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They were so close to each other that they preferred death to separation.
Sep 17, 2025
In the end all books are written for your friends.
A person does not belong to a place until there is someone dead under the ground.
He really had been through death, but he had returned because he could not bear the solitude.
All human beings have three lives: public, private, and secret.
No matter what, nobody can take away the dances you've already had.
Death really did not matter to him but life did, and therefore the sensation he felt when they gave their decision was not a feeling of fear but of nostalgia.
Lost in the solitude of his immense power, he began to lose direction.
In the end all books are written for your friends. The problem after writing One Hundred Years of Solitude was that now I no longer know whom of the millions of readers I am writing for; this upsets and inhibits me. It's like a million eyes are looking at you and you don't really know what they think.
races condemned to 100 years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.
The secret of a good old age is simply an honorable pact with solitude.
He soon acquired the forlorn look that one sees in vegetarians.
One minute of reconciliation is worth more than a whole life of friendship!
Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages) would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.
Fiction was invented the day Jonas arrived home and told his wife that he was three days late because he had been swallowed by a whale.
My favorite books are actually very complicated - 'One Hundred Years of Solitude', 'Ulysses'.
Wherever they might be they 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.
Intrigued by that enigma, he dug so deeply into her sentiments that in search of interest he found love, because by trying to make her love him he ended up falling in love with her.
And both of them remained floating in an empty universe where the only everyday & eternal reality was love.
Gaston was not only a fierce lover, with endless wisdom and imagination, but he was also, perhaps, the first man in the history of the species who had made an emergency landing and had come close to killing himself and his sweetheart simply to make love in a field of violets.
Crazy people are not crazy if one accepts their reasoning.
Both looked back then on the wild revelry...and they lamented that it had cost them so much of their lives to find the paradise of shared solitude.
'One Hundred Years of Solitude' convinced me to drop out of Harvard graduate school. The novel reminded me of everything my Ph.D. program was trying to make me forget. Thank you, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
Sex is the consolation you have when you can't have love.
In all the houses keys to memorizing objects and feelings had been written. But the system demanded so much vigilance and moral strength that many succumbed to the spell of an imaginary reality, one invented by themselves, which was less practical for them but more comforting.
Tell him,' the colonel said, smiling, 'that a person doesn’t die when he should but when he can.
The only difference today between Liberals and Conservatives is that the Liberals go to mass at five o'clock and the Conservatives at eight.
Tell him yes. Even if you are dying of fear, even if you are sorry later, because whatever you do, you will be sorry all the rest of your life if you say no.
Be calm. God awaits you at the door.
Humanity, like armies in the field, advances at the speed of the slowest.
A lie is more comfortable than doubt, more useful than love, more lasting than truth.
It's enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.
But when a woman decides to sleep with a man, there is no wall she will not scale, no fortress she will not destroy, no moral consideration she will not ignore at its very root: there is no God worth worrying about.
wisdom comes to us when it can no longer do any good.
Always remember that the most important thing in a good marriage is not happiness, but stability.
The only regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love.
There is always something left to love.
Thus they went on living in a reality that was slipping away, momentarily captured by words, but which would escape irremediably when they forgot the values of the written letters.
Nobody deserves your tears, but whoever deserves them will not make you cry.
Most critics don't realize that a novel like One Hundred Years of Solitude is a bit of a joke, full of signals to close friends; and so, with some pre-ordained right to pontificate they take on the responsibility of decoding the book and risk making terrible fools of themselves.
It is not true that people stop pursuing dreams because they grow old, they grow old because they stop pursuing dreams.
He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.
A true friend is the one who holds your hand and touches your heart.
The problem with marriage is that it ends every night after making love, and it must be rebuilt every morning before breakfast.
...they enjoyed the miracle of loving each other as much at the table as in bed, and they grew to be so happy that even when they were two worn-out old people they kept on blooming like children and playing together like dogs.
He was still too young to know that the heart's memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and that thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past.
The heart's memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good.
He spent six hours 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.
In that Macondo forgotten even by the birds, where the dust and the heat had become so strong that it was difficult to breathe, secluded by solitude and love and by the solitude of love in a house where it was almost impossible to sleep because of the noise of the red ants, Aureliano, and Amaranta Úrsula were the only happy beings, and the most happy on the face of the earth.
"Things have a life of their own," the gypsy proclaimed with a harsh accent. "It's simply a matter of waking up their souls."