Neither reality nor any other form of describable possibility can tell you what this book’s setting free. You can regard it as a parallel to a life, that is birthed and breathed. Nor can I bring to life the intricate and animated lives that bind One Hundred Years of Solitude. The countless possibilities of imagination its literature binds to something that remains unhindered and untouched in a world quite unique to our own. So still are the characters’ lives and so run by the course of time that even One Hundred Years, written by Gabriel Garcia Marquez seemed too short enough to be lived. The quest for an ending, along with time, love, and loss, is almost unending. The end itself forms the premise of an undying destiny bred through what is lived and what is left by people molded by it.
So, are we free of transforming from mud to bricks?
Are we neglected by death even if we don’t make a sound? While these questions have not yet found answers. To me, asking the question is enough to feel privileged for a book this purifying, provocative, and enchanting to the soul.
“…watching the flow of the fire as it glided the persistent woman who neither then nor in any instant of her life seemed to exist completely.”
– Gabriel García Márquez
The ground on which One Hundred Years of Solitude stands on is made of tectonic plates that rattle, constantly, with no discipline to show for. The rattle is demeaning but crucial; bewildering but swift. It’s the unpredictability of intuition and intention we’re so oblivious to. And if such virtuosity exists, it exists in this book. It speaks of solitude with purpose and purpose without the loss of hope. One Hundred Years of Solitude is the absolute ticket to what imagination could bring into this world. It is the precipice that knows no bounds and has no explicit shape or color.
What is recognized is not how the characters live the same lives, but how each character dives deeper into history, repeating its course over and over again so as to be close to it. Like a spell-bound and possessed lover. These dimensions I’ve drawn up are unscathed and undiscoverable to the naked eye. It’s what is undisciplined and pure, quite like the transgressions of the story. The vessel of humanity which runs in spite of the destined lapses of space and time.
“…the search for lost things is hindered by routine habits and that is why it is so difficult to find them.”
– Gabriel García Márquez
What does this vessel do? It protects what is yours. It defends soil without breathing life into it. So when you bury a seed deep into the ground, you’re no longer a part of it. You will never look upon that patch of earth ever again. Why? Because to you, the act of planting the seed and giving it life is an act of never having to exist with it. So, you can live outside the realms of the law. And you give purpose to such indiscretions as you’ve had to survive through it.
Again, the act of diving deep into history just to be intimate with it. To have it give you a purpose and to have you give it a reason. One Hundred Years of Solitude is a magical ode to literature and the muscle it yields to stay close to your soul.
Even after you’ve read it, the words continue to enchant the mind, purify the heart. Until there’s nothing left but a sweltering desire to see the day run its end. For the sun to set and the moon to take its place. How can you count days and nights without numbers? How can you control time if not without a clock? Because then, in doing so, time is not passed on but felt. Then, in feeling so, days don’t end with nights. Instead, the passage of time dissolves into an abyss, in the laps of darkness, until we dissolve in it too.
Such is the fusion lives with which we identify so vividly and delicately. We try to believe that the sun and the moon are two opposites. But in this book, you understand that they’re the only laws of the earth we’ve supposed to mark and follow. The only laws that give life and death unerringly by swallowing it whole.