Memories of My Melancholy Whores

ISBN: 0307278492
ISBN 13: 9780307278492
By: Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez Edith Grossman

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About this book

Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature"Garcí­a Márquez has composed, with his usual sensual gravity and Olympian humor, a love letter to the dying light."--John Updike, The New YorkerOn the eve of his ninetieth birthday a bachelor decides to give himself a wild night of love with a virgin. As is his habit--he has purchased hundreds of women--he asks a madam for her assistance. The fourteen-year-old girl who is procured for him is enchanting, but exhausted as she is from caring for siblings and her job sewing buttons, she can do little but sleep. Yet with sleeping beauty at his side, it is he who awakens to a romance he has never known.Tender, knowing, and slyly comic, Memories of My Melancholy Whores is an exquisite addition to the master's work."Luminous....The cunning of Memories lies in the utter--and utterly unexpected--reliability of its narrator."--The New York Times Book Review"Masterful. Erotic. As hypnotizing as it is disturbing."--Los Angeles Times"Profoundly haunting....Fiction of the very highest order."--The Times Literary Supplement

Reader's Thoughts


"The year I turned ninety, I wanted to give myself the gift of a night of wild love with an adolescent virgin." So begins Memories of My Melancholy Whores, and it becomes even more unlikely as the novel unfolds. This slim volume contains the story of the sad life of an unnamed, only slightly talented Colombian journalist and teacher, never married, never in love, living in the crumbling family manse. He calls Rosa Cabarcas, madame of the city's most successful brothel, to seek her assistance. Rosa tells him his wish is impossible--and then calls right back to say that she has found the perfect girl. The protagonist says of himself: "I have never gone to bed with a woman I didn't pay ... by the time I was fifty there were 514 women with whom I had been at least once ... My public life, on the other hand, was lacking in interest: both parents dead, a bachelor without a future, a mediocre journalist ... and a favorite of caricaturists because of my exemplary ugliness." The girl is 14 and works all day in a factory attaching buttons in order to provide for her family. Rosa gives her a combination of bromide and valerian to drink to calm her nerves, and when the prospective lover arrives, she is sound asleep. Now the story really begins. The nonagenarian is not a sex-starved adventurer; he is a tender voyeur. Throughout his 90th year, he continues to meet the girl and watch her sleep. He says, "This was something new for me. I was ignorant of the arts of seduction and had always chosen my brides for a night at random, more for their price than their charms, and we had made love without love, half-dressed most of the time and always in the dark, so we could imagine ourselves as better than we were ... That night I discovered the improbably pleasure of contemplating the body of a sleeping woman without the urgencies of desire or the obstacles of modesty." Márquez's style never falters throughout this recounting of his life and his exploration of love, found at an unexpected time and place. The erstwhile lover is still capable of being surprised--and fulfilled. After an absence of ten years, it is a treat to have another parable from the master. --Valerie Ryan --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.


Despite my well documented affection for the author, I actually had mentally prepared myself to dislike or at least be disappointed by this book. I had read lukewarm reviews and was somewhat under-whelmed by the brief on the book jacket. A 90 year old man who falls in love with a sleeping 14 year old virgin. Marquez has written about these sinful or impossible loves before, one novella of his is about a priest who falls in love with a 14 year old girl. Ultimately though, I found this book to be engaging and charming even though it does not rank among Marquez's greater works. I enjoyed the idea of this man taking a sleeping girl and in his mind building her into the love of his life. the telling sentence is when the lovesick 90 year old hears the girl's voice and decides that he likes her better sleeping than awake. If you have not really read Marquez, this is not the best example of what he is capable of, but if you have enjoyed his musings on life, age and love in the past then this book is worth a read.


