I just finished Love in the Time of Cholera. And if Gabriel Marquez treats his women like he does his words, he can have his way with me any time.
Don’t read the rest if you actually want to read the book. Though I suspect I am the last person to have read this.
All last week I was reading this on the BART, slowing down, occasionally closing the book, looking up, hesitant to continue. I was depressed. Anxious. About the book and about real life. I was convinced that what would happen in the book would mimic what I believe is true in life – reality kills love. Love is wonderful, but only an ideal that has no place in reality.
This afternoon, I decided to take the time to finish the book. I sat in a chair with a cup of coffee on a quiet Sunday and read. And when I finished, I turned around to boy and Jack who were sitting silently on the couch, and with teary eyes I said “it’s so beautiful!”
Something about the end is post-orgasmic. I know, that’s not something people want to hear from me. But without the climax. There’s never any climax. Just the end; a satisfying end.
When she grabs for his hand and he wasn’t prepared? And the line “they made the tranquil, wholesome love of experienced grandparents”… It makes me fear age a little less. Makes me appreciate my grandparents’ love a little more. Even if each character smells of old age, like a “fermenting body”. It’s still love.
And all day I’ve been thinking to myself I wonder if I missed something. Did they die at some point and I missed it? Was the river a metaphor for death? Did I mention that in my women’s lit class in college I read right through a rape scene and hadn’t a clue that it was supposed to be a rape scene? Anyway, I’m convinced I missed something. But I refuse to go back, because I don’t want to be wrong. I don’t claim to know much about love. But I am not convinced that once you fall out of love that it’s possible to fall back in love. I know that the next time I do fall back in love, I will hold on to it until my finger nails fall off and bleed. And there was that moment Fermina Daza fell out of love. And I empathize with her on that. She has a short temper in response to things that should be flattering. She puts on airs. I relate to this woman so much. And it takes up until the end of her life to let her guard fall on love. I don’t know, there’s something very tragic there.
And did you notice with all the love letters Florentino Ariza writes, there’s not a single love letter in the book? Do you know how much this makes me crave an old fashioned love letter?
Anyway, now I have to stick to magazines and chemistry and physics books for a while. There’s no way I can pick up another book without it disappointing me because it can’t compare. But that’s just because I’m post-orgasmic.