I admit before I read the book, I scarce knew where the Caribbean was. Was it in Latin America, Europe? But as every story wove dreams and thoughts of the
Strange Pilgrims, I was persuaded to find out. Lies to the east of Central America.
The last time I read
Marquez was One hundred years of solitude which I did not complete because it was too long and the owner wanted the book back. But this time I had no such hassle. Twelve short stories, lyrical in their telling, sometimes so stifling with their incompleteness and so descriptive in similies, it felt like watching the story unfold in form before me. I was within them.
Take for instance, "I only came to use the phone" my favourite from the collection. Talks of a young girl who gets trapped in an asylum. She can convince no one of her sanity. She manages to send across a message for her husband, who then comes to see her. The final straw when he says, "you still need a few more days to make a complete recovery". And she screams, "But I've already told you I only came to use the phone!"
And then, "Light is like water" - "You turn the tap and out it comes". Does the imagination not turn it into reality? Two little boys turn their apartment into dreamworld of an ocean, with merely the "poetry of household objects" and their gifted row boat.
And the saddest yet, the last one. My heart still heavy from reading it (Heavy is by the way his favourite word tool, used often). "The trail of your blood in the snow" Of new love ended by sudden, frivolous tragedy.
Sometimes, the open end is frustrating, much like Tagore's works. But in no way can these stories not leave an indelible impression. Dew drops of memories in the mind.
"True memories seemed like phantoms, while false memories were so convincing that they replaced reality"
Ps - I begin my belly dancing lessons next week. Find some chronicles here.