قرأتها قبل سنواتو لم يخطر لي أن أضيفها لقائمة كتبيربما لأني لم أكن أعتبرها شيئا على الإطلاق حتى أذكرهحتى فتحت بالصدفة صفحة الرواية و ذهلت من الحديث عنها، بل من أني قد كنت قرأتها فعلا و كل هذه الأمور الساحرة و الجميلة التي يتحدثون عنها لم أشعر بها... أذكر كل ما شعرت منها هو أنها أذتني...0القالب الذي وضعت فيه مؤذ... الفكرة مؤذية... رؤيا المؤلف للحياة بحد ذاتها جعلتني أكره الحياة و أود لو أخرج من جلدي و لو صدقت هذه الرؤيا لأصبت بالنقمة على البشرية...0لم أعد أذكر التفاصيل تماما، و لكنها عن رجل تسعيني أمضى حياة أنانية و دنجوانية خاوية... ثم عن محاولاته التعلق بالحياة في عيد ميلاده التسعين... عبر تلك الفكرة المريضة بأن يقضي ليلة مع عذارء مراهقة... ثم لينتهي بتأملها نائمة طوال الوقت و تداعيات أفكاره عن الحياة و الحب... تداعيات مسن لم تجعلني أشعر بشيء تجاهه سوى بالكراهية...0أذكر أن الرواية جعلتني أشعر بالسوء، و بذلك الشعور الذي يأبى إلا أن يتكرر في كل مرة...أشعر بأني أكون محلقة و خفيفة ثم تأتي أمثالها فترميني بحجر و تسقطني على أم رأسي معيدة إياي إلى الأرض و مثقلة إياي بحيث أني لا أعود أستطيع المشي قدما و لا حتى التنفس و هي ترزح فوق صدري، لو أني بقيت عالقة طويلا فيها، لو أني آمنت بها، لو أني عشت داخلها... و أحسبني سرعان ما سأموت لو أني كنت أنظر للحياة هكذا...0هذه النظرة للحب، للجسد، للعلاقات البشرية، لطريقة تفكير الرجال و النساء ببعضهم، للتقدم في السن، للجمال، هي ما يؤذي... يقال أنها الواقع، و أن هذه الحياة... و أن هذا الجمال و الحب و كأن هذه مسلمة! لكن ليس صحيحا، من قال أن هذا الواقع... هذا الواقع حسب رؤيا فلان من الناس و ليس حسب ما يراه غيره أو حتى حسب الوجود الخارجي... هذا ما يجري في دماغه هو... و هو ليس إلا فردا في الحياة، و ليس المشكل لها... لحسن الحظ...0ربما أكون غريبة الأطوار قليلا... و لكني أستطيع رؤية أن ليس هذا هو الواقع و لا هذه هي الحياة فقط... و هناك أفق أخرى... و هناك أبعاد أخرى... و هناك تداعيات أفكار أخرى... و هناك حب آخر... و هناك قيم أرقى... و هناك طريقة رؤية للحياة أخرى بكل معانيها هي أحلى و أسمى... و هناك قصص أخرى تستحق أن تروى من ما يسمونه الواقع... إنما هذا الواقع بحسب ماركيز... و هو واقع كريه و منفر...0و يا له من بون شاسع... بين رؤيا هرمان هسه عن التقدم في السن و بين ماركيز... كالفرق بين التحليق في السماء بخفة و بين الخوض في مستنقع...0لم أكن أرغب بالحديث عن الرواية، فأنا لست أذكر تفاصيل بقدر ما أذكر مشاعر سيئة و سلبية... و لكن بت أجد من الأفضل أن يضع من له رأي مختلف حول عمل شبه مجمع عليه رأيه، حتى لا يحس بالوحشة شخص آخر يقرأ العمل و لا يشعر بكل هذه الأمور التي يتحدث عنها الآخرون... فيبدأ بالشك في نفسه...0


Gabriel Garcia Marquez writes beautifully. Many paragraphs throughout his works can be easily mistaken for poetry, as they contain language so vivid and colorful that it inspires even the most disinterested reader. MEMORIES OF MY MELANCHOLY WHORES is Marquez's first piece of fiction in ten years, yet it maintains the writing acumen that he's famous for and that permeates his other works. It is also markedly shorter than many of his other novels; the 113 poignant pages of this novella take the form of a memoir. The writing is both profound and superb, and the story is eerily familiar.This novella is the story of a fastidiously dressed man. He is scholarly yet insecure, debonair though not rich. The Scholar, as everyone calls him --- both because of his age and because of his wisdom (which is distributed through his Sunday column in a newspaper) --- awakens on the morning of his 90th birthday in the beautiful house that his parents bequeathed to him and begins to recount the story of his life, which has been filled with women for hire but has remained largely devoid of love.In a manner similar to Leo Tolstoy's THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYICH, the Scholar realizes much about life as he approaches the end of his own; unlike Ivan Ilyich, however, the Scholar is not bedridden and feels a yearning for rekindling something of his past. His only true friend in the novella --- a weathered woman, only a few years younger than the Scholar and the owner and overseer of an aged brothel --- reminds him of his wonderful past and aids him in what he thinks will be one of his final hoorahs.Fortunately for readers, the Scholar's life takes an unexpected turn, and to his disbelief, he falls in love with an unlikely girl. His Sunday column becomes a personal diary of love that touches the heart and captures the imagination of his readers.Abruptly, calamity strikes and shatters what the reader hopes will be a happy ending to a checkered life. However, the Scholar must rebound and take up the search for his found, and lost, love.MEMORIES OF MY MELANCHOLY WHORES is not a story about death; rather, it is a vibrant story of life renewing itself and the odd places where people find their passion. The setting of a lovely Spanish town and characters deserving of our empathy make this novella a memorable, beautiful and inspiring one.


