Since I’ve finished reading One Hundred Years of Solitude I’ve been so undecided about whether to give it 4 or 5 stars. Although I loved it, I initially gave 4 because it was painful to read at points (the thousands of Aurialanos and Arcadios, the random deaths, the jolty jumps between character focus etc.), and I try not to give out 5 star ratings too easily.
But I think I’ve changed my mind.
This book has somehow infiltrated my consciousness over the last 6 weeks, whenever I see references to it it brings me back to surreal, magical summery haze that I was put under when reading it. (it probably helps that I read almost all of it in my garden in the middle of the best British summer in years. Imagining the heat of the South American sun wasn’t too hard!)
Marquez’s magic made such a good lasting impression on me that I no longer find it hard to say this has now joined the ranks of my favourite books.
“Years of solitude had taught him that, in one’s memory, all days tend to be the same, but that there is not a day, not even in jail or in hospital, which does not bring surprises”
– Borges, The Waiting