Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

The world is so unpredictable. Things happen suddenly, unexpectedly. We want to feel we are in control of our own existence. In some ways we are, in some ways we're not. We are ruled by the forces of chance and coincidence.
-Paul Auster


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. At that time Macondo was a village of twenty adobe houses, built on the bank of a river of clear water that ran along a bed of polished stones, which were white and enormous, like prehistoric eggs. The World was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point.


Life starts again after every stroke of death. ‘Nihilo ex Nihilo�, the philosophical expression comes to my mind as soon as finished the book; the expression translates into ‘nothing out of nothing� which means that there is no break in-between a world that did not exist and one that did, since it could not be created ex nihilo in the first place. Macondo recreates the history of universe/ s in such a way that when existence of one universe reduces to nill, the other universe takes shape out of nothing however the rules in the new universe may not conform to the laws of the first one. Eventually, we come across the solitude of existence, though we may develop myths- which become tradition/ culture over the years- but we may not be able to overcome it. Solitude and Freedom are two such themes which have been very close to human heart after being ‘civilized�. Human beings may have indefinite degrees of freedom which allow them to act or define their life in infinite ways but eventually solitude of existence curbs their degrees of freedom. Or we may say that existence is solitude- since we crawl in nothingness. Every act of life is like a fast revolving axis on which all the possibilities or probabilities- including imaginations- throw themselves and some of those strike sometimes and others some other times, and those probabilities manifest themselves in the form of hope, myths, dreams, fears, madness and imaginations. There is perhaps one thing which is common between different universes- the endurance of life, the endurance to keep moving no matter what and that’s what underlines One Hundred Years of Solitude.




It is the second time I read this epic jewel of literature. One Hundred of Solitude, surely one of the most entertaining books ever written in Latin America, does not reveal what it conceals beyond simple text in first reading which may provide entertainment and recognition; rather it demands a second reading which is in effect the ‘real� reading. And this demand is the essential secret of this great mythic and ‘simultaneist� novel. It demands multiple readings probably because it supposes multiple authorships. The first reading may be straight forward, having facts of founding family of Mocando, sequentially, chronologically, with a biblical and Rabelaisian hyberbole: Aureliano son of Jose Aureliano son of Aureliano son of Jose Aureliano- which also underlines the tradition of Latin America. The second reading begins the moment the first ends: the reader feels that the miracle-working gypsy Melquiades has already written the events of Mocando and he is revealed as the narrator of the book one hundred years later. The second reading did something unimaginable � it combines in a peculiar form, the order of the actual events with the order of the probable events so that the former destiny is liberated by latter wish. At that instant, you may realize that two things occur simultaneously: the book begins again, but this time the chronological history runs simultaneously as a mythic historicity, and perhaps that’s where the world famous- but least understood- genre of Magic Realism took its steps of adulthood and the whole world marvel at this ingenious literary achievement.

She finally mixed up the past with the present in such a way that in the two or three waves of lucidity that she had before she died, no one knew for certain whether she was speaking about what she felt or what she remembered. Little by little she was shrinking, turning into a foetus, becoming mummified in life to the point that in her last months she was a cherry raisin lost inside of her nightgown, and the arm that she always kept raised looked like the paw of a marimonda monkey.

The profusion and meticulous vagueness of the information seemed to Aureliano Segundo so similar to the tales of spiritualists that he kept on with his enterprise in spite of the fact that they were in August and they would have to wait at least three years in order to satisfy the conditions of the prediction.





The book is a rich and brilliant chronicle of life and death, and the tragicomedy of humankind. In the noble, ridiculous, beautiful, and tawdry story of the Buendía family, one sees all of humanity, just as in the history, myths, growth, and decay of Macondo, one sees all of Latin America. Love and lust, war and revolution, riches and poverty, youth and senility - the variety of life, the endlessness of death, the search for peace and truth -- these universal themes dominate the novel. Whether he is describing an affair of passion or the voracity of capitalism and the corruption of government, Gabriel García Márquez always writes with the simplicity, ease, and purity that are the mark of a master. The survivors of the epic saga of Macondo- Aureliano and Amaranta Ursula, ‘secluded by solitude and love and by the solitude of love in a house where then begins to unfold the mythic, whose simultaneous and renewable character will not be made clear until the final pages, when the reader realizes that whole story has been written already by the gypsy Melquiades, the seer who was present at the foundation of Macondo and who, to keep it in existence, had to resort to the same trick as Jose Arcadio Buendia: writing. There lies the profound paradox of the second reading of One Hundred Years of Solitude: everything was known, before it happened, by the sacred, utopian, mythic, founding prophecies of Melquiades, but nothing will be known if Melquiades does not record it in writing. Like Cervantes, Garcia Marquez establishes the frontiers of reality within a book and the frontiers of a book within a reality.

