The Flight of an Angel

By: Alina Perera


2014-04-18 | 13:39:52 EST
Up to sunrise today, I have cried twice when I read a book. And of those two, one happened to me with Cien años de soledad (A Hundred Years of Solitude) by Gabriel García Márquez.

That hot afternoon when I reached the last page, I felt what scholars have called the aesthetic emotion. I cried alone, uncontrollably, before a beauty overflowing from me and a human lesson that would mark my soul forever: the novel was, for me, a warning about the futility of pride, and the beautiful mystery that is existence itself.

Since then I added to my dreams the yearning to personally know the wonderful writer. I imagined a tender dialogue, where with no lack of his words he could not rid rid me of nostalgia, memory, love, loneliness. I figured on a meeting where I would thank him for putting on paper, on behalf of many, the feelings that we have nested throughout time in this our amazing way in the world. He would also have been thanked because, among the children of America, they had a son like him, for such membership was like adding an infallible Atlantean to our hurt self-esteem throughout history.

Although the personal meeting never took place, it happened to me with Gabo as with the Argentine writer Julio Cortázar: I understand and fully enjoy, talking about them as if they were my parents. No regrets, when I have before me an idea from them, the time or space involving distances: I understand what Gabo wanted to say about loves that last a lifetime, or so that some may quit building along the way. I continue to be amazed, as in the first instant, that his wonderful gift of telling about a visit to a stone of ice as the most extraordinary experience while narrating, as the most natural, a levitation for taking chocolate, or a final departure to heaven and between sheets.

I will continue to revere the way he has used his extraordinary talent, his art with words that seems supported by angels, according to the most deeply committed to our America, based on the most glorious causes among them I now remember the struggle to liberate our Elian .

I love him for his affection for Fidel, for having accompanied him one day to Biran, on a trip of delicate family memories, in an expedition that Gabo understood perfectly because it was marked by love and longing, so much attached to the roots.

I love him for his love for us, because I spend my life saying that I only a look at what García Márquez might catch in something all lived through on the island in the years of resistance and unusual events.

It amazes me, at heart, that Gabo has become verse. And I can only confess, because I learned from his certainties, my will only regret is that my death might not be for love.

Translated by ESTI

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