من یک سئوال دارم؟ چطور می شود به کسی که این پروفایل را درست کرده دست یافت؟به این دلیل که خواهش کنیم از این به بعد طرح روی جلد کتاب‌ها را، نه فقط این کتاب را، بگذارند.این جا اگر هدف تشویق است برای کتاب‌خوانی باید چشم‌ها را هم به جلد کتاب‌ها اشنا کرد. زحمت چندانی هم ندارد. من خودم شخصن دیگر کتاب‌های بدون عکس جلد اضافه نمی‌کنم. دیگر ان هم اگر این کار را کنند، آن وقت کسانی که پروفایل‌ها را می سازند دقت بیش‌تری می‌کنند.


My rating: 3.5 of 5 stars ‘Age isn’t how old you are but how old you feel.’ Memories of My Melancholy Whores opens with a most surprising statement from our unnamed narrator: “The year I turned 90, I wanted to give myself the gift of a night of wild love with an adolescent virgin.” While this might not inspire any sort of positive feelings towards this man, the truth is he has lived long enough to not really care because his lasciviousness is simply who this man is and has always been. Introduced to love-making at an early age in a local brothel, he boastfully states that he has never gone to bed with a woman that he didn’t pay to do so. After a statement like that it comes as no surprise that he was also the twice crowned client of the year. He stopped keeping track of his sexual escapades at age 50 when he had reached 514 tallies.Memories of My Melancholy Whores may not feature your typical grandfatherly figure but our narrator still manages to charm us in his liveliness even at such an advanced age. While sleeping with virgins won’t likely be on my bucket list when I reach 90, being in a healthy position to do so regardless is definitely something to aim for. Our unnamed narrators story stirs up comparisons to another older fellow who was fond of a young girl, one Humbert Humbert. ‘Seeing and touching her in the flesh, she seemed less real to me than in my memory.’ The way this story was written is also similar to Lolita in that it almost feels like an attempt to explain and defend his feelings for what happened between him and the 14 year old girl he names Delgadina. Instead, his actions would indicate that he has no reason to not be truthful and that his decision to call upon Rosa Cabarcas and ask for the girl was the first step towards doing what he should have done all along: look for love. Not unexpectedly, this is not your typical love story. Our unnamed narrator is smitten with the young girl, yet even he can see the ridiculousness of the situation he has found himself in, especially when his meets with the girl are always while she’s asleep. He reads her stories and strokes her body and while away from her he fantasizes of a life spent together with her. ‘...that was the beginning of a new life at an age when most mortals have already died.’ Memories of My Melancholy Whores is more than just an unlikely story of love. It is also about when reaching the point in your life and being able to look back on how you’ve spent yours causes you to change and transform into the person you had always intended to be. For one that spent his life never truly knowing love, it finally came to him when least expected.

