Love...

In The Time Of, Barf.

I was going to wait to review this book until I was finished reading it, and well, with about 47 pages to go, it has become a chore. Last week, I tried to staying up all night to read it; many hours later (yes, insomnia has followed me to Vermont), with only making the slightest dent, I realized I was in for a bigger task.

I can't help thinking about the movie The Notebook when reading this (another barf). Why is it that old people get a pass on cuteness and romance? What about all the shit in between? Both allude to idea that love, like everything else in life, is not perfect (duh. Which brings me to...Romeo, where are you dude?). But I haven't finished reading it so who knows (if you know me, endings can make or break a book, so I can eat my words up shortly).

Gabriel Garcia Marquez is a poetic writer. A verbose, poetic writer who loves detail, detail, flowers, and detail. He forces an intimacy with the reader, leaves nothing to the imagination. Does Florentino Ariza get the girl (Fermina Daza) in the end? Does he deserve her? Does she deserve him? Or does he croak like a pathetic fool from old age before ever having a relationship with her? Maybe I need to finish the book.