I've always thought I preferred Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Chronicle of a Death Foretold to his epic One Hundred Years of Solitude. Both are brilliant but I got completely lost in the latter, enjoyably so, but lost all the same. In contrast the novella guides the reader through its mazes in friendly fashion for all its complications. (I'm thinking of the sheer number of characters bursting from its pages.)
Today I think I settled the matter. I read Chronicle in the middle of the day relishing the way in which it manages the impossible, being ridiculously lush and extremely taut at one and the same time. Every detail works. Couldn't put it down.
Funnily enough, I don't think I've noticed before just how extreme the violence is - and how convincing in its strange normality.
No comments:
Post a Comment