Ian Paganus

ImmortifiedI’ve wondered for a long time how to talk to you about this. How to explain myself, if such a thing is necessary or possible. Should I even bother? Would you understand? Will you be able to see things from my point of view? Could you find it in your heart to forgive me?Ironically, perhaps, if you believe in God, the Holy Spirit, then you might be more likely to understand me and therefore to forgive.My desire is not so much that you understand what I have done. It’s more important that you understand who or what I am. Therein lies the path to forgiveness. It depends on understanding me, my nature, not what I do.Perhaps, you have already reached the point where you don’t want to understand or listen to me? Anyway, I will begin my explanation now.I have had to live with myself for 91 years. During almost every day that I can remember, I have asked myself the same questions: who am I? What am I? Perhaps you have asked yourself the same things?Every day, I have looked at my body, I have scrutinized my mind, and I have thought that this is not the real me. I am something different.The best way to explain this is to say, in the simplest way possible, that I am my soul. I am not my body, I am not my mind, I am my soul. I am separate from them.Before this body and this mind, I resided in other bodies and minds. I have no way of telling how many or for how long. These things are not revealed to our souls. However, I feel confident that there have been many. Speaking to my friends and comparing pasts, I have resolved that I, my soul, am at least 5,394 years old. Sometimes I wonder why I am not older.I’ve transitioned 15 times that I know of. It fascinates me whether the body or the mind will succumb first, but usually the time between deaths is not long. It doesn't really matter. The important thing is to be close to another carrier, so that I can embark on the next stage of my journey.With all due modesty, I’ve inhabited some pretty special humans, some merely from the point of view of their minds, some from the point of view of their bodies.Still, it’s difficult for a soul to relate to a mind or a body.Bodies, in particular, seem to be driven by DNA. They want to fuck all the time. When they’re not fucking, they’re thinking about fucking. Well, in that case, their minds are thinking about fucking. At least, that’s a pretty fair description of the males I’ve inhabited. The females aren’t as bad, but, to be honest, they’re not that much better. Certainly they’re not as virtuous as they would have you believe.I’m 90, almost 91 now, in body years. Ironically, Delgadina is only fourteen. I say ironically, because in soul years, she is older than me, not by much, she’s 5,678 years old. She’s had almost four extra earth experiences than I have. Nineteen versus fifteen mightn’t sound like much, but you’d be surprised.The strange thing is that our soul age counts for nothing on earth. No matter how religious somebody might be, they still judge us by our body age, not the age of our mind or our soul.Even though Delgadina is technically an adult at age fourteen, people still think of her as a child. Little do they know, her mind is superior to mine. Just because she speaks less than I do, doesn’t mean that she is dumber. In our most recent life before this one, she topped our college in her last year. Sometimes, for her own benefit, I wish she would speak out more in this life, so people appreciated her mind, not just her body. Perhaps, that will come with time. I'm already teaching her to read, write and paint.We almost didn’t meet in this life. In the last, we had actually been married, but only in our seventies. She had enjoyed a long marriage. I had remained faithful, well, as best I could after 622 lovers. So many of them had been whores, but they were still women, all of them. Delgadina was determined to find out what it had been like to be one of my whores. She knew me well enough, after four earth relationships, to know that the best way to get my undivided attention was to manifest herself as a fourteen year old girl.I didn’t recognise her at first. She was promised to me. Well, her virginity was. Several times, we went through a ritual whereby I was supposed to deflower her. Each time, I slept next to her, and did nothing but caress her or kiss each centimeter of her body. It was as if my 90 year old body wasn’t up to the task, whatever the capacity of my mind, let alone my soul. I even began to question myself, which was a first for me.People judge me as if I have done something wrong. Sometimes I wonder if they imagine that I have done only what they would like to have done, or in Delgadina’s position, might have wanted me to do to them.I wonder whether these people know what it means to be a soul. To be condemned to live forever (although is it really such a condemnation?). To wander from body to body in search of another soul. To, at last, find a soul to whom you can relate, let alone, in my case, one who coincidentally I have loved before.These are things that mean something to you in eternity. True love. Not whether one of you is 90 or 14. These are just numbers. Notches. Hands that move in a circular fashion around the watch face of time. They mean nothing to someone, to two lovers, like us, whose soul lives have already lasted almost six millennia and show no signs of giving up.When I think of Delgadina, I don’t think of her legs, her breasts, her lips, even her mind, these things that somehow I have touched or kissed. Instead, I think of her soul. Meanwhile, she smiles when she thinks of how much more experience of life she has had than me. If only I could die now and start another life ahead of her. But, vain man that I am, I have resolved that, in this life at least, I want to see out a century. It comforts me that, when I lie awake in bed, sometimes I can derive some pleasure from observing her naked, legs apart, breasts spread across her chest, dreaming of me, her 90 year old stallion.Playboy Seeks Sex ToyThe more I read Marquez' post-Nobel Prize works, the more I'm convinced that his modus operandi is to invent characters and situations that will outrage many, if not most, readers.Here, a sexually-active nonagenarian is offered a fledgling 14 year old virgin whore to celebrate his birthday.Whether or not he deflowers the girl, whether or not he might only have watched the girl sleeping, he would be condemned by the reader. Society objects not just to the act, but to both the desire and the intention.The problem is that Marquez employs beautiful language in his enterprise.In fact, I've always suspected that, as I suspect of Nabokov, he writes a straightforward tale of love and sex, then, only then, twists or perverts it, by adding an element of the forbidden, the taboo, the immoral, the illegal.Without the perversion, it would be a work of beauty. What happens when he tweaks the ages of the participants? Would a story of love and sex involving a 40 year old male and a 30 year old female be acceptable? Well, what happens when the age of the male is dialled up to 90 and the girl down to 14?Something in our minds registers, this should not be happening, something is wrong.Marquez might not explicitly ask, why is it wrong. He might not be expressly challenging morality. It exists, whether we like it or not.However, I think he is asking us whether, as a work of art, it is any less beautiful because it is transgressive.Part of what he is doing is questioning the aesthetic nature of transgression.The novel is inspired by Kawabata's "House of the Sleeping Beauties", which I haven't read yet.In the epigraph from that book, old Eguchi is warned by the madam not to do anything in bad taste. The specific caveat is not to "put his finger into the mouth of the sleeping girl".Different things are forbidden at different times and in different cultures.The act of writing the novel doesn't mean that Marquez advocates child abuse in real life. He just wants to ask these questions and explore these issues within the realm of art. Again, like Nabokov, he wants to treat art and literature as a playground. He wants to explore not just desire and intention, but the imagination as well.By doing so, he asks of the reader that we suspend moral judgment and engage pure aesthetic judgment. Not all of us will want to, not all of us will be able to.In this way, he doesn't just confront us with his subject matter, he confronts us with our own temperaments. He utilises the response of the reader as part of his creative enterprise. His works are all the greater, because they involve and implicate us.VERSE:Angels Surround the Bed of DelgadinaLet us share a bed.You can sleep if you need to.I'm content to watch.BreathlessI kissed your body.I inhaled your wild fragrance.It made me breathless.Dear GirlI'll write words for you."We are alone in the world."I'll teach you to read.The Abominable No-ManIt does more damageFor authors to write in chainsThan to write freely.SOUNDTRACK:Memories of My Melancholy Whores (Title Sequence) Cave & The Bad Seeds - "Breathless"


