a condensed library

Woman Walking in an Exotic Landscape - Henri Rousseau

There has been no question in my mind that I would be taking books along with me. They do add an ample bit of weight to my bag, but sometimes frivolity is just what you need. Back me up on this one, Al.
One Hundred Years of Solitude was perhaps the first book I ever determined to read solely at the recommendation of somebody else. People tend to be generous with their words, but when someone you love and admire actually hands you their beloved copy, you take note and get down to business. This one was not easy to get into. Every other character has the same name (or so it seems), lives and relationships quickly become too complicated and intertwined to follow without resorting to Cornell notes, and nothing seems to move linearly. Just when I had about given up, something hooked itself deep in my mind, and the story was alive. Forgetting the big picture of a multi-generational family, my focus shifted to each individual's tale. For me, this was almost a book of short stories with quick flashes of recognition. Fernanda! That troublemaker. I'd peel the walls and eat dirt with you anytime Rebeca. Poor, poor Pietro Crespi. Always in love with the wrong girl. And my eternal favorite, Melquíades.
I'll freely admit to crying when I closed the back cover on this one. For the fact that it was over, and the perfectly heartbreaking ending. Knowing where I'm headed, and that it might at times be trying, this is just the thing to hide away in. A world where a deluge of yellow flowers isn't strange, its just one more thing to sweep off the front steps.