I generally read mostly sci-fi. I haven't read much classics — just a part of the school curriculum, whatever I had the patience for. As for other books — whatever came my way, mostly all sorts of trash, I don't even want to drop names so I don't out myself.
But right now, because my shoulder hurts, I've started taking a bath every day instead of going to the pool, like some bourgeois, good thing there are no water meters. And while I lie in the bath, I read classics on my Sony Reader, or something close to it. So I'll be writing pseudo-reviews. Why "pseudo"? Because I'm a lousy critic — haven't read anything, got nothing to compare it to. On the other hand, it might bring some fresh perspective — I am, after all, a guy with a semi-technical mindset, plus an atheist/materialist. Surely someone would be interested to know how people like that perceive classics, especially when it gets highly literary at times. You'll see what I mean below.
The very first thing I read was “One Hundred Years of Solitude” by Gabriel García Márquez. This book is kind of "cult", but mostly among all sorts of pseudo-indie/wannabe-glamorous plankton, which is why snobs literature lovers often treat it with condescension or disdain. Not quite to the same extent as they do the works of Coelho or Murakami, of course, but still.
The book is about a century in the life of a settlement called Macondo and the history of the Buendía family that founded it, and the action takes place in South America, sometime around the 19th century. The book is written in a rather engaging language, easily recognizable, by the way. In the beginning, it's smooth and fairy-tale-like, but towards the end it gets harsher and, or so it seemed to me, not as elegant. Maybe the author did it on purpose, who knows.
As soon as I started reading, I very quickly ran into the fact that all sorts of tall tales are woven into the fabric of the narrative as real events. "Hello, magical realism," I thought. It's very weird to encounter something you've only heard of out of the corner of your ear, haven't read the definition of, and haven't really come across before — but you immediately see that this is exactly it. For those who haven't even heard of it out of the corner of their ear — it's a literary device/movement where they don't separate mysticism/the unbelievable from everyday events — meaning miracles are presented as something that actually exists and happened. So it's the exact same thing in "One Hundred Years of Solitude". Luckily, it's not presented as obnoxiously and overdone as in Murakami, or, God forbid, Coelho.
What did I like about the book? The language, the stories, the descriptions of various little details and things. The fact that it reads relatively easily (if you don't get tangled up in the characters' names and fates). The fact that the ideas there are not obvious, but at the same time not so obscure as to be completely incomprehensible or unconvincing. Though, to be honest, it's still not very clear to me, as they say in literature classes: "What was the author trying to say?". But I'm left with this feeling that if I ever read it again someday, and do some pondering in the process, the understanding will come. However, I don't think it's really that important to always understand everything completely — it's enough that the sensations during reading are pleasant, and afterwards your mood and thoughts change. As they call it, an "aftertaste" — but I really dislike such an aesthetic word, don't know why.
I also don't like it when people say: "everything you read settles in your head and influences you for the better". First of all, it smacks of kitchen philosophy, and secondly, of "spirituality", which, as I've recently realized, I absolutely despise. Right now, it looks to me like the very same mysticism, just bashfully turned towards us with its other side. And thirdly, it's simply not true — and it's not a given that books necessarily bring any benefit, especially if you understand it in a utilitarian way, rather than a "highly spiritual" one.
In any case, “One Hundred Years of Solitude” is a good book, and I recommend it to everyone. Here are the quotes I noted down for some reason. (I usually note down the funny ones, don't have the capacity for more).
That last phrase cracked me up.
The robe is awesome. And then it goes on about the chamber pot, haha. The little fishes are jewelry.
Úrsula had to expend a great deal of effort to fulfill her promise and die as soon as it stopped raining.
And lastly — for some reason a lot of people, myself included, thought that “No One Writes to the Colonel” was about Aureliano Buendía. Actually, it's a book by Márquez, a novella. Whether it's about the same colonel — I don't know, but I doubt it.
P.S. It would be curious to hear a couple of lines about the book from ears_of_tin, just as, by the way, I'm always interested to know your opinion on the books I've read. If you're not too lazy, of course.