I feel unqualified to dislike anything by Gabriel García Márquez, but with this slim novella I come very close. His other novels I’ve read (100 Years of Solitude, Love in the Time of Cholera) left me absolutely floored. His talent is prodigious and undeniable, and I fully expected this to be yet another amazing story masterfully told. But to be honest Memories falls a little flat. It was García Márquez’ first work of fiction in ten years, and at a mere 115 pages long, I wonder if maybe its brevity is the problem. The qualities that usually amaze—his inventive magic realism, the color and innovation of his language, the swooping narratives that move seamlessly back and forth in time, the panoramic scope he manages with unwavering authority—feel squeezed out of this short work. Also, the book comes off a little careless. Jumps in time are not as smooth as they could be, memories are inexplicably dropped before they're fleshed out or given meaning, and dialog can be downright confusing. Too, we're expected to overlook the grim realities of third-world brothels and the barbarism of sex for hire with barely-pubescent virgins and focus instead on the raptures and pains of love and old age. It’s a lot to ask.Memories isn’t all bad, though. I enjoyed its humor and earthy sensuality, and there is some wisdom to be found in these pages. I will say it's not without merit as a meditation on aging, desire and regret. But to readers who want to try something short by García Márquez, I say better to go with Chronicle of a Death Foretold.

Muhammad Shakhawat Hossain

So far, it is the worst book I have read this year. The story itself starts very disgustingly. A journalist, on his 90th birthday, wants to have sex with a virgin. He calls the local madam, Rosa Cabarcas and she arranges a 15 year old girl for him. The journalist, in his 90 long years, never found love. All he wants is just to please himself physically and to test his 'performance' at this age. When the journalist meets the arranged girl, he discovered he fell in love for the first time in his life. The plot is somewhat eccentric and ambitious but the execution is not up to the mark. The whole plot is destroyed due to pretension. The repetitive description of the girl's naked body is also very disturbing. One has to be the old journalist of the novel while reading for enjoying the book. I tried really hard, but couldn't see myself in his place. For books like this, I think I am going to make another bookshelf. And I shall name it 'Total waste of time'.


Memoria de mis putas tristes...I LOVE Gabriel García Marquez. He weaves his magical realism right into your brain and it's like I was peeking in through a window rather than reading. I've read a few not so good reviews of this novella and they cannot be more wrong. Yes, Gabo's intricate magical realism is not as pronounced as it is say in Cien años de soledad (100 Years of Solitude), but it's definitely there. If you missed it, I suggest you go back and reread because it is there. This was a short and bittersweet read. I felt like I was starving waiting for a 3 course meal and got only the appetizer. This book let me read it so quickly that it left me with a hungry, hollow empty feeling. So, I read it again as soon as I finished it and I found many new tidbits to fill me up.Nostalgia and melancholy...blueberries, raspberries, rhubarb and star fruit topped with smooth fluffy cream...all that sweet and tart that just kinda explodes into your mouth. So bitter inside my mouth that I felt tears welling in my throat then suddenly the sweetness of the cream and everything seemed like pure bliss. Yellows, reds, greens, blues and pure pure white. Something about the way GGM writes that he evokes colors and flavors vs just words on the page. Don't miss the point, this novella, as I've seen commented, is not just about a lonely old man who never found true love nor do I think it's Gabo's farewell to his readers. Don't let brevity lead you to think this is a shallow little story. This novella delves into some deep themes like love, sexuality, prostitution, pedophilia, aging, soul searching and, one of my favorite themes, the lover and the beloved. Oh and it has a moral.I highly recommend you read this...twice even. On and if you can, read it in Spanish. The translation is great, but some things just don't translate.

