Digital Wanderer | Books - One Hundred Years of Solitude

I generally read mostly sci-fi. I've read a little bit of the classics — the parts of the school curriculum I had the patience for. As for other books — whatever I happened to come across, usually all sorts of trash, I don't even want to name names so I don't embarrass myself.

And now, because my shoulder hurts, instead of the pool I've started taking a bath every day like a bourgeois, thank god I don't have water meters. And while I lie in the bath, I read classics on my Sony Reader, or something close to it. That's why I'm going to write pseudo-reviews. Why "pseudo"? Because I'm a lousy critic — I haven't read anything, I have nothing to compare it to. On the other hand, this might bring some fresh perspective — I am, after all, a guy with a semi-technical mindset, and an atheist/materialist on top of that. I'm sure someone will find it interesting to know how people like that perceive the classics, especially the highly literary ones sometimes. What I mean by that, see below.

First of all, I read "One Hundred Years of Solitude" by Gabriel García Márquez. This book is kind of "cult", but among all sorts of pseudo-indie/wannabe-glamorous plankton, which is why ~~snobs~~ literature lovers often treat it with condescension or contempt. Of course, not to the same degree as the works of Coelho or Murakami, 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 quite an entertaining language, easily recognizable, by the way. In the beginning, it's smooth and fairy-tale-like, but towards the end it gets harsher, and, as it seemed to me, not as elegant. Maybe the author did it on purpose, who knows.

As I started reading, I very soon came across 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 strange to come across something you've only heard about in passing, haven't read the definition of, and haven't really encountered before — but you immediately see that this is exactly it. For those who haven't even heard of it in passing — it's a literary device/movement where mysticism/the improbable and everyday events are not separated — that is, miracles are presented as something really existing and happening. And it's the same in "One Hundred Years of Solitude". Fortunately, 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. To be honest, it's still not very clear to me, as they say in literature classes: "What did the author want to say?". But I'm left with the feeling that if I ever read it again, and reflect on it in the process, the understanding will come. However, I don't think it's all that important to always understand everything to the end — it's enough that the sensations while reading are pleasant, and afterwards your mood and thoughts change. They call it an "aftertaste" — but I really don't like such an aesthetic word, I don't know why.

Also, I don't like it when people say: "everything you read gets stored in your head and influences you for the better". First of all, this smacks of kitchen philosophy, and secondly, of "spirituality", which, as I recently realized, I absolutely dislike. Right now it looks to me like the 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 a benefit, especially if you understand it in a utilitarian way, rather than "highly spiritually".

In any case, "One Hundred Years of Solitude" is a good book, and I recommend it to everyone. Here are the quotes that I noted down for some reason. (I usually note down the funny ones, that's all I'm capable of).

He could only be found in Aureliano's workshop; he spent whole hours there, covering the parchments he had once brought with him with mysterious scribbles; they seemed to be made of something hard and dry and flaked apart like puff pastry. In the workshop he also ate his meals — Visitación brought them twice a day — however, lately he had lost his appetite and ate only vegetables, which soon gave him the sickly look characteristic of vegetarians.

The last sentence cracked me up.

But although Fernanda had made an alliance with her husband, she still failed to find a common language with the rest of the Buendías. In vain did Úrsula ask her to throw away the black woolen robe that Fernanda would always put on in the morning if she had to perform her marital duties at night. This robe was already causing whispers among the neighbors. Úrsula also couldn't force Fernanda to use the bathroom and the toilet, nor persuade her to sell her golden chamber pot to Colonel Aureliano Buendía to be made into little fishes.

A robe — awesome. And then it goes on about the chamber pot, haha. The little fishes are ornaments.

Úrsula had to expend a great deal of effort to fulfill her promise and die as soon as the rain stopped.

And finally — for some reason many 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, as, by the way, I'm always interested in knowing your opinion on the books I've read. If you're not too lazy, of course.