Gabriel Garcia Marquez Quotes
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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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He was carrying a suitcase with clothing in order to stay and another just like it with almost two thousand letters that she had written him. They were arranged by date in bundles ties with colored ribbons, and they were all unopened.
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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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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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A man should have two wives: one to love and one to sew on his buttons.
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...but he only found her in the image that saturated his private and terrible solitude.
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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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She would not shed a tear, she would not waste the rest of her years simmering in the maggot broth of memory.
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Many years later, in front of the firing squad, colonel Aureliano Buendía would remember that distant afternoon his father took him to see ice.
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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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I don't have a method. All I do is read a lot, think a lot, and rewrite constantly. It's not a scientific thing.
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I’ve remained a virgin for you.
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Wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end.
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The only regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love.
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At some point, you no longer feel pain. Sensation disappears and reason is dulled, until you lose all grasp of time and place.
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He pleaded so much that he lost his voice. His bones began to fill with words.
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When one reaches absolute power, one loses total contact with reality.
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Life had already given him sufficient reasons for knowing that no defeat was the final one.
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Seeing him like this, dressed just for her in so patent a manner, she could not hold back the fiery blush that rose to her face. She was embarrassed when she greeted him, and he was more embarrassed by her embarrassment. The knowledge that they were behaving as if they were sweethearts was even more embarrassing, and the knowledge that they were both embarrassed embarrassed them so much that Captain Samaritano noticed it with a tremor of compassion.
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The adolescents of my generation, greedy for life, forgot in body and soul about their hopes for the future until reality taught them that tomorrow was not what they had dreamed, and they discovered nostalgia.
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Time was not passing...it was turning in a circle.
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He repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stonecutter more obstinate, no manager more lucid or dangerous, than a poet.
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One of the most difficult things is the first paragraph. I have spent many months on a first paragraph, and once I get it, the rest just comes out very easily.
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The world is divided into those who screw and those who do not. He distrusted those who did not—when they strayed form the straight and narrow it was something so unusual for them that they bragged about love as if they had just invented it.