د.حنان فاروق

بالتأكيد قراء ماركيز يجب ألا يكونوا من القراء الاعتياديين..أقصد بالقراء الاعتياديين هؤلاء الذين يقرؤون وهم يأكلون مثلاً أو لشغل وقتهم في الحافلة أو القطار أو الطائرة أثناء السفر..هؤلاء الذين لا يستطيعون منح تركيزهم بالكامل للكلمات التي بين أيديهم ويعتبرونها مجرد ترفيه أو طريقة لبعثرة الوقت الممل أو ماشابه..ماركيز دائماً يأخذك إلى منطقة لا تستطيع الفكاك منها ..لأنها ببساطة فيك..داخلك ..فهو يتوغل إلى تلك الأعماق الضيقة الميكروسكوبية التي في الإنسان بكل رحابته وقدرته على الحكي ويتلوها عليك تماماً كما تلا بطل القصة هنا حكاياته الأثيرة على الطفلة الأنثى التي أحبها وهي نائمة ولم يرد منها حتى أن تكلمه أو تبادله الحديث..لم يرد إلا وجودها ..هذا الوجود الذي صنعه هو..إننا في كثير من الأحيان أو في كل الأحيان كل الحكاية..والذين يعيشون معنا أو بداخلنا في حقيقتهم هم نحن الغائبة الحاضرة التي تبحث عنا في كل شيء..في القصة هو ابن تسعين لكنه أبداً لا يشعر إلا أنه هو..ذلك الرجل الذي بدأ جنونه ورحلاته المكوكية في الدنيا مذ كان في الثانية عشرة أو أقل..إن الشيء الوحيد الذي ينبهنا لأننا كبرنا في السن هو الشكل الخارجي أما بداخلنا فنحن لا نتغير أبداً إلا في بعض القناعات واتساع أو اختلاف وجهة النظر لكن نحن...رؤيتنا...تعاطينا مع الأمور ...تظل هي هي..إننا مختبرون بالحياة..مفتونو ومبتلون بها..وغارقون فيها حتى الموت...وفي كل حياتنا نظل نبحث عن الشيء الذي لا نعرفه أو لانراه بدأب من أجل أن نرى..فقط من أجل أن نرى..فالرؤية والمعرفة هما المحفزان الأساس لاستكمال الحياة رغم أنهما لا تكتملان أبداً...ربما ماركيز دائماً يعلمنا ألا نكون أسرى للعينين المغروستين في رؤوسنا وأن نتحرر أكثر فلو دققنا النظر سنكتشف أننا ككل عين كبيرة جدا على الحياة لكن المشكلة فقط في الإدراك..هذا الإدراك الذي لا يأتي بالاستسلام للقوالب الجاهزة سابقة الإعداد ولكن يأتي ويتأكد بالتدريب وشحذ الحواس بكل وسائل الروح والجسد الممكنة التي تمكننا من أن نرى ما وراء الأشياء وما بينها..بل..ونراها هي نفسها على حقيقتها...ومازلت مع المايسترو جابو وماركيز(كلاهما واحد) عن الماهيات الحقيقية التي قد تكون هي نفسها من صنع الخيال ..فالخيال حقيقة بل أكثر من حقيقة طالما طاله الإدراك..

