After My Own
Finally a novel after my own. 'One hundred Years of Solitude' won the Nobel Prize in literature in the year I was born (1982).I would like to think that the connection was established then! Oh! How much of myself I saw in Amaranta! I want to quite literally bow down to Marquez for this masterpiece.
My solitary life would never be the same now. Having experienced the zenith of being alone and lonely in the one place in our country in which one would like to think that you are never alone, I now know for sure that I've finally stumbled onto one of my life's greatest reality. Need to say that the realization is nerve wracking to say the least but I know that it is something I better make peace with sooner than later... for my own good.
Excerpts:
Although she seemed expansive and cordial, she had a solitary character and an impenetrable heart.
It was a supposition that was so neat, so convincing that she identified it as a premonition.
She looked toward the courtyard (cellular phone), obeying a habit of her solitude.
He could understand only that the secret of a good old age is simply an honourable pact with solitude.
Nature had made him reserved and withdrawn, with tendencies towards solitary meditation.
She thought of her at dawn, when the ice of her heart awakened her in her solitary bed.
She had needed many years of suffering and misery in order to attain the privileges of solitude.
Nevertheless, in the impenetrable solitude of decrepitude she had such clairvoyance as she examined the most insignificant happenings in the family that for the first time she saw clearly the truths that her busy life in former times had prevented her from seeing.
Both actions had been a mortal struggle between a measureless love and an invincible cowardice, and that the irrational fear that she had always had of her own tormented heart had triumphed in the end.
She did that not with any hope of defeating solitude in that way, but, quite the contrary, in order to nurture it.
It pained her not to have had that revelation many years before when it would have been possible to purify memories and reconstruct the universe under a new light.. , not out of hatred or out of love but because of the measureless understanding of solitude.
One minute of reconciliation is worth more than a whole life of friendship.
She did not feel gratitude but rage. It was as if she had given him the opportunity he was waiting for, since she yearned for just the opposite for any man who was interested in her.
What shocks me about you is that you always say exactly what you shouldn’t be saying.
She was so sure of herself, so anchored in her solitude.
She would keep on thinking about him for all the days of her life until the remote autumn morning when she died.
It’s as if the world were repeating itself.
What did you expect? Time passes.
She began to believe once more in the youthful superstition that poverty was the servitude of love.
The need to feel sad was becoming a vice as the years eroded her.
Without his having revealed that he was weeping from love, she recognized immediately the oldest sobs in the history of man.
Always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end.
He did not understand until then how much he loved his friends, how much he missed them, and how much he would have given to be with them at that moment:GD
My solitary life would never be the same now. Having experienced the zenith of being alone and lonely in the one place in our country in which one would like to think that you are never alone, I now know for sure that I've finally stumbled onto one of my life's greatest reality. Need to say that the realization is nerve wracking to say the least but I know that it is something I better make peace with sooner than later... for my own good.
Excerpts:
Although she seemed expansive and cordial, she had a solitary character and an impenetrable heart.
It was a supposition that was so neat, so convincing that she identified it as a premonition.
She looked toward the courtyard (cellular phone), obeying a habit of her solitude.
He could understand only that the secret of a good old age is simply an honourable pact with solitude.
Nature had made him reserved and withdrawn, with tendencies towards solitary meditation.
She thought of her at dawn, when the ice of her heart awakened her in her solitary bed.
She had needed many years of suffering and misery in order to attain the privileges of solitude.
Nevertheless, in the impenetrable solitude of decrepitude she had such clairvoyance as she examined the most insignificant happenings in the family that for the first time she saw clearly the truths that her busy life in former times had prevented her from seeing.
Both actions had been a mortal struggle between a measureless love and an invincible cowardice, and that the irrational fear that she had always had of her own tormented heart had triumphed in the end.
She did that not with any hope of defeating solitude in that way, but, quite the contrary, in order to nurture it.
It pained her not to have had that revelation many years before when it would have been possible to purify memories and reconstruct the universe under a new light.. , not out of hatred or out of love but because of the measureless understanding of solitude.
One minute of reconciliation is worth more than a whole life of friendship.
She did not feel gratitude but rage. It was as if she had given him the opportunity he was waiting for, since she yearned for just the opposite for any man who was interested in her.
What shocks me about you is that you always say exactly what you shouldn’t be saying.
She was so sure of herself, so anchored in her solitude.
She would keep on thinking about him for all the days of her life until the remote autumn morning when she died.
It’s as if the world were repeating itself.
What did you expect? Time passes.
She began to believe once more in the youthful superstition that poverty was the servitude of love.
The need to feel sad was becoming a vice as the years eroded her.
Without his having revealed that he was weeping from love, she recognized immediately the oldest sobs in the history of man.
Always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end.
He did not understand until then how much he loved his friends, how much he missed them, and how much he would have given to be with them at that moment:GD
posted by optimism at 8:36 PM
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