Tag Archives: The Little Prince

Currently Reading: One Hundred Years of Solitude

One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez (1967)

Thoughts:

One Hundred Years of Solitude may be the best book I’ve ever read.  I cannot think of a more masterful novel.  It has such fullness: an enormous range of human emotion (love, exuberance, contentment, hope, hatred, sorrow, remorse); literary tropes that are the hallmarks of both comedy and tragedy (birth and death, marriages and funerals, war and peace, wealth and poverty, education and ignorance); the magic of the most enduring folk and fairytales; and a sharp sense of humor.

Harold Bloom called it “the Bible of Macondo,” the NYTimes Book Review called it “required reading for the entire human race,” Commonweal called it “the great novel of the Americas”: OHYoS feels contemporary, relevant, and also somehow scriptural and religious.  If I had to choose two pieces of required reading for the human race, I think I’d choose this one and The Little Prince.  (#3 = Song of Songs from the Bible.)

Note: In this post, I wanted to refer to the author as “Gabo,” as many Latin Americans do.  But having spoken to my Honduran housemate who loves GGM, and heard his (much more beautiful) pronunciation of character and place names, I feel that the author-in-translation is not quite mine to refer to so familiarly.  (If you are not a Spanish speaker: hear “Aureliano” in Spanish here.) 

A master class in:

-Form: The novel’s structure follows a perfect Aristotelian arc, charting the birth, rise, fall, and death of the town of Macondo.  The book ends for a clear reason: there is nothing left to be said of this place that “did not have a second opportunity on earth.”

But the brilliance of the form is that, within the ^ shape of the whole, story arcs of many different scales hit their peaks and valleys at times that contrast with the wider narrative arc.  Patriarch José Arcadio Buendía dies at about the 1/3 mark; the first generation dies out about 2/3 of the way through the book; each feels like a definitive end, even as the story of Macondo is rising or cresting.  Aureliano and Amaranta Úrsula hit their sexual and romantic peak—in some ways the peak of the entire book, the most passionate love—at the very lowest point in Macondo’s decline.  As in reality, individual lives are affected by the story of the world around them, but not dictated by it: in times of global tragedy, the individual can experience great joy, and vice-versa.

 

-Theme: In this book about forgetting, about repeating the same mistakes generation after generation, the narrative itself forgets nothing.  Úrsula, the living memory of Macondo, feels that time is going in a circle; once she dies, the names of her descendants recur but the world forgets that Colonel Aureliano Buendía was a real person and not merely a street name.  The town–and the book–ends because she is not there to remind her incestuous descendants of the curse of the pig’s tail.  The aunt-nephew consummation that ultimately dooms Macondo (while redeeming the possibility of true passion) fulfills not only the prophecy of Melquíades but also the aborted love of Amaranta and her nephew Aureliano José.  They are emblems of the forgetting that erodes institutional memory over time, allowing war after war, mistake after mistake, forbidden love after forbidden love.

Yet the narrative itself forgets nothing.  Fernanda’s father in his casket, Rebeca still living in that secluded house, José Arcadio Buendía’s ghost, the Aurelianos’ crosses of ash—all recur even once the reader has herself forgotten them.  García Márquez thereby aligns the reader both with the mortal generations who forget the past, and with the omniscient narrator that does not forget.

 

-Fictional Time:  Closely related to the theme of memory and forgetting is the length of time and number of generations covered in the novel.  Again, García Márquez replicates in the reader’s experience that of his characters: he warps time.  It does seem that “in the past…children took a long[er] time to grow up,” as Úrsula notes in her old age; it does seem that the time between José Arcadio’s disappearance and reappearance was longer than the span during which later generations finished growing up.  I will have to reread the book to better understand how exactly García Márquez accomplishes this magical sense of the changing nature of time over long periods; perhaps he devotes more page space to fewer characters earlier on, and time passes more quickly as the novel (like Macondo) becomes more densely populated.

 

-Magical realism: The magic in OHYoS has real and unalterable consequences.  The four years of rain destroy much of Macondo’s wealth; the ghost of Prudencio Aguilar leads José Arcadio Buendía to his death; Remedios the Beauty, after her ascension, is never seen on earth again.

Similarly, the narrative is not afraid to forecast, well in advance, extreme tragedies that turn out to be accurate and unalterable: the fate of Colonel Aureliano Buendía and his sons, the end of Macondo, the silence of Meme.

 

Final note, as a writer-reader: Perhaps my favorite element of One Hundred Years of Solitude was the joy and proliferation of GGM’s imaginative vision; reading the novel consistently spurred my own creativity.

 

Favorite lines:

“He promised to follow her to the ends of the earth, but only later on, when he put his affairs in order, and she had become tired of waiting for him, always identifying him with the tall and short, blond and brunet men that her cards promised from land and sea within three days, three months, or three years.  With her waiting she had lost the strength of her thighs, the firmness of her breasts, her habit of tenderness, but she kept the madness of her heart intact.”

“[Úrsula] decreed a kind of mourning with no one dead which was to be prolonged until the daughters got over their hopes.”