Dayes Mohammed

بعض الكتب تجبرك على كتابة نص ٍ عوضا ً عن عرض ٍ أو نقد ٍ لها ، أن تعشق هذا أمر ٌ سهل ، و لكن أن يكون عشقك محور حياتك ، و هو الدافع الأبدي للعيش فوق المائة عام هذا أشبه بالمحال ، ما الأمر الغريب في العشق كي يعطينا قدرة ً على البكاء بحرقة ، و نحن بالقرب من الحمقى الذين نحب و ما لأمر الغريب فيه ليجعلنا نركض طوال الليل و دموعنا مطر ٌ يغرق الأزقة ، و ما الغريب فيه لنصاب بدوار ٍ قاتل ٍحينما نسمع اسم الحبيب !!و ما الذي يجعلنا نتصور أن المراهقة العارية أجمل حين تدير ظهرها إلينا متكورة ً بخوف ٍ على عذريتها !!ديلغادينا ، آخر الرسائل في الحقيقة أولها ،ما بعدها مصطنع و مستهلك لا يحمل حقيقة شعورنا البدائي ، على العكس كلما ازدادت الرسائل كلما ازداد العبء على كاتبها ، لأن الكاتب يكتب عن شعوره حيال نفسه لا عن المرسل إليه ، ديلغادينا ، أين تذهب براءة الطفولة حينما نراها من منظار التسعين و أين هي الجمالية في صور ٍ نرسمها على واقع الشوق المعذّب ؟ديلغادينا ،حاولت أن أفهم شعورك حيال العجوز ، من خلال ما قرأته في عيون العاهرات التي كنت أراهن ّ في ليل البيكاديللي ، و لم أفهم حاولت أن أراه حتى في عيون الصبايا اللواتي يدخلن الغرف ليخرجن بعد ساعة ٍ متعرقات ، يغسلن آخر الأحلام .ديلغادينا "نحن وحيدان في هذا العالم يا طفلتي""الجنس هو العزاء الذي يلجأ إليه المرء حينما لا يحصل على الحب"لذلك فإنني أكتفي بتقبيل كل بقعة ٍ من جسدك ليس لأن شيطاني خارج ٌ عن العمل ، بل لأنني أكتفي بهذا الأمر كتعبير أخرق عن الحب ، حتى و إن قالت إحدى عاهراتي الحبيبات قولا ً ً لشيخك ِ التسعيني : "إياك أن تموت قبل أن تجرب روعة المضاجعة عن حب" لذلك فإنني بدونك : "أمضيت أسبوعا ً دون أن أخلع أفرهول الميكانيكي ، في الليل و النهار و دون أن أستحم ، و دون أن أحلق ذقني ، و دون أن أنظف أسناني ، لأن الحب علمني في وقت ٍ متأخر ٍ جداً أن المرء يتهندم من أجل أحد ، يلبس و يتعطر من أجل أحد ، و أنا لم يكن لديّ قط من أفعل ذلك لأجله "بعد سنوات ٍ من القراءة ، أكاد أجزم أن الرجل التسعيني ، رأى في الحب ضرورة ً كي تخلصه من عناء التفكير بالموت و هو على مشارفه ، كيف لا و هو يفكر بتسعين سنة ٍ أخرى ، هذه الرواية ليست رواية ً عن الحب أو الجنس ، بل أظنها سيرة ً متخيلة ً لماركيز ، كانت إحدى خططه للهروب من الشيخوخة و العزلة التي تتسبب بها الشيخوخة ، الحب إحدى الوسائل التي نتحاشى فيها التفكير بالعمر ، هو لا يعير أدنى قيمة ٍ للعمر لذا يلجأ إليه الإنسان ليتخلى عن غطرسة الحياة في وجهه "آه ٍ لحالي ، إذا كان حبا ً ، فكم هو معذّب" **جياكومو ليوباودي - شاعر إيطالي مابين "" جزء من الرواية ذاتها .


An old man decides that the ninetieth birthday will have to present "a night of mad love with an adolescent virgin." Little did he know that this would fancy him ready.The night and awaited the following, the protagonist will be limited to contemplate the naked body of young beautiful sleeping and imagine a life beside her. This experience will rise to a feeling which the old man always fled: love. "I never slept with any woman without paying, and the few who were not convinced of the office by reason or by force to receive the money if only to throw away." This fear is due in part to a traumatic experience in childhood the protagonist, forcibly sexually initiated by a prostitute.Moreover, the elder leads an empty life, chronicling dull and reviews for El Diario La Paz, one provincial newspaper, and teaching of Latin grammar and spanish. "I was a bad teacher without training, without any vocation or pity for those poor boys who only went to school to be the easiest way to escape the tyranny of parents. The only thing I could do for them was to keep them under the terror of my wooden ruler so that at least would lead to the remembrance of my favorite poem. "But García Márquez, love life and have no existence independent of one another. As if intoxicated by an elixir of youth, the feeling by nymphet Delgadina, the character is invaded by a great will to live. Reform the old house where he lives, expose yourself to some ridiculous like riding a bike with singing "airs of the great Caruso" or destroy the room of a brothel of jealousy. The change in the lives of the elderly is also reflected in his writings. "Clouded by the evocation of inclement Delgadina asleep, moved without the slightest malice spirit of my chronicles Sunday. Whatever the subject wrote them for her, them laughing and crying for her, every word would be my life [...], as I wrote the love letters that everyone could make their own. "The author also questions the old age in his novel. Would it be the beginning of the end? Worth changing, even with death so close? Is it possible to fall in love so ardently in old age?~In addition to a beautiful and intelligent love story, García Márquez's book questions the age and shows that it is never too late to change and love. A must for fans of the author and lovers of good literature.


