When my favorite book is mentioned – in print, online, or on the radio – I feel a tingling sensation in my chest, and a light dizziness in my head, as if the name of the girl I have a crush on has been whispered.
One Hundred Years of Solitude tells the story of the founding, growth, and demise of the mythical town of Macondo, through the family history of the peculiar Buendias. I see the story as an unintended, condensed version of the history of civilization, stressing the significance of heredity.
What impressed me
Reading One Hundred Years of Solitude for the first time was a revelation. I had read little before it – it was only my second or third great book. And it was unlike any other story I had heard. I marveled at the…
- third-person omniscient narrative that told a concentrated story, without transitions, using a cool, detached tone
- magic realism, which was really magical
- stunning imagery
- peculiar characters
- condensed dialog
- unforgettable message
For a while after reading One Hundred Years of Solitude I could not go back to reading other novels. Their third person limited narrative seemed slow. Their descriptions seemed lengthy. Their dialog rambling. Their authors amateurs. It was as if after being accustomed to subsisting on wine I had to go back to drinking water.
9 curious facts about my favorite book and me
- I compare all books I read with my favorite book, and I usually find them lacking. Not in terms of their their quality, but of their sincerity and lucidity.
- I write like my favorite book is written, at first consciously, and then, when I realize it and try not to, unconsciously. It is an invisible presence, a benevolent spirit always looking over my shoulder and whispering to me the same sentences that I know only too well, and that I end up rewriting, in different forms.
- My favorite book is like a best friend. It is so much like me that when I read it I see in it my reflection.
- I love many books, but I have only one favorite book. I feel this need to have only one favorite book and not more.
- My favorite book dictates the genre I want to write, as well as the genre I enjoy to read the most.
- Each time I reread my favorite book I discover something new, that I had somehow missed before. This time it was the realization that I was pronouncing Buendia incorrectly (BuENdia instead of BuenDIA).
- While I read certain scenes I have the definitive certainty that the author had lived those scenes himself. When little Aureliano was taken to see ice, I somehow knew Gabriel had seen ice as a boy and had been impressed. My supposition turned out to be true: when Gabriel lived in Aracataca with his grandparents, his grandfather had indeed taken him to see ice.
- The inked pages of my favorite book have a curious smell, unlike the smell of any other book I smelled so far. It is the smell of melancholy and solitude.
- I feel a connection between me and Gabriel. Not friendship, not even admiration. But a profound sense of understanding, as if in another life we had been together accomplices to a murder.
Tell me your favorite book and I will tell you what sort of fellow you are.