Like ‘100 Years of Solitude’, this is another book I’ve always wanted to read but never got around to.
Actually I’m glad I waited because younger me would not have appreciated this novel the way slightly older me can.
What occurred to me right from the start is how unfortunate it is that there is no longer any art left to draw attention to the problems of the world, it’s like the banks took art away too.
I think the thing that surprises me most about the novel is its violence and also its sadness. I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, but this is far more real than I anticipated.
And that’s ironic, that reality, since the book is filled with ghosts, men tied to chestnut trees, magic carpets, streams of blood flowing up curbs and through the neighborhood back to its owner’s mother.
It’s dizzy fascinating.