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A review by iconvergara
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez
2.0
I'd rather drink oil than read this book again.
I have always made a habit of listening to my gut, but ignored it because this book is part of the reason the author won a Nobel prize. But reading this book feels like eating earth and wall paint. The words of the pages are hot urine sprinked on your face. Its sentences a sonorous belch that brings back the taste of acid on your palate.
It would have been fine if this book helps me sleep if it had any use at all but it failed even in that because instead of inducing me to sleep due to absolute boredom, with the absurd realization of the waste of time this book is, it boiled my blood enough to wake me up.
Who would enjoy this book? People living with scorpions and fire ants.
In the end, I have benefitted in finishing this by strengthening my resolve to endure crawling through a mile of shit and learning how to craft sentences like running through the hallway undressed while balancing a beer bottle on my inconceivable maleness.
I have always made a habit of listening to my gut, but ignored it because this book is part of the reason the author won a Nobel prize. But reading this book feels like eating earth and wall paint. The words of the pages are hot urine sprinked on your face. Its sentences a sonorous belch that brings back the taste of acid on your palate.
It would have been fine if this book helps me sleep if it had any use at all but it failed even in that because instead of inducing me to sleep due to absolute boredom, with the absurd realization of the waste of time this book is, it boiled my blood enough to wake me up.
Who would enjoy this book? People living with scorpions and fire ants.
In the end, I have benefitted in finishing this by strengthening my resolve to endure crawling through a mile of shit and learning how to craft sentences like running through the hallway undressed while balancing a beer bottle on my inconceivable maleness.