Love in Time of the Cholera

It’s not One Hundred Years of Solitude, nor The Autumn of the Patriarch. It’s not quite filled with magical realism. It’s not even a proper love story. But it’s Marquez, with its specific style. It is the perfect book for a lazy Sunday (or several), that can be read without interruptions. In a plain, somehow (too) romantic style, with only a few narrative games, but with everything that is specific to this writer.

It’s about the (im)possibility of loving another human being. Of searching stability instead of love, of the illusion that one can really love somebody, caught in the routines of life and marriage. It’s about life and death, about the story of a country that we barely know, and about the way someone is caught in the nets of society, of how society influences our decisions, our way of thinking, of how we look at the others, of how we live.

And it’s about an unshared insane love that is like cholera, and the stubbornness in front of her continuous refusals, in front of the passing years, in front of Life and society.