Sometimes to be perfectly honest, writing can be fucking beautiful. I say this confidently as a reader, writer, and self-proclaimed literary goddess. When I come across a piece of word-wizardry, I am always held in a state of awe, which is pretty rare as I am rarely in awe of anything. However what I’ve come to realize of late is what distinguishes a good writer from a great writer. Good writers can tell a good story, while a great writer knows how to tell a good story; presentation in packaging must never be ignored.
My recent excursion into a literary orgasm was by recent discovery—thanks to the sage advice of a good friend—of master word smith Gabriel García Márquez. If you’ve heard of him, you should already know what I’m about to say—and if you don’t know him I will not bore you with endless pages upon pages of ceaseless declarations of genius. His noble prize, discussions on magical realism, can all be researched online and discussed in an academic paper for those interested enough. Instead what I’d like to do—succinctly—is express just how profoundly he has affected me.
On the two books of his which I had the pleasure to read, One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love In The Time Of Cholera, he has already altered my perception of writing. Quite frankly, he is the first writer in my thirty years of existence that I have a sincere desire to imitate. Although I have been inspired by many, his is the first that I can say truly influences how I think about writing. When I read the book One Hundred Years of Solitude I came away with the overwhelming desire to write like that: simply beautiful.
Beautiful is a ridiculously abused word but honestly there is no other term for it. He writes with a fluid dexterity that in nearly every phrase reaffirms the author’s unabashed love for life. This love is not necessarily something that is seen in a blatant optimism—his writings actually have a melancholy bent—but rather in his precise and nuanced details that capture so perfectly all of the quirks, poignancy, and eloquence encapsulated in the milieu of everyday living. There is feeling that cuts so deep that it is profoundly moving. But more than that, you get lost and most certainly seduced, by the elegance which Márquez writes. At the end of the book it becomes less and less important the content of the story—which has a tremendous sense of merit on its own—but rather how he told it to you. He was the first person in a long time that left me bereft for want of his writing. If I was left with nothing else but the warmth of a cool breeze, the roar of an ever blue turquoise waters, and the poetry spoken in blissfully accented glory of Márquez’s writing—I think honestly—as an artist—I would need nothing more.