A Deeper Look Into How Exceptionally Slow My Reading Is And Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Writing

A Deeper Look Into How Exceptionally Slow My Reading Is And Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Writing

I’ve always been exceptionally slow at reading.  To preserve my confidence, I will say that I write faster than most people and probably write faster than how fast most people read, but that has very little to do with how exceptionally inefficient my reading ability is.

I had mentioned previously that I began reading Marquez’s book, 100 Years of Solitude.  At a mere forty pages, with daylight suspended into the hours of night, I was very much disappointed in my reading speed, but much interested in returning to the book once again later in the evening even if it meant wasting away the value of time during the most prime years of my existence.  There was something about the content of Marquez’s writing that felt imperative to move further along the pages; there was something about the way it was written.  Although Marquez is considered a 20th century author, I do find that his writing resembles the writing of a lot of 19th century authors.  With the exception of Tolstoy, a lot of 19th century, to me, feels unorganized.  Paragraphs go on longer than they should.  Descriptions with their expansiveness and drawn out imagery become redundant and unexciting.  It becomes quite clear why an author like Hemingway was seen to break literary ground by talking about the weather in terms of, ‘it was hot,’ or ‘the morning was bright.’

Marquez’s writing rolls out like a conversation with someone whose personality is filled with non-sequiturs; who can’t exactly stay on one topic because he continuously is reminded of new threads in which the conversation could reroute to.  As much as most people would find this difficult, I do not.  The reason being:  I am one of these people.  Although it may not come out in my writing, when I’m at the reigns of a conversation, I am usually incapable of keeping the conversation steady and on the same route.  Unlike my social life, my paragraph writing in fiction may possibly resemble the way that I was taught to write essays at a young age: stripping unnecessary sentences and joining each sentence in a paragraph in a way that made each sentence essential.  Marquez is not like that.  Like a reckless, yet amiable, collision, he joins sentences together in his paragraphs that have very little to do with each other, skipping to characters and tangent storylines within the same paragraph in a way that makes one shrug and say, ‘well, I guess were talking about this now.’

Still, with Marquez’s prose and bright content, the collision keeps on going in a way that attracts the reader, me, back to see what else is next.  Forty pages in and I still have found no stable storyline.  I could make out who may be seen as the protagonist in the story, but being that the novel skips to characters and their own lives, it makes the literary laws of fiction and its magnified focus on a protagonist a mere afterthought.  The story simply, or complexly, describes the happenings of a family, documenting moments happening as they come to a new phase in their lives.   

Read my latest book, 'The Day Sex Robots Said No To Fat Chicks.'   For exclusive updates, subscribe to my mailing list.