A writer never dies ...

Just now.  I went to check my yahoo mails.  Gmail and Facebook have been so good and efficient that I almost do not feel  the need to open any of my 3 yahoo accounts.  So I come there for curiosity.   I still  get curious from time to time.   Trending in Yahoo was Gabriel Garcia Marquez.  So I thought may be  in his octogenarian years he already completed, We'll Meet In August, or any new novel, just may be.  As I fought the thought that an old writer must have rested his mighty pen.

 Love in the Time of Cholera was one of the first ones I’ve read when I begun taking up reading seriously some 2 decades ago.   May be that book was way too much for a 23 year old.  May be it was really good but I got into it too soon.    I am sure the words were delicious.  Writers are the only creatures in this world who can put together the most palatable words and defying academic standards and cultural norms all at the same time.   It’s like a birth right.  To be delicious and dangerous.    Having said that,  Love in the Time of Cholera, was something I couldn’t relate to. Yes, it was a love story, but not your regular love story.  The protagonists were 70 year old deviants.  Lovers at the time of their lives where death surrounded them.  In the apex height of my youth,  shame on me to have believed that love was just for the young.  It was my prejudice that caused my inability to understand a love like that … I was closed to getting One Hundred Years of Solitude, but I thought Gabo Marquez was too much of a genius for me.  And it was my childish partiality that caused, again, my inability to enjoy his works.   My bad.     If I am taking a different perspective now it is because  I will be 44 by Monday.  And not impossibly,  closing on Fermina Daza’s fate.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez passed away yesterday, 17th of April, on a Maundy Thursday.  While I cannot re-write anymore my history with this author.  I am now prepared to conquer my personal biases.  I went to my ol’ book shelf.  The cover has faded, the  pages are brittle and orange, some of the leaves  have fallen off from its spine.  Twenty one  years after,  I should be ready for a Gabriel Garcia Marquez.   I will be reading again,  Love in the Time of Cholera.