Quote

Don't open that door, she said. The hallway is full of difficult dreams. And I asked her: How do you know? And she told me: Because I was there a moment ago and I had to come back when I discovered I was sleeping on my heart.

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
Back
Told
Hallway
Come
Full
Hallways
Heart
Open
Sleeping
Sleep
Discovered
Moment
Door
Difficult
Asked
Moments
Dreams
Dream
Doors

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and it was always without pretensions of loving or being loved although always in the hope of finding something that resembled love but without the problems of love.
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No matter what you do this year or in the next hundred, you will be dead forever.
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It was the year they fell into devastating love. Neither one could do anything except think about the other, dream about the other, and wait for letters with the same impatience they felt when they answered them.
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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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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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The truth is I'm getting old, I said. We already are old, she said with a sigh. What happens is that you don't feel it on the inside, but from the outside everybody can see it.
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He was weary of the uncertainty of the vicious circle of that eternal war that always found him in the same place, but always older, wearier, even more in the position of not knowing why, or how, or even when.
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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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Perhaps this is what the stories meant when they called somebody heartsick. Your heart and your stomach and your whole insides felt empty and hollow and aching.
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Then the writing became so fluid that I sometimes felt as if I were writing for the sheer pleasure of telling a story, which may be the human condition that most resembles levitation.
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She let him finish, scratching his head with the tips of her fingers, and without his having revealed that he was weeping from love, she recognized immediately the oldest sobs in the history of man.
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There [is] no innocence more dangerous than the innocence of age.
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Just as real events are forgotten, some that never were can be in our memories as if they happened.
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When I wake up, he said, remind me that I'm going to marry her.
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This was when I heard that the first symptom of old age is when you begin to resemble your father.
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The war is in the mountains,” he said. “For as long as I can remember, they have killed us in the cities with decrees, not with bullets.
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There is no greater glory than to die for love.
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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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Fatality makes us invisible.
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i discovered that my obsession for having each thing in the right place, each subject at the right time, each word in the right style, was not the well-deserved reward of an ordered mind, but just the opposite: a complete system of pretense invented by me to hide the disorder of my nature.
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