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A review by gothhotel
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez
5.0
this is not a review, it's mostly about myself & my changing approach to this book. suck it, algorithm, private journals are for wimps
i read this and did the New Criticism shtick they tesch for AP lit as my elective book in my last year of high school. i walked in totally ignorant of latin america, having no context or guidance beyond a list of rhetorical devices to identify and the Wikipedia page on magical realism. well i thought the book was brilliant and did the project with gusto, unpacking symbols like i was working in a warehouse, i mean, you know how it is. for a long time i considered "one hundred years of solitude" my favorite book.
do i still think that? I don't know. what i remember remains impressive and beautiful, but I've probably cherry picked without knowing. there's got to be so much i missed fumbling around in the dark without a crumb of context, acting like I didn't need it. even a single undergrad class on contemp latin american lit made it clear to me how little i knew about latin america and that i still don't know shit, couldn't even scratch the surface.
but I'm loath to reread for the dumbest reason ever: i don't wanna spoil a good memory. i'm afraid that coming back now with my big eddicated brain would taint how i remember it, as a puzzle unfolding, a map to be read, a city of glass never seen in its entirety - memories of a simpler time, i guess, when the mystery of Close Reading felt like holy ritual and not an act of colonization. but then i owe it to myself to return, not as a puzzler or map-reader or a symbol-hunter but as a friend, to let it wash over me, to bask, to swirl up the mental stew of images and phrases from this book, which bubble up unbidden every now and then. there must be a reason they stuck around, i think. maybe some day I'll find it out.
i read this and did the New Criticism shtick they tesch for AP lit as my elective book in my last year of high school. i walked in totally ignorant of latin america, having no context or guidance beyond a list of rhetorical devices to identify and the Wikipedia page on magical realism. well i thought the book was brilliant and did the project with gusto, unpacking symbols like i was working in a warehouse, i mean, you know how it is. for a long time i considered "one hundred years of solitude" my favorite book.
do i still think that? I don't know. what i remember remains impressive and beautiful, but I've probably cherry picked without knowing. there's got to be so much i missed fumbling around in the dark without a crumb of context, acting like I didn't need it. even a single undergrad class on contemp latin american lit made it clear to me how little i knew about latin america and that i still don't know shit, couldn't even scratch the surface.
but I'm loath to reread for the dumbest reason ever: i don't wanna spoil a good memory. i'm afraid that coming back now with my big eddicated brain would taint how i remember it, as a puzzle unfolding, a map to be read, a city of glass never seen in its entirety - memories of a simpler time, i guess, when the mystery of Close Reading felt like holy ritual and not an act of colonization. but then i owe it to myself to return, not as a puzzler or map-reader or a symbol-hunter but as a friend, to let it wash over me, to bask, to swirl up the mental stew of images and phrases from this book, which bubble up unbidden every now and then. there must be a reason they stuck around, i think. maybe some day I'll find it out.