One hundred years of Solitude.
Because I know what solitude is, tonight I am going to sleep with this book close to my heart.
Gabriel García Márquez must have lived a life very close to earth. He must have had a dampened breath polluted by half digested moss he had to eat from his dilapidated ancestral house.
To write a book like this, you have to be crafted with your head in the mighty heavens and your butt attached firmly to the ground.
The way he desecrate love can be done only by a man who has cheated and been cheated in love.
Aspirations, obsessions and ye delirium. That’s what the humans I knew look like. That’s how the humans in One hundred years of solitude looked like.
I prefer to go deep under the earth nested in a storm’s eye rather than being stuffed in a crafted coffin to be buried by the mortals.