Today is a significant day in the world of literature. Today marks the 86th birthday of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1982. If you have ever had the pleasure to read one of Gabo’s great works, you should easily recognize the importance of this man. In my opinion, he ranks as one of the greatest writers of the past century. While in recent years he has been suffering from dementia, Marquez should be recognized for his amazing contributions to literature. He epitomizes greatness. His legacy is enormous, and will continue to grow as more readers discover his works. I hope that other writers will be able to share in my appreciation of this writer’s works.
So, what’s the significance of this author to me? Well, simply put, he made me want to study literature more deeply than I ever had before. The complexity of his works astounded me. Never since Faulkner have I encountered an author so profound and ascertainable yet brilliant all the same. After reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, I was convinced that I had read the greatest achievement in literary history. What a novel! It has so much untapped meaning and so many possibilities for interpretation. The perspectives that people in my class were able to take in understanding the novel surprised me but made my experience in reading all the sweeter. Ever since reading that novel, I have regarded Gabo as an extraordinarily complex and unique author that everyone should have the experience of reading from. You owe yourselves to pick up one of his books. He deserves all the praise that he is given.
And, to end this post meaningfully, I will enclose a quote from Solitude that I believe best illustrates Marquez’s writing and ideas:
“He dug so deeply into her sentiments that in search of interest he found love, because by trying to make her love him he ended up falling in love with her. Petra Cotes, for her part, loved him more and more as she felt his love increasing, and that was how in the ripeness of autumn she began to believe once more in the youthful superstition that poverty was the servitude of love. Both looked back then on the wild revelry, the gaudy wealth, and the unbridled fornication as an annoyance and they lamented that it had cost them so much of their lives to find the paradise of shared solitude. Madly in love after so many years of sterile complicity, they enjoyed the miracle of living each other as much at the table as in bed, and they grew to be so happy that even when they were two worn-out people they kept on blooming like little children and playing together like dogs.”