There was a house at the foot of the tower, close to the thunder of the waves breaking against the cliffs, where love was more intense because it seemed like a shipwreck.
It always amuses me that the biggest praise for my work comes for the imagination, while the truth is that there’s not a single line in all my work that does not have a basis in reality. The problem is that Caribbean reality resembles the wildest imagination.
Inspiration gives no warnings.
And again, as always, after so many years we were still in the same place we always were.
Caribbean reality resembles the wildest imagination.
Four geological eras had to pass so that human beings would be able to outsing the birds and die for love.
Surrealism comes from the reality of Latin America.
In the beginning, when the world was new and nothing had a name, my father took me to see the ice.
Nobody is worth crying for, and those that are worth it will not make you cry.
Sex is the consolation you have when you can’t have love.
A famous writer who wants to continue writing has to be constantly defending himself against fame.
The only difference today between Liberals and Conservatives is that the Liberals go to mass at five o’clock and the Conservatives at eight.
A man should have two wives: one to love and one to sew on his buttons.
People spend a lifetime thinking abouthow they would really like to live. I asked my friends and no one seems to know very clearly. To me, it’s very clear now. I wish my life could have been like the years when I was writing ‘Love in the Time of Cholera.’
Most critics don’t realize that a novel like One Hundred Years of Solitude is a bit of a joke, full of signals to close friends; and so, with some pre-ordained right to pontificate they take on the responsibility of decoding the book and risk making terrible fools of themselves.
It was the time when they loved each other best, without hurry or excess, when both were most conscious of and grateful for their incredible victories over adversity.
It is not that the girl is unfit for everything, it is that she is not of this world.
A falcon who chases a warlike crane can only hope for a life of pain.
She let him finish, scratching his head with the tips of her fingers, and without his having revealed that he was weeping from love, she recognized immediately the oldest sobs in the history of man.
And nevertheless, when they watched him leave the house, this man they themselves had urged to conquer the world, then they were the ones left with the terror that he would never return. That was their life. Love, if it existed, was something separate: another life.