICK WITH IT because the last ten pages will give you goosebumps and the last page will give you tears.