این کتاب آخرین داستان بلند گابریل گارسیا مارکز هست... کتاب در سال 2004 نوشته شده و ترجمه فارسی اسم کتاب میشه خاطرات روسپی های سودا زده من... کتاب در ایران با اسم خاطره دلبران سودازده من چاپ شد و بعد از اینکه چاپ شد وزارت ارشاد ممنوع اعلامش کرد و شروع کرد به جمع کردنش و با مسئولانی هم که مجوز چاپ داده بودن به شدت برخورد کرد و به نقل از خود وزارت ارشاد اخراجشون کرد... .توضیح مختصری در مورد کتاب بگم براتون... سبک نوشتاری کتاب کاملا همون سبک آشنای مارکز هست... (گابریل گارسیا مارکز جزو نویسندگان مورد علاقه من هست)... نسبت به کارهای قدیمی ترش تفاوتی که خیلی مشهود بود این بود که سبک رئالیسم جادویی مارکز خیلی بیشتر به سمت رئالیسم پیش رفته... داستان کلی در مورد تفاوت بین عشق و ارتباط جنسی هست... دیدگاهی که مارکز در مورد مسائل جنسی داره دیدگاه متفاوتی نسبت به نویسندگان اروپایی و آمریکای شمالی هست و در دو تا کتاب دیگه ای که من ازش خوندم (صد سال تنهایی و پاییز پدرسالار) همین دیدگاه تکرار شده... داستان عبارات و کلمه هایی داره که متناسب با عرف نیستن... برای من جای تعجب داره که چطور این کتاب حتی با سانسور قسمتهایی ازش چاپ شده... در کل من کتاب رو کار خیلی قوی نمی دونم ولی کار نسبتا خوبی هست... کتابهای متنوعی از نویسنده های مختلف در مورد تحلیل اجتماعی و روانشناختی روسپی ها خوندم و به نظر من در این مقوله این کتاب، کتاب نسبتا خوبی هست.


Mi-am spus inițial că faptul că am citit Povestea tîrfelor mele triste aproape imediat după Casa frumoaselor adormite e un caz clasic de serendipitate. Acum mă gîndec că poate nu a fost o coincidență chiar aşa de fericită. Cu textul nipon atît de proaspăt în minte mi-a fost cu neputință să nu trec povestea lui Marquez printr-o avalanşă de interpretări interogative : parodie ? dialog intertextual ? continuare ? reinterpretare argentiniană a simbolurilor japoneze ?Din păcate, am terminat lectura cu senzația că e din toate cîte puțin dar într-un mod superficial şi ezitant, ca şi cum tocul a devenit prea greu pentru mîna prea obosită să păstreze fermitatea scriiturii. Ca şi Kawabata, Marquez dezvoltă tema morții şi a dorinței umane de a o învinge în căutarea fîntînii tinereții veşnice. Si aici eroul are epifania identității dintre Hypnos si Thanatos. Doar că batrînul de 90 de ani descoperă cu uimire că poți să-ți iubeşti moartea chiar dacă n-o poti ocoli şi că această iubire îți poate oferi singura şansă la nemurire – potențialul creator. Cei o sută de ani de singurătate se răscumpără astfel, ba chiar devin reversibili, cărare de aur ducînd înapoi spre Kansas:Aveam, în sfârsit, parte de viață reală, cu inima la adăpost si condamnat să mor de dragoste adevărată în agonia fericită a oricărei zile după ce aveam să împlinesc o sută de ani.Frumos, cum spuneam, dar nu întru totul convingător şi departe atît de delicatetea prozei lui Kawabata cît şi de magia propriei scriituri, cu toate că ici şi colo mîna redevine fermă, iar tonul mesemerizator marquezian ne mîngîie încă o dată auzul cu poveştile sale atît de amuzant absurde şi atît de fermecător ironice :Ultimul ei tip, un negru zâmbitor din Camagiley, căruia îi ziceau Iona Ocnaşul, fusese un trompetist dintre cei mai de vază la Havana, până şi-a pierdut zâmbetul complet într-o catastrofă de tren.

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