A review by awilderm23
Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez
4.0
4.25
poignant to read this at this particular time
‘He had escaped the torments of memory with the aromatic fumes of gold cyanide.’
‘Remember me with a rose.’
‘The man who has no memory makes one out of paper.’
For many years she had erased him from her life and this was the first time she had seen him clearly, purified by forgetfulness.
From time to time, when they came home from a wild fiesta, the nostalgia crouching behind the door would knock them down with a blow from its paw.
The heart’s memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past.
Death, that son of a bitch, would win an irreparable victory in his fierce war of love.
She led him by the hand to the bed as if he were a blind beggar on the street and cut him to pieces with malicious tenderness.
They were both intimidated. They could not understand what they were doing so far from their youth on a terrace with checkerboard tiles in a house that belonged to no one and was still redolent of cemetery flowers.
We called each other tu before.
poignant to read this at this particular time
‘He had escaped the torments of memory with the aromatic fumes of gold cyanide.’
‘Remember me with a rose.’
‘The man who has no memory makes one out of paper.’
For many years she had erased him from her life and this was the first time she had seen him clearly, purified by forgetfulness.
From time to time, when they came home from a wild fiesta, the nostalgia crouching behind the door would knock them down with a blow from its paw.
The heart’s memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past.
Death, that son of a bitch, would win an irreparable victory in his fierce war of love.
She led him by the hand to the bed as if he were a blind beggar on the street and cut him to pieces with malicious tenderness.
They were both intimidated. They could not understand what they were doing so far from their youth on a terrace with checkerboard tiles in a house that belonged to no one and was still redolent of cemetery flowers.
We called each other tu before.