When he was alone, he consoled himself with the dream of the infinite rooms. He dreamed that he was getting out of bed, opening the door and going into an identical room with the same bed with a wrought-iron head, the same wicker chair, and the same small picture on the back wall. From that… Continue reading Gabriel García Márquez
A person doesn’t die when he should but when he can. — Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude. (Harper & Row, 1970)
No matter what you do this year or in the next hundred, you will be dead forever. — Gabriel García Márquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores. (Vintage; Reprint edition, November 14, 2006)
“Don’t worry,” he would say, smiling. “Dying is much more difficult than one imagines.” — Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude. (Harper & Row, 1970)
He sank into the rocking chair, the same one in which Rebecca had sat during the early days of the house to give embroidery lessons, and in which Amaranta had played Chinese checkers with Colonel Gerineldo Marquez, and in which Amarana Ursula had sewn the tiny clothing for the child, and in that flash of… Continue reading Gabriel García Márquez
The only regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love. ― Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera. (Alfred A. Knopf, 1988)
Don’t let yourself die without knowing the wonder of fucking with love. ― Gabriel García Márquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores. (Vintage 2006) Originally published October 19th 2004.