Cien anos de soledad

One of the reasons I've felt weirded out this past week, apart from
too much work and not enough time to do it is that I'm reading 'One-
hundred years of solitude' by the colombian author Gabriel Garcia
Marquez. I tried to start reading it in spanish, but it is so different and
weird that my first reaction was 'fuck, my spanish must really suck, because
I don't have any idea what he's talking about.' So I bought the english
version instead and it really is a fantastic book, in every sense of the word
fantastic. It follows 5 generations of the Buendia family and it rings so
true at the same time that every almost single event that happens in it
is false and magical, the story is told in the past fantastical tense.

Everything that happens could be a later mythical interpretation of past events,
instead of a town being built because a group of young couples are moving
away from their parents after one of the men kills a rival, instead they
leave because the ghost of the dead man is haunting his killer. More things
happen in the first 60 pages of this book than any two other books, it's like
the Anti-tom clancy, instead of 800 pages of nothing followed by 100 pages
of climax, it's several hundred pages of climax.

The book comes out the pages and infects your life so that sentences run
on and become paragraphs, paragraphs blow up into pages and pages fly away
into books, all of which makes it difficult to finish the technical proposals I'm
writing. Cien anos de propuestas technicas.

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