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An artisan without memories, whose only dream was to die of fatigue in the oblivion and misery of his little gold fishes.

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
Memories
Artisan
Dies
Artisans
Dream
Fatigue
Littles
Oblivion
Little
Fishes
Without
Misery
Gold
Whose

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opened the door a crack wide enough for the entire world to pass through .
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He could not understand why he had needed so many words to explain what he felt in war because one was enough: fear. ~Jose Aracadio Segundo Buendia After the second banana slaughter
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...The girl raised her eyes to see who was passing by the window, and that casual glance was the beginning of a cataclysm of love that still had not ended half a century later.
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The truth was that I could not manage my soul, and I was becoming aware of old age because of my weakness in the face of love.
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All my life, I've been frightened at the moment I sit down to write.
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Each man is master of his own death, and all that we can do when the time comes is to help him die without fear of pain.
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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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I would like for my books to have been recognized posthumously, at least in capitalist countries, where they turn you into a kind of merchandise.
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Humanity, like armies in the field, advances at the speed of the slowest.
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Fiction was invented the day Jonas arrived home and told his wife that he was three days late because he had been swallowed by a whale.
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The people of the United States are one of the people I most admire in the world. The only thing I don't understand is why a country that manages to do so well cannot do better in choosing its president.
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He always considered death an unavoidable professional hazard.
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They looked like two children, she told me. And that thought frightened her, because she'd always felt that only children are capable of everything.
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As a writer I'm merely a journalist who has learned to write better than others.
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Most critics don't realize that a novel like One Hundred Years of Solitude is a bit of a joke, full of signals to close friends and so, with some pre-ordained right to pontificate they take on the responsibility of decoding the book and risk making terrible fools of themselves.
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He thought about his people without sentimentality, with a strict closing of his accounts with life, beginning to understand how much he really loved the people he hated most.
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Invulnerable to time, dedicated to the messianic happiness of thinking for us, knowing that we knew that he would not take any decision for us that did not have our measure, for he had not survived everything because of his inconceivable courage or his infinite prudence but because he was the only one among us who knew the real size of our destiny.
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