100 Pages of Solitude

While reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, this reader found himself asking whether or not the book transcends the normal realm of rational human thought and action and takes place in some sort of magical world. Of course, some of it is clearly seen through the eyes of an uneducated third-person narrator; for instance, the magnets and magnifying glass that are thought to be magical. On the other hand, the appearance of Prudencio Aguilar’s ghost (Who was killed by Jose Arcadio Buendia in a duel) is wholly unsurprising, even expected: “ Ursula…saw Prudencio Aguilar by the water jar…It did not bring on fear in hear, but pity. She told her husband what she had seen, but he did not think much of it”(24).The beauty of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s writing, however, is that he manages to portray everyday events and items as fantastic while supernatural events are described as if they were an everyday occurrence. In this way, Marquez captures the reader in a spell-binding place that leaves my head spinning long after I put the book down. I half-expected a unicorn to be sitting on my living room couch when I walked out of my room, yet I found the ice in my refrigerator to be wholly awe-inspiring. In creating a world that walks the line between reality and fantasy, Marquez creates a Harry Potter-like effect in that Marquez’s world is related to ours but is much, much better.

The characters in One Hundred Years of Solitude only add to the mystique. Jose Arcadio Buendia, the ranting lunatic; Rebeca, the orphan who eats dirt and whitewash; Melquiades, the leader of the gypsies who possesses many strange and seemingly devilish powers; Jose Arcadio, the tattooed giant; and many, many more exotic and intriguing characters. Another important facet of the novel is its preoccupation with death. When the line between life and death is blurred so indiscriminately, Macondo (the village) becomes either a heaven or a hell in the eyes of the reader. To me, there is certainly something satanic about the village, especially once strange things start happening, such as the inability of the villagers to sleep and retain memories for awhile.

By juxtaposing realistic, everyday life with the magical, supernatural events that give Macondo an eerie sort of zest, Marquez allowed me to relate character’s lives. Using intense, descriptive realism— and, might I add, overly sexual language that forms a gritty, genuine undertone— Marquez has written another masterful novel. In addition, I must say that I prefer this novel over Love in the Time of Cholera because although Love in the Time of Cholera deals with the tortured existence of one man, One Hundred Years of Solitude portrays the tortured existence of an entire family. And that, my friends, is tragic realism at its best. Now excuse me; I have to go feed that unicorn. (496)