For a long time I could not find proper words to write anything about One Hundred Years of Solitude, for Marquez mesmerised me into a silence I didn’t know how to break. But I have been commenting here and there on Goodreads and now it seems good time to gather my thoughts in one piece. That said, it’s a long write-up, more a labour of love than a coherent attempt to review his magnum opus.
Maruqez, the brilliant craftsman, resets the history of universe such that the old reality ceases to exist and a new parallel world is born in which things do not conform to obsolete, worn-out laws. Everything in this world is to be discovered anew, even the most primary building block of life: water. The tone of this epic and picaresque story is set from the first line. Take a gander at this:
Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.
Macondo is the first human settlement of Time Immemorial set up by the founding fathers of the Buendia family. It is a place where white and polished stones are like ‘prehistoric eggs’; an infant world, clean and pure, where ‘many things lack names’. Thus the mythscape of One Hundred Years of Solitude comes into existence.
But it is not long before fateful human activity mars the innocent beauty of creation. The more they discover the more they are sucked into the inescapable cycle of life. The primordial myth that moulds and shapes their destinies does not let them advance in their efforts to defeat the infernal solitude of existence. History gets back at them again and again, in different shapes and forms but with the same names and similar motives, to destroy their lives again. Marquez masterfully uses the magic of myth to teach us the truth of the human condition.
An external, portentous, premonitory, disastrous, evil-like power guides and transforms the lives of people in the hamlet of Macondo. The sense of foreboding pervades the whole story: the rain continuing for many days and inundating the streets, the unceasing storm before the arrival in Macondo of a heraldic character, and the fearful episode when townspeople begin to suffer a terrible memory loss, so that to remember the names and functions of things they write it down on labels and tie those labels to items like chairs and tables etc – it tells us the importance, nay necessity, of keeping the memory of the past alive so as to function well in the present and even to remember there is a future.
The only way to retain your sanity is to remember your history and cling to it like a babe clings to her mother’s breast. When one Jose Arcadio Buendia loses the memory of things, he goes mad:
“Jose Arcadio Buendia conversed with Prudencio Aguilar until the dawn. A few hours later, worn out by the vigil, he went into Aureliano’s workshop and asked him: “What day is today?” Aureliano told him that it was Tuesday. “I was thinking the same thing,” Jose Arcadio Buendia said, “but suddenly I realized that it’s still Monday, like yesterday. Look at the sky, look at the walls, look at the begonias. Today is Monday too.” On the next day, Wednesday, Jose Arcadio Buendia went back to the workshop. “This is a disaster,” he said. “Look at the air, listen to the buzzing of the sun, the same as yesterday and the day before. Today is Monday too.” That night Pietro Crespi found him on the porch, weeping for…his mother and father. On Thursday he appeared in the workshop again with the painful look of plowed ground. “The time machine has broken,” he almost sobbed,…he spent six months examining things, trying to find a difference from their appearance on the previous day in the hope of discovering in them some change that would reveal the passage of time.”
The town is threatened when the change taking place in the outside world begins to spill over into Macondo. Here we have a metaphor for the struggle of Maruqez’s native country and continent which is passing through internecine wars on its way toward imposed modernity. Divisions that hitherto did not exist come to define the inhabitants of Macondo and of towns farther afield. One of the Buendias, Colonel Aureliano, takes up a piece of metalwork as new and strange, and as stupid and deadly as the gun to mount a revolt and thus bring glory to his land. New lines are drawn. New alliances are made. Old friends become enemies and enemies, partners. Colonel Aureliano Buendia, when he is about to kill him, tells General Moncada:
Remember, old friend, I’m not shooting you. It’s the revolution that’s shooting you.
The scene above captures the mechanic, inhumane element of their revolutionary war. The one below exposes the hollowness of their mission:
Tell me something, old friend: why are you fighting?”
What other reason could there be?” Colonel Gerineldo Marquez answered. “For the great Liberal party.”
You’re lucky because you know why,” he answered. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ve come to realize only just now that I’m fighting because of pride.”
That’s bad,” Colonel Gerineldo Marquez said.
Colonel Aureliano Buendia was amused at his alarm. “Naturally,” he said. “But in any case, it’s better than not knowing why you’re fighting.” He looked him in the eyes and added with a smile:
Or fighting, like you, for something that doesn’t have any meaning for anyone.”
Although I tried to avoid getting into this discussion, but a review of this work is not possible without throwing in the inevitable buzzword – magical realism. I think inane statements such as “this is not real” or “this is not my sort of thing” misrepresent the question. So why do we have some readers rating it full five while others awarding it one, dimmed, broken star? To assign their inability to appreciate this novel to a sort of aesthetical block would be simplistic – and patronising. However, one argument pops up again and again: it is not realistic; it is not real; it can’t happen; this is not how things work; this is not how a modern story with heavy political overtones is written. So I ask (and try to answer): what is it with our obsession with “realism” that makes us reject the conceptual framework of this novel?
Aristotle in Poetics writes that a convincing impossibility in mimesis is always preferable to an unconvincing possibility. The stress is not on what can physically happen but on mimetic persuasion. This is why some novels that follow every bit of convention, every bit of realistic element in them turn out to be unbelievable stories with unbelievable characters. You want to forget them as soon as you finish the book – and toss it aside. But on the other hand Greek tragedies populated with non-human characters pulling suprahuman feats continue to enthrall generations of readers. How realistic are those stories? It is the writer’s task to convince us that this could have happened in a world he has created and set the rules for. In that Marquez is more than successful, and this is the basis of the enduring appeal of this work.
Replace ‘realism’ with ‘truth’ and it becomes easy to answer the confusion. Kafka’s haunting stories are so far from the 19th century convention of realism we have come to accept as the basis of novel-writing. His The Metamorphosis is not a representation of likely human activity (how could a human transform overnight into a large insect?) but it is nonetheless a harrowingly truthful story that advances a philosophical conundrum about human relationships. We ask this is how it would feel like to be an outcast from one’s family. Or consider Hamsun’s Hunger which a starving man puts his finger in his mouth and starts eating himself. In the ‘real’ world Kafka’s, Hamsun’s and Marquez’s characters cannot exist but the effect of their existence on us is as truthful and real as the dilemmas of any great realistic character ever created.
Marquez, like a god, has written the First Testament of Latin America and called it One Hundred Years of Solitude.
(First published in Spanish 1967; in English 1970)