April 18, 2014

Gabriel José de la Concordia García Márquez (6 March 1927 – 17 April 2014)

Dear M,

I was planning to write about something else today. Then came the news about Gabo. And I could write nothing else. In fact, I could write nothing.

Why does Gabriel García Márquez's death depress me so much? I have no idea. But it does.

Perhaps because, due to some inexplicable coincidence, I was reading up his Wikipedia page last night. Just like that. For no reason. Just vaguely wondering if he was working on something new these days. And today, when I go back to that page, everything has changed. Overnight. Literally.

Perhaps because One Hundred Years of Solitude had been a discovery of a magical world. A magical world of writing. I had never experienced anything like that before. One Hundred Years of Solitude was an eye-opener. Many lessons learnt from a single book. It excited me and it frustrated me. It motivated me and it terrified me. I wanted to write like that, but I knew I never will.

Perhaps because I always considered myself to be lucky that I live in a time when Gabo was around. Most of the other authors I am fond of are not. Not that it changes anything in the least, in any way. But it somehow was reassuring to know that he, Gabo, was still out there.

Silly. I know.

RIP, Gabriel García Márquez.

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