Love in the Time of Cholera
- Gabriel García Márquez
- Gabriel García Márquez
At the risk of committing a
literary blasphemy, I have to confess that I loathed this book. A few of my friends
raved about it, and it continuously makes it to the must-read books of our
times. I felt sure that it is going to provide an enriching experience, and I
wanted to appreciate, if not enjoy, the book. But, as it happens, it is one of
the rare books I abandoned midway - and the only one with which I did so -
twice.
The first time I read it, I drudged for about 60 pages, waiting for the story to grow on me. But I couldn't feel even the least bit engaged. I attributed it to my frame of mind, and put it aside to pick it again at a later time (I really wanted to read it, at least once). After a couple of years, I was on a reading spree, and it seemed like a good time to revisit. Well, I toiled on, a few pages everyday, determined to read it through, discover the "magic" that had enthralled majority of the (reading) population. I pushed myself real hard, but after about 100 pages, I was so thoroughly sick of it, that I finally gave up.
The writing was beautiful and fluid - there is no doubt about that. But I felt that there is only so much that the beauty of the language can do for a book. It is hailed as one of the greatest love stories of all times; I couldn't even agree to call it a love story - it is more of a tale of sick obsession, and mental and sexual depravity. I saw the "hero" of this saga, Folorentino Ariza, as a spineless creature, who is overindulged by his mother throughout his growing up years, well into adulthood, until her last breath. His solution to cure himself of (or punish himself for, I am not sure which) an unrequited love - to have a long series of emotionless affairs - is not just derogatory to women, but an affront to humankind. The fact that the gory details of each (or most) of these sexual encounters constitute a large part of the book, disgusted me enough to abandon it forever.
The first time I read it, I drudged for about 60 pages, waiting for the story to grow on me. But I couldn't feel even the least bit engaged. I attributed it to my frame of mind, and put it aside to pick it again at a later time (I really wanted to read it, at least once). After a couple of years, I was on a reading spree, and it seemed like a good time to revisit. Well, I toiled on, a few pages everyday, determined to read it through, discover the "magic" that had enthralled majority of the (reading) population. I pushed myself real hard, but after about 100 pages, I was so thoroughly sick of it, that I finally gave up.
The writing was beautiful and fluid - there is no doubt about that. But I felt that there is only so much that the beauty of the language can do for a book. It is hailed as one of the greatest love stories of all times; I couldn't even agree to call it a love story - it is more of a tale of sick obsession, and mental and sexual depravity. I saw the "hero" of this saga, Folorentino Ariza, as a spineless creature, who is overindulged by his mother throughout his growing up years, well into adulthood, until her last breath. His solution to cure himself of (or punish himself for, I am not sure which) an unrequited love - to have a long series of emotionless affairs - is not just derogatory to women, but an affront to humankind. The fact that the gory details of each (or most) of these sexual encounters constitute a large part of the book, disgusted me enough to abandon it forever.
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