Guilty

Chronicle of a Death Foretold

Gabriel Garcia Marquez 1981

Fiction; 160pgs

Though enjoyed, Marquez is an author with whom I am largely unfamiliar.  Even though I've read a handful of his books, I am by no means well versed in his output.  For many years, the extent of my Marquez knowledge revolved around One Hundred Years of Solitude (coincidentally one my favorite books ever) and Love in the Time of Cholera.  While the dearth of my reading was unfortunate, it shouldn't denote any lack of interest.  On the contrary, I very much desired to read more Marquez, it just never seem to come about.  Several years ago, I started the slow path towards improvement in this regard by reading The General in His Labyrinth. Years have since passed, but I was afforded the opportunity to further broaden my Marquez horizons courtesy of Mia Iseman.  I borrowed and devoured two Marquez novellas, A Chronicle of a Death Foretold and Of Love and Other Demons.  The latter shall be saved for another day.

Chronicle of a Death, I've been told, is Kafkaesque (Kafka being another hole in my first hand literary knowledge).  The story itself is seemingly simple: a man is murdered by two men.  It is only with each successive chapter than more and more of the story is revealed.  To be overly cliche, the Chronicle exists as an onion, as each page/layer is peeled, we are brought closer and closer to a more complete understanding at what exists at the core.

Though seemingly simple, there is much at work throughout the book.  It is rife with symbolism.  In particular, by the end of the story, the figure of Santiago Nasar is eerily Christlike, both in his dress and death.  Heightening this perception is the inaction of the community.  Though all were aware of what was about to take place, hardly anyone acted to prevent the death (the resultant communal guilt is given an interesting physical manifestation).

Books should be discovered on the reader's terms.  It is a singular pleasure and one I wish to respect, so I'm hesitant to enter into too much detail about the plot itself.  Instead, I will rely on each reader's desire to discover the Chronicle's gemlike prose.  It is a radiant, riveting piece of literature.  One of the best pieces of fiction I have read in a long time.

READ IT.

Majestic

Seven Pillars of Wisdom: A Triumph
T.E. Lawrence ©1922
Non-Fiction; 784 pages

Often, upon finishing a rather large tome, there is a feeling of disillusionment. This has nothing to do with the book itself, but instead it is a manifestation of the experience. It is similar to a road trip. On the trip, you itch and itch towards completion. Though you take heed of what is around you, the finish line is the goal. It is what you seek.

Throughout these trips, whether book or road, one takes note of the joys along the way. In one, perhaps it is an exceedingly profound turn of phrase, while the other might be an exquisite sunset. It is this coloring that vaults the experience towards true felicity. When one reaches the end of this favorable road, the limits of reality appear. The never ending joys of the book suddenly have a terminus. As much as you yearn for the satisfaction of completion, it is always a bit abrupt.

Recently, I came face to face with this sense of abruptness when I finished reading Seven Pillars of Wisdom: A Triumph by T.E. Lawrence. To recognize the ending as abrupt is, of course, paradoxical at best. Despite inching forward each day, despite noticing the end of the road well in advance, I was incredulous to find myself at the end of the book. After wading through thousands of words by the Lawrence of Arabia, I was face to face with the obvious finality. The house was indeed complete.

The work is a magnum opus, a classic of 20th century literature. Lawrence, in hindsight, naturally seems to have destined for his work helping unite the Arabs and overthrow the Turks in WWI. Yet, even more so, he embodied perfection as a writer of an epic military history. To quote a reviewer, "he has a novelist's eye for detail, a poet's command of the language, an adventurer's heart, a soldier's great story, and his memory and intellect are at least as good as all those." Throughout the work he is keenly aware of the role he was playing in the somewhat orchestrated charade of war. Aflame with insight, Lawrence saw everything with an unjaundiced eye, even himself. Never was he fearful of revealing himself, unfavorable or not.

It is this earnestness that lends the book a truly poetic air. One that folds nicely within the obvious majesty of the story. Both of which, I believe, are illustrated with magnificent ease in the opening stanza of the dedicatory poem Lawrence penned for his book.

I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands

and wrote my will across the sky in stars

To gain you Freedom, the seven-pillared worthy house,

that your eyes might be shining for me

When I came.

From these opening lines, through the next 300,000 some odd words I waded through the myth to find the man. Stunned upon completion, I wished for more. This yearning says nothing of the ending itself. It was everything one could wish for in an ending: descriptive, illuminating, and poignant. Even though I recognized the greatness, I still found myself wanting. I desired to know more about the inner workings of his head...more about his trials on the battlefield. More, and more, and more.

While the feeling was truly odd, it illustrates the depth and wonderment to be found not only in this book, but in reading. It is within the pages of books that one is able to lose their self and in doing so find a commonality with humanity. Reading takes us by the hand and helps us learn to empathize, to love, to despise...to feel. And it is these elementary lessons that reconnects one with their self; that soften the edges of a too often hardened soul and slowly pave a path towards a redemptive flowering.

All of which leads me to say, READ IT.