One Hundred Years Of Solitude Quotes

“Death really did not matter to him but life did, and therefore the sensation he felt when they gave their decision was not a feeling of fear but of nostalgia.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

“He pleaded so much that he lost his voice. His bones began to fill with words.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

“It is easier to start a war than to end it.”
― Gabriel Garcia Marquez

“In that Macondo forgotten even by the birds, where the dust and the heat had become so strong that it was difficult to breathe, secluded by solitude and love and by the solitude of love in a house where it was almost impossible to sleep because of the noise of the red ants, Aureliano, and Amaranta Úrsula were the only happy beings, and the most happy on the face of the earth.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

“It was then that she realized that the yellow butterflies preceded the appearances of Mauricio Babilonia.”
― Gabriel Garcia Marquez

“He thought about his people without sentimentalily, with a strick closing of his accounts with life, beginning to understand how much he really loved the people he hated the most.”
― Gabriel Garcia Marquez

“How strange men are.' she said, because she could not think of anything else to say. 'They spend their lives fighting against priests and then give prayer books as gifts.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

“Aturdido por dos nostalgias enfrentadas como dos espejos, perdió su maravilloso sentido de la irrealidad, hasta que terminó por recomendarles a todos que se fueran de Macondo, que olvidaran cuanto él les había enseñado del mundo y del corazón humano, que se cagaran en Horacio y que en cualquier lugar en que estuvieran recordaran siempre que el pasado era mentira, que la memoria no tenía caminos de regreso, que toda primavera antigua era irrecuperable, y que el amor más desatinado y tenaz era de todos modos una verdad efímera.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

“Madly in love after so many years of sterile complicity, they enjoyed the miracle of loving each other as much at the table as in bed, and they grew to be so happy that even when they were two worn-out old people they kept on blooming like little children and playing like dogs.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

“Where one did not suffer with day to day problems because they were solved before hand in ones imagination.”
― Gabriel Garcia Marquez

“...so many knives and forks and spoons were not meant for a human being but for a centipede...”
― Gabriel Garcia Marquez

“Madly in love after so many years of sterile complicity, they enjoyed the miracle of living each other as much at the table as in bed, and they grew to be so happy that even when they were two worn-out people they kept on blooming like little children and playing together like dogs.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

“...because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

“İnsanın oturduğu toprakların altında ölüleri yoksa, o adam o toprağın insanı değildir.”
― Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

“The only thing that [Amaranta] did not keep in mind in her fearsome plan was that in spite of her pleas to God she might die before Rebeca. That was, in fact, what happened. At the final moment, however, Amaranta did not feel frustrated, but, on the contrary, free of all bitterness because death had awarded her the privilege of announcing itself several years ahead of time. She saw it on one burning afternoon sewing with her on the porch a short time after Meme had left for school. She saw it because it was a woman dressed in blue with long hair, with a sort of antiquated look, and with a certain resemblance to Pilar Ternera during the time when she had helped with the chores in the kitchen. Fernanda was present several times and did not see her, in spite of the fact that she was so real – so human and on one occasion asked of Amaranta the favor of threading a needle. Death did not tell her when she was going to die or whether her hour was assigned before that of Rebeca, but ordered her to begin sewing her own shroud on the next sixth of April. She was authorized to make it as complicated and as fine as she wanted, but just as honestly executed as Rebeca's, and she was told that she would die without pain, fear, or bitterness at dusk on the day that she finished it. Trying to waste the most time possible, Amaranta ordered some rough flax and spun the thread herself. She did it so carefully that the work alone took four years. Then she started the sewing. As she got closer to the unavoidable end she began to understand that only a miracle would allow her to prolong the work past Rebeca's death, but the very concentration gave her the calmness that she needed to accept the idea of frustration.”
― Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

“Çünkü yüzyıllık yalnızlığa mahkum edilen soyların, yeryüzünde ikinci bir deney fırsatları olmazdı.”
― Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

“But Melquíades' tribe, according to what the wanderers said, had been wiped off the face of the earth because they had gone beyond the limits of human knowledge.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

“То, что делало ее счастливой, не имело ни малейшего отношения к порядку и дисциплине: ей нравились шумные праздники, она любила целыми часами сидеть с подружками в каком-нибудь укромном уголке, где они сплетничали, кто в кого влюблен, учились курить, говорили о мужчинах, а однажды распили три бутылки тростникового рома, после чего разделись и стали сравнивать и измерять различные части своего тела.”
― Габриел Гарсия Маркес, One Hundred Years of Solitude

“When the pirate Sir Francis Drake attacked Riohacha in the sixteenth century Úrsula Iguarán's great-great-grandmother became so frightened with the ringing of alarm bells and the firing of cannons that she lost control of her nerves and sat down on a lighted stove. The burns turned her into a useless for the rest of her days.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude