TRUTH #2—I have never read One Hundred Years of Solitude.
I know. I know.
Believe me, this isn’t an easy thing to admit, but because I’ve challenged myself to air a truth a day throughout April—in order to travel that bit ‘lighter’—it had to be said.
Also, there’s a kind of omen-y thing going on. The title has crossed my path three times in the last few weeks. First, in an answer by Charles Foran in a 2008 Q&A with Steven Beattie, which I stumbled over while looking up one of Foran’s books:
“I abandoned a career as a hockey player – okay, I got cut by the Young Nationals when I was seventeen – for literature because of how books rocked my suburban Toronto world. I can even pinpoint the turn. Once I opened the epochal paperback of One Hundred Years of Solitude, a book purchased, largely for the allure of its pastel cover, in my local Coles in my local mall in 1977, or thereabouts, I knew I was a goner. I knew this because of how I read Marquez and, in turn, how Marquez read me.”
Second… I can’t remember what, but there was a second.
And third, in the short story ‘How Healthy Are You?’ from Sarah Selecky’s collection This Cake is for the Party.
“On the first day, they were given their capsules with breakfast. The numbers 009 were printed in black on the outside of the capsule. Carolyn swallowed hers with orange juice. She showered and dressed. She’d brought One Hundred Years of Solitude to read, a journal, her Spanish textbook and some Post-it Notes for vocabulary, and her Canon SLR.”