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Fame invades your private life. It takes away from the time that you spend with friends, and the time that you can work. It tends to isolate you from the real world.

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
Life
Fame
World
Spend
Takes
Friends
Away
Invades
Real
Isolate
Work
Tends
Time
Private

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Today, when I saw you, I realized that what is between us is nothing more than an illusion.
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Children's lies are signs of great talent.
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Santiago Nasar had often told me that the smell of closed-in flowers had an immediate relation to death for him.
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And both of them remained floating in an empty universe where the only everyday & eternal reality was love.
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A man knows when he is growing old because he begins to look like his father.
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Age isn't how old you are but how old you feel.
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To all, I would say how mistaken they are when they think that they stop falling in love when they grow old, without knowing that they grow old when they stop falling in love...
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Unfortunately many young writers are more concerned with fame than with their own work... It's much more important to write than to be written about.
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The interpretation of our reality through patterns not our own, serves only to make us ever more unknown, ever less free, ever more solitary.
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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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There had never been a death so foretold.
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Tricks you need to transform something which appears fantastic, unbelievable into something plausible, credible, those I learned from journalism. The key is to tell it straight. It is done by reporters and by country folk.
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An ash-gray dog with a white blaze on its forehead burst onto the rough terrain of the market on the first Sunday in December, knocked down tables of fried food, overturned Indians' stalls and lottery kiosks, and bit four people who happened to cross its path.
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To oppression, plundering and abandonment, we respond with life.
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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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It was, at last, real life, with my heart safe and condemned to die of happy love in the joyful agony of any day after my hundredth birthday.
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He said that love was an emotion contra natura that condemned two strangers to a base and unhealthy dependence, and the more intense it was, the more ephemeral.
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