I finished One Hundred Years of Solitude last night. Well, this morning, at about 0220. The trouble with reading a classic so long after its acceptance as a classic is that, if it is worthy of its praise, then everything that can be said about it has been said. Chiming in with the literati, nodding sagely in agreement, seems silly, arrogant and pointless. And this novel deserves the praise heaped upon it. I drank the last 100 or so pages as one parched, desperate to slake my thirst. The pages are like over-saturated technicolour photos, colours bleeding into each other, from vibrant solids to whimsical pastels swirling in time with the rhythm of the swamp in the background. It left me haunted, staring at the ceiling of my room, unable to succumb to exhaustion.
I've already started Love in the Time of Cholera.