A review by tipostrambo
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez

2.0

Leaps and lurches from one random (though sometimes beautifully written) episode and half-thought to the next. The impression is of someone who took a very large stack of index cards, wrote down every single start of an idea that passed through his head on those cards, then rubber-banded the whole pile and handed it to his editor, who, trembling in the presence of a bonafide genius, didn’t change a word. I left feeling pummeled, and a little pissed off. I don’t care if this is the guy who wrote the achingly beautiful Love in the Time of Cholera, I don’t care if he’s a national treasure and won a freakin’ Nobel. In this particular case, the literary emperor has no clothes.