340x340x100-anos-soledad11.jpg.pagespeed.ic_.qY0ExExh3L1I was lying in bed in a warm night of August when I turned the last page of Marquez’s One hundred years of solitude. The end of the novel, as all its readers know, is the end of an entire world. Literally.

I found myself wondering about what arcane reason had kept me away from that book until the age of thirty-five. That was my first thought. Why not sooner? And for the first time I could see my thoughts in the past, during my high school time, growing magically different, softer, more apt to conceive the magic of life and death beyond the philosophical constraints of understanding, of the search for a meaning. I remembered my nights with Dostoyevsky and his devils, the exhausting conversations with Kirillov, Myskin, Stavrogin, Ivan and Aleosa Karamazov. I recalled the decadent and languid art of Dorian Grey and Des Esseintes and how they taught me to paradoxically despise any excess of wealth. I recollect the shadows, the smells, and the smoky rooms of Paris traversed by an unfathomable spleen. And right there, in the midst of my vision of the dying cities which set up the architecture of my imagination for so long, right there I wished I could find a place for Macondo. Continue reading