i am one of the worshippers of gabriel garcia marquez. i’ve read one hundred years of solitude four times, of love and other demons thrice and love in the time of cholera twice.
now, a movie has been made of love in the time of cholera, and my hands are shaking while i am writing about this.
see, gabriel garcia marquez haunts me as a writer and as a girl. he has managed to give me exact metaphors and has left me illusionary when it comes to, yes, love. his images are exemplary: blood trailing a straight line towards a house of a murdered guerilla fighter, a train running in the night full of corpses, a stuttering boat plying across mangroves, a mother and daughter about to visit a graveyard, a priest waiting for the train in the extreme summer heat, another priest convinced that he’s met Satan three times, a group of ex-guerillas tending a fighting cock, a woman always being followed by an army of butterflies.
gabriel garcia marquez owes me (and i’m sure countless others) for turning my heart into an impressionable mass. he has fed my nostalgia, and i lapped up his words like a hungry, suckling child. if i could choose the contents of my dreams, i would like to dream of his characters’ heartaches and little redemptions, his realities.
it would be an understatement to say that i can’t wait for the movie to be shown. when i first read love in the time of cholera, i found myself putting the book down when i was still in chapter 1. i was so overwhelmed by the scene, by the descriptions and the intimate ideas that i couldn’t help but put the book down and indulge in the moment. it’s akin to that instance when one is about to kneel in front of a deity.
This is the first excerpt (out of countless ones) that caused me to put the book down in awe:
“The young doctor was disappointed: he had never had the opportunity to study the effects of gold cyanide on a cadaver. Dr. Juvenal Urbino had been surprised that he had not seen him at the Medical School, but he understood in an instant from the young man’s easy blush and Andean accent that he was probably a recent arrival to the city.
He said: “There is bound to be someone driven mad by love who will give you the chance one of these days.” And only after he said it did he realize that among the countless suicides he could remember, this was the first with cyanide that had not been caused by the sufferings of love. Then something changed in the tone of his voice.
“And when you do find one, observe with care,” he said to the intern: “they almost always have crystals in their heart.”