The final protection, which Aureliano had begun to glimpse when he let himself be confused by the love of Amaranta Ursula, was based on the fact that Melquiades had not put events in the order of man's conventional time, but had concentrated a century of daily episodes, in such a way that they coexisted in one instant.

Ursula's lucidity, her ability to be sufficient unto herself made one think that she was naturally conquered by the weight of her hundred years, but even though it was obvious that she was having trouble seeing, no one suspected that she was totally blind. She had so much time at her disposal then and so much interior silence to watch over the life of the house that she was the first to notice Meme's silent tribulation.




The legends, stories which have been told us over generations through ancestors, society and other pillars of civilized society, become myths over long period of time, time plays important role in amalgamation of reality and myth. Memory also plays important role in creation and re creation of Macondo. Memory repeats the models, the matrixes of the beginning, in the same way as Colonel Buendia, again and again, makes gold fishes which he remelts to make them again�.to be continually reborn, to ensure with strict, ritual, heartfelt acts the permanence of the cosmos. Macondo itself tell all its ‘real� history and all its ‘fictional� history, all the notary’s evidence and all the rumors, legends, slanders, pious lies, exaggerations and inventions that no one written down, that the old have told to the children, that the village women have whispered to the priest, that the sorcerers have invoked in the middle of the night and the street vendors cried out in the square.



What are we up to now? Myth or reality. Myth denies reality or where there is reality, no scope for myth. Perhaps myth deny history but the dead, oppressive, factual history which Marquez sheds off in order to bring about, in this very book, a dream like mix of different Latin Americas set in different times. A meeting with the living past, the matrix, which is tradition of severance and risk: each generation of Buendia will know the death of one son in a revolution- a movement- that will never end. After which, we have meeting with imaginative- Utopian world: ice reaches the torrid jungle of Macondo for the first time casing the surprise of the supernatural: the magic will be inextricably linked to usefulness. And eventually, a meeting with the absolute present in which we remember and want: a vivid novel like the long chronicle of a century of solitude in Columbia, but read as an invention committed, precariously, to the peripatetic papers of Melaquiades. Macondo- A place that will hold everyone, that will hold all of us: the seat of time, the enshrinement of all times, the meeting ground of memory and a desire, a common place where everything can begin again: a book. Marquez transforms the evil in his work into beauty and humour- dark humour. Marquez realizes that our history is not only destined: in an obscure way, we have also wanted it. Garcia Marquez weaves a universe wherein a right to the imagination is able to distinguish between mystifications in which a dead past wants to pass for the living present and mystifications in which a living present reclaims the life of the past.

Upset by two nostalgias facing each other like two mirrors, he lost his marvellous sense of unreality and he ended up recommending to all of them that they leave Macondo, that they forget everything he had taught them about the world and the human heart, that they shit on Horace, and that wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end .

It was then that she understood the vicious circle of Colonel Aureliano Buendia's little gold fishes. The world was reduced to the surface of her skin and her inner self was safe from all bitterness. It pained her not to have had that revelation many years before when it would have still been possible to purify memories and reconstruct the universe under a new light and evoke without trembling Pietro Crespi's smell of lavender at dusk and rescue Rebecca from her slough of misery, not out of hatred or out of love but because of the measureless understanding of solitude.



The books leaves you with a hollowness in your heart- the kind of hollowness you feel when you happens to encounter end of life- even in some other forms, a sense of exhaustion surrounds your mind and you find it hard to gather your thoughts and put them into words. I am feeling the same right now as I am writing this review, but life takes birth again and time moves on, that is also theme of the book. The book is must for everyone who wants to leave mundane and experience magic of life.

5/5

*edited on 29.05.18