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illustration by Katie Yamasaki

One Hundred Years at Forty

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Gabriel García Márquez’s sumptuous and tragic vision of the modern world

by Randy Boyagoda

illustration by Katie Yamasaki

Published in the December 2007 issue.  » BUY ISSUE     

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Gabriel García Márquez and his One Hundred Years of Solitude have had a very good year. Celebrated in 2007 were the novel’s fortieth anniversary of publication, the twenty-fifth anniversary of its author’s Nobel Prize, and Márquez’s own eightieth birthday.

Colombia devoted all of March to honouring Márquez; at the end of the month, its port town of Cartagena hosted a gathering of thousands that included the king and queen of Spain, Bill Clinton, Carlos Fuentes, and other luminaries who came to express their admiration. The fourth International Congress of the Spanish Language, a triennial international meeting of scholars, was held in Cartagena, coinciding with the Márquez fanfare, while the Real Academia Española (rae), the language’s governing authority, announced that it will publish its own edition of One Hundred Years.

This decision reflects the novel’s enduring cultural influence and virtually unrivalled popularity among Spanish-language books. Over 30 million copies have been sold, making it second only to Cervantes’s Don Quixote, which had a four-century head start and is the only other book to receive the honour of an rae edition. Meanwhile, Márquez’s hometown, the depressed backwater of Aracataca, held a five-day birthday party, featuring eighty volleys of fireworks at just after midnight, a military parade, and a dedicated Mass. Aracataca is wild about its most famous son, and ironically proud to be the inspiration for Macondo, the ruined Eden at the heart of One Hundred Years. Last year, the town held a referendum to change its name to Macondo. Reality inspires fiction inspires reality. Almost. The referendum failed, a sad, strange joke that feels as if it could have slipped off the novel’s pages.

M any of us first read One Hundred Years around the same time we fell for such books as The Stranger, On the Road, and Siddhartha, but Márquez’s work remains compelling while these books now feel like young flings. Writers such as Albert Camus, Jack Kerouac (whose On the Road is being feted for its fiftieth anniversary this year), and Hermann Hesse relied upon the fresh excitements of early serious reading, while Márquez appeals to our ageless openness to beauty, our lifelong desires for humane fantasy lives, and our maturing sense that the world is both darkness and blinding light. Through magic realism, Márquez found a way to describe modern human reality in its fluidity and strangeness, life as a fever dream of history and family from which we are never more than half awake. But how does he bring it off without seeming forced in his conceits, predatory in his challenge to our imaginations?

Márquez is often compared with William Faulkner and Salman Rushdie, the former cited among his most influential predecessors, the latter noted as one of his most influential successors. Were it not for the high-modernist novels of local Mississippi life that make up Faulkner’s Yoknapatawpha universe, we wouldn’t have Márquez’s tragic and wonder-filled world of Macondo. And were it not for the darkly fantastic plays on family and history to be found in Macondo, we wouldn’t have the fabulist India of Midnight’s Children. But unlike Faulkner and Rushdie, Márquez has always been far more than an academic darling or critics’ pick. His early fame may have come from his magic realism, but his enduring popularity owes more to his willingness to devote his linguistic richness, density of meaning, and formal innovations to an old-fashioned storyteller’s directness of plot, morality, melodrama, and humour. Nowhere is this integration more apparent than about three-quarters of the way through One Hundred Years, when Fernanda, the high-born wife of Aureliano Segundo, a descendant of Macondo’s founder, finally speaks out against the indignities of being married to a lazy wastrel. Her lament takes up nearly three pages and comprises exactly one sentence, which builds to an invocation of her dearly departed mother and father, who, because of their saintly lives, have received “from God the privilege of remaining intact in their graves with their skin smooth like the cheeks of a bride and their eyes alive and clear like emeralds.” Aureliano answers this searing daylong grievance: “That’s not true . . . He was already beginning to smell when they brought him here.”

In a stroke, we move from the heights of tortured Faulknerian passion to callous sitcom humour, the congenitally insensitive husband shrugging off his wife’s eloquent suffering. Márquez makes moves like this throughout the novel, effortless shifts from high to low that convey the natural intersection of these registers. Just so, the feats of magic realism for which the novel is best known are always written off as ordinary happenstance: pots fall off tables at a child’s prediction; lengthy, infectious bouts of insomnia and amnesia befall the town; chatty ghosts befriend their old companions and murderers; swarms of yellow butterflies signal illicit love; rain falls for years, only to give way to an apocalyptic drought. In fact, for its faithfulness to life in its absolute fullness — life as the interplay of the miraculous and the mundane — and for its multiplicity of styles, voices, and genres, ranging from morality fables and tragic romances and kitchen table aphorisms to high-cadenced introspection, song and poetry, social satire, and war chronicle, we should look past Faulkner and even Cervantes to discover Márquez’s chief predecessor: the Bible.

One Hundred Years of Solitude concerns seven generations of the Buendía family, whose patriarch, José Arcadio, founds Macondo and then, upon meeting the gypsy Melquíades, a charismatic huckster, prophet, and storyteller, devotes his life to gaining “contact with mystery” through alchemy, invention, and exploration. His ambition and his achievements rarely align, but consistent failure, mockery, and skepticism never dissuade him from his next pursuit, whether it’s trying to find a secret route to a distant civilization, adapting magnifying glasses for the battlefield, or building an ice factory. Meanwhile, in the early parts of the novel, his namesake younger son begins extending the family line by having a baby by Pilar, the town oracle and love expert. The elder José’s wife, Úrsula, leaves in search of the unnerved new father, who runs away with a band of gypsy merchants. Úrsula’s search is also a pretext for getting away from her frustrating husband, who seems only partly concerned by these family dramas, because he has finally found some success in scavenging the gold from his wife’s jewellery.

A father and husband like José endears in his unflagging aloofness, abusive authority, and consummate self-involvement only because he’s not related to you. But before we can dismiss him as a figure of ridicule, Márquez reveals his greater humanity. Having loudly predicted a great miracle in the offing, José shouts, “That was it! . . . I knew it was going to happen,” when something unexpected occurs: hi