“After so many years of death the yearning for the living was so intense, the need for company so pressing…that Prudencio Aguilar had ended up loving his worst enemy.  He had spent a great deal of time looking for him.  He asked the dead from Riohacha about him, the dead who came from the Upar Valley, those who came from the swamp, and no one could tell him because Macondo was a town that was unknown to the dead until Melquíades arrived and marked it with a small black dot on the motley maps of death.”

“Aureliano tried to relive the times when they slept in the same room, tried to revive the complicity of childhood, but José Arcadio had forgotten about it, because life at sea had saturated his memory with too many things to remember.”

“He had fled from her in an attempt to wipe out her memory…but the more her image wallowed in the dunghill of the war, the more the war resembled Amaranta.”

“‘It’s coming,’ she finally explained.  ‘Something frightful, like a kitchen dragging a village behind it.’” (On Macondo’s first train)

“…he was the only one who had enough lucidity to sense the truth of the fact that time also stumbled and had accidents and could therefore splinter and leave an eternalized fragment in the room.”

 

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Currently Reading: Chava Rosenfarb

Bergen-Belson Diary, Chava Rosenfarb (1945)

Thoughts:

This is one of the most stunningly written accounts of life in the immediate aftermath of liberation from the concentration camps that I have ever encountered.  I must look into Chava Rosenfarbs other works; I’ve somehow not heard of her to now, but I am wrenched and moved by this searing diary, which she wrote at only 22 years old.  Perhaps I’m deciding to teach Cynthia Ozick‘s “The Shawl” in my fiction class this semester, after all.  I want Rosenfarb’s diary to be required reading for the world.  This and The Little Prince would be on my syllabus for humanity.

A master class in:

Urgency.  Of course.  This is memoir, not fiction.  Can even the best fiction replicate this kind of urgency?  On a day when I hadn’t so recently been so moved by this piece, I might say yes.

Favorite lines:

Far too many, I’m aware.  The entirety of this diary are my favorite lines.  As it is I’ve probably excerpted too much, but here are some moments of particularly exceptional insight, pain, power, beauty:

“Our liberation has come, but she wears a prosaic face. No one has died of joy. No one has gone mad with excitement. When we used to dream of freedom, we bathed her with our tears. We crowned her with the garlands of our smiles and dreams. Now that she is here, she looks like a beggar, and we have nothing to give her.”

“I saw my friend Yakov Borenstein, just as he was on that winter day when he prepared to leave on his last journey. His eyes were burning: “Don’t be sad, my friend. We will meet again…” Suddenly, my lips started to tremble. “Come with me; come with me, my dearest friend. We will go for a long walk.” “I am coming, I am coming,” I called back.”

“I can see him [poet Bunim Shayevitch] standing by the window of his room. Tomorrow he is going away. In the dark corners of the room there still linger the spirits of his loved ones, who are gone. Soon he too will be gone. The last of his family. He is taking a whole generation with him. Nobody will remember them. Nobody will remember him. A nameless end.”

“I know that back in those days when I was to share their fate, they did not pain me. They were with me, not in fact, but in essence. Somewhere on the way we got separated; at some unknown moment they left me. I went on the road to life.”

“A blade of grass, trodden down under heavy boots has a hard job righting itself again and must wait until the sap in its veins starts to pulse with new life. We are that trodden grass. We are preoccupied with ourselves, with straightening our bent bodies.”

“One can hear again the almost-forgotten sound of women’s laughter, a laughter meant specifically for men. Sometimes when I hear this laughter I have the impression that it will suddenly turn into a wild cry, into the painful longing wail of a woman’s soul, a woman who tries to find in the eyes, hands, and smiles of a stranger some small trace of the beloved man she once knew. […] “Look, I have forgotten!” the cheerful voices call. But it is enough to look into the women’s eyes to know something different.”

“How can one construct an artistic history of the ghetto? […] Is not the form of the novel too elegant, too peaceful, too comfortable, too quiet?”

“Where are you, Bunim? Where are all our friends? Where are the writers and painters and musicians of the ghetto? We are lonely. […] What are we going to do with this gift of life?”

“They describe their dear ones. Don’t they know that the picture they carry in their hearts has long ago been altered, that every day of the many that were spent in the camp changed one’s appearance beyond recognition?”

“Sometimes a couple walks past us. A man and a woman. They are holding hands, awkwardly caught between pain and joy. They are the lucky ones. We look after them with strange expressions in our eyes.”

“Tateh [Father], this very moment I am calling you with all the power of my being. If you are alive somewhere then surely you feel my anguish. Surely you hear my call. Do not lose hope. If you are alive there is no road too far for me to travel. If you are sick, do not give in. Wait. We will come.”

“We scan the lists of names of survivors of the camps. The long pages are crumpled from passing through too many impatient hands. There are finger marks on every single sheet of paper, like anonymous signatures. My fingers wander over the welter of names, my heart thumping wildly. Behind these names are actual human beings, Jews saved from death. They call to us. “Look, I am alive! I am here! Come find me, brother. Find me sister, friend …” How many of these names will not find an echo in any heart? Strange, solitary, lonely names; hundreds of them.”

“Now I must find all kinds of refined means to deaden my pain. I am going to make a lot of noise. I am going to run, laugh, busy myself with work, do everything I can to stifle the constant longing in my heart. But where does one get the strength for joy? How does one poison longing?”

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