The terror of his own image…

Apr 18, 2014 | Beautiful Prose, Things I wish I'd written

It’s enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.

…from One Hundreds Years of Solitude, by that great man, oft quoted, now passed, who will shamefully be remembered by most people for awards and genre titles and abbreviated summaries and not because he was the man who wrote things like this:

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. Petra Cotes, for her part, loved him more and more as she felt his love increasing, and that was how in the ripeness of autumn she began to believe once more in the youthful superstition that poverty was the servitude of love. Both looked back then on the wild revelry, the gaudy wealth, and the unbridled fornication as an annoyance and they lamented that it had cost them so much of their lives to find the paradise of shared solitude. Madly in love after so many years of sterile complicity, 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 people they kept on blooming like little children and playing together like dogs.

…from Hundred Years. Or this:

‘He’s very sad,’ Úrsula answered, ‘because he thinks that you’re going to die.’
‘Tell him,’ the colonel said, smiling, ‘that a person doesn’t die when he should but when he can.’