one luxury provided by recuperating in bed is reading books at a faster pace than when i'm physically fine and only perusing to doze off eventually. my reading backlog is cluttering my library and so, i had to take to bed one book a week in order to finish everything in about a year before i yield to the urgency of buying new ones when booksales lure my money away. this is one good thing about being in pain: i may explore new worlds that exist now in text and may exist soon given the infiniteness of possibilities.
such is gabriel garcia marquez's fictional world which, depending on whose perspective, may be vegetating already in the author's native south america or may be dismissed as just false truths of the magic realist boom. now that i'm tired of distracting my headache by making origamis of pterodactyls and jets, it's about time to penetrate la maravelloso real jungle town in gypsy clothes, riding a caravan of hammocks, kitchenware and whatnots, wolfing a banana in one hand and lashing a beast of burden with the other. together, let's read marquezian solitude in no one writes to the coronel and other stories composed of the title novella and the surreal fictions "tuesday siesta," "one of these days," "there are no thieves in this town," "balthazar's marvelous afternoon," "montiel's window," "one day after saturday," "artificial roses" and "big mama's funeral." the same surreality that the neo-classic one hundred years of solitude made me run the spectrum of emotions is also present in the fiction anthology.
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