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Humanity, like armies in the field, advances at the speed of the slowest.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
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Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Age: 87 †
Born: 1927
Born: March 6
Died: 2014
Died: April 17
Autobiographer
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet Lawyer
Prosaist
Publisher
Screenwriter
Short Story Writer
Writer
LA
California
Gabriel José García Márquez
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Gabriel Jose Garcia Marquez
Gabriel José de la Concordia García Márquez
Gabriel Jose de la Concordia Garcia Marquez
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More quotes by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
She knew that he loved her above all else, more than anything in the world, but only for his own sake.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
And nevertheless, when they watched him leave the house, this man they themselves had urged to conquer the world, then they were the ones left with the terror that he would never return. That was their life. Love, if it existed, was something separate: another life.
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In the end all books are written for your friends. The problem after writing One Hundred Years of Solitude was that now I no longer know whom of the millions of readers I am writing for this upsets and inhibits me. It's like a million eyes are looking at you and you don't really know what they think.
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For a week, almost without speaking, they went ahead like sleepwalkers through a universe of grief, lighted only by the tenuous reflection of luminous insects, and their lungs were overwhelmed by a suffocating smell of blood.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
And both of them remained floating in an empty universe where the only everyday & eternal reality was love.
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Necessity has the face of a dog.
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opened the door a crack wide enough for the entire world to pass through .
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All my life, I've been frightened at the moment I sit down to write.
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we had made love without love, half-dressed most of the time and always in the dark so we could imagine ourselves as better than we were.
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Fame is very agreeable, but the bad thing is that it goes on 24 hours a day.
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She was a ghost in a strange house that overnight had become immense and solitary and through which she wandered without purpose, asking herself in anguish which one of them was deader: the man who had died or the woman he had left behind.
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Old people, with other old people, are not so old.
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In journalism just one fact that is false prejudices the entire work. In contrast, in fiction one single fact that is true gives legitimacy to the entire work. That's the only difference, and it lies in the commitment of the writer. A novelist can do anything he wants so long as he makes people believe in it.
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Four geological eras had to pass so that human beings would be able to outsing the birds and die for love.
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Love becomes greater and nobler in calamity.
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Your first realization when you become an important person is that all day and all night, whatever the circumstances, people want to hear you talk about yourself.
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It was a love of perpetual flight.
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The only thing he could do to stay alive was not to allow himself the anguish of that memory. He erased it from his mind, although from time to time in the years that were left to him he would feel it revive, with no warning and for no reason, like the sudden pang of an old scar.
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He pleaded so much that he lost his voice. His bones began to fill with words.
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She would walk through the kitchen at any hour, whenever she was hungry, and put her fork in the pots and eat a little of everything without placing anything on a plate, standing in front of the stove, talking to the serving women, who were the only ones with whom she felt comfortable, the ones she got along with best.
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