I must confess that I don't read much contemporary fiction – I have been seriously spoiled as a teenager reading Simone de Beauvoir, Jean Paul Sartre, Jorge Luis Borges, and Pablo Neruda, after my attention was caught in the last two years of high school by the likes of (particularly) Shakespeare, Goethe, Plato…
So, when Gabriel came into my world in the mid 80’s, he captured my attention in a rather forceful manner (how unlike him!) and ever since I have been reduced to a mere blood hound as I voraciously “sniff” through his pages for that final morsel! And I laugh and I cry - simultaneously most of the time.
A few times I got distracted and got side-tracked to return again, like with the Autumn of the General – ay, Chihuahua, it gave a whole new meaning to page-long sentences and forever sealed my contempt for the “much acclaimed” Margaret Atwood constipated style – Phuh!
But, I never wavered with One Hundred Years of Solitude, Love in the Time of Cholera and now, late last night/this AM, with Memories of My Melancholy Whores…
(Must admit I had to get past the naming of women "whores" - but, the sad reality is, that many a horse-faced man does!)
*Three sentences from p. 131 of any book... this one has only 115 - so, I will invert the numbers and quote from p. 113
"It has to be, at any price, I shouted in terror. She hung up without saying goodbye, but fifteen minutes later she calles back: "All right, she's here."
* Tag - from Krystyna's http://evolvesmb.blogspot.com/
who was herself tagged by http://cherries-and-blossoms.blogspot.com/