I remember the first time I read Marquez. It was this short story, An Old Man with Enormous Wings, sometime in high school.
I had no idea who he was. Had never heard of ‘magical realism.’ No expectations. Zero preconceptions. Back then there wasn’t all that much that excited me. I’d come to expect very little from the Jefferson Parish public school system and its assigned reading.
But by the time I had worked my way through the ten or so pages that comprise the story, I was not the same person. I’d never seen anything like that. So much sadness and beauty and strangeness, pressed together that tightly. A little diamond of language.
It’s okay when a person dies. Yes, it’s hard, but that’s just what we do. And there’s certainly some comfort to be had when the person in question has led a long life, and achieved so much.
But there’s no good to be found in the world losing a little bit more of its magic.
That part of it’s just the saddest fucking thing.