I once heard watching bad TV described as being like sitting in a lukewarm bath: You feel too sleepy and lazy to remove yourself from the situation, but it’s far from enjoyable. Using the same metaphor, I’d describe reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez as like being in a steaming hot bath. With a glass of wine. On a cold winter’s night. Whilst reading Gabriel García Márquez.
You get the point.
This book is magical in every sense of the word, and reading it was constantly a pleasure. Even the morbid or tragic scenes were larger than life and somehow enchanted with beauty. And while it was easy to get tangled up in the complex web of Remedioses, Arcadios and Aurelianos through the generations of the central Buendía family, even this came to feel meaningful and intentional by the end of the book as representative of the non-linear, circular passage of time.
One thing you must do before embarking on this book (or any of Márquez’ works, for that matter) is to suspend your disbelief – don’t ask too many questions, just go along for the ride. His writing is almost purely visceral, it comes from the heart and should be read that way – like a dream.
Oh, and I’ll never look at a flock of yellow butterflies in the same way again.