G.G Marquez, Finally
"Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice," reads the first sentence of my winter read, One Hundred Years of Solitude.
Those of you who have read this novel once, twice, thrice, etc, already know what's in store for me and you might be wondering why I am just reading it for the first time ever.
It's amazing how I went through college literature courses on two continents and still never saw this book on the syllabi. I discovered the writer through references made to him by people who had read him, and I might have read an excerpt or two of some of his works, but I certainly knew through the comparative critical work that referred to One Hundred that this was a great book, so great that I dreaded it, would not buy it even if I saw it on the bargain table. But yesterday, while making one of my Goodwill treasure hunts, I found the book, alongside Kazuo Ishiguro's When We Were Orphans and decided to buy it; I don't think that I had a choice not to. We stood there, book and man, facing each other, finally...
When I go into a Goodwill I have to walk out with books; that's the main reason I go there (to rescue those books some people leave here. Why would someone want to get rid of their copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude?" Oh, maybe so treasure hunters like me may find them! I like how it all works out.) Remember that the pricing structure at a Goodwill is $2.00 for hard covers and $1.00 for paperbacks. Any book. No questions asked, even if I were to see my own book, Forever Let Me Go, a paperback, being sold for $1.00. I tell people that, thanks to people who get rid of high-quality books, Goodwill beats Amazon by far.
Anyway, I bought ten good titles that included Toni Morrison's Love (finally), Kazuo Ishiguro's When We Were Orphans, Best American Short Stories 1993, Mary Mackey's The Notorious Mrs. Winston, and others.
Comments
After my workout, I went into a flea market that was located directly below the gym in which I was a member. I wanted to hunt for old books since I am a book collector. As I navigated my way through the maze made by the market stalls, I saw a collection of all of James Fenimore Cooper's books. The only book I wanted was The Last of the Mohicans.
"How much would this book cost," I asked the old gentleman who was manning the stall.
"I have no idea," answered the old man as he inspected me from head to toe. I could tell he was doubtful of my seriousness. "Why do you want just one book?"
"Well, sir, I never read any of Mr Cooper's books. Many times, as a boy, I had opportunity after opportunity to read this book," I said as I gently caressed The Last of The Mohicans. "I never did."
The old man started talking to another customer. It gave me enough time to rifle through the book. I almost collapsed in excitement when I discovered the books had been published in 1888. The old man did not see the change in my demeanour since he was preoccupied with his other customer.
"I am really interested in getting this book," I said to the old man as soon as the other customer was gone.
"Son," replied the old man, "I am not going to sell just one book. I will only sell them as a collection. Take the entire collection or leave it!"
"How much, then, is the collection."
The old man looked at me again. He wanted to get rid of me. "Fifty dollars," he said hoping to rid of me.
Yes, sir, I whipped out my chequebook and cut him the cheque right on the spot. It was a bargain too good to pass. I picked up the collection of books, lumbered upstairs and called my friend to pick me. I was never going to leave that treasure trove.
To this day, wherever I go, I make sure I have my collection. I will never let anyone borrow a copy.
Got Epic?
As I read the novel I'm seeing the influence Marquez has had on a lot of contemporary writers who follow the magical realist tradition. I know Marquez himself was influenced by Franz Kafka (I have only read "The Metamorphosis"). He revealed in a Paris Review interview that he when he read Kafka he could not believe that people were actually allowed to write like that, so then he began writing....