Novel & Cerita Biblioteca Gabriel García Márquez

“It’s cold and I’m ninety-one and standing in doorways doesn’t agree with me anymore.” We went in. Gabriel’s POV His house was exactly what ninety-one years of living carefully looked like. Books, primarily. The specific accumulation of a reader who had never stopped, shelves floor to ceiling in every room I could see, organised in a system that looked chaotic and almost certainly wasn’t. A sitting room with two armchairs and a sofa and a Christmas tree in the corner that was small and decorated with the specific precision of someone who lived alone and had decided that precision was its own kind of festivity.

Up close, I could see better how beautiful the blue combined with honey of his left eye was, and how clear the honey color of his right eye was. Mason tilted his head. “Do you like my eyes?” I looked away. “No, they're just…” fascinating, different. “Different...” Mason said the word slowly as if evaluating something. Looking down, I could see the book resting on his lap: 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez. A classic, huh? Mason lifted the book slightly. “I told you I liked to read.” "I didn't think you were telling the truth." He raised an eyebrow. "Have I ever lied to you?"

When she asked him what kind of books he liked, Christian answered slowly. “No matter how many times I get asked that question, the answer is always the same. My favorite book is ‘Meditations on Quixote’ by Jose Ortega y Gasset. Every time I read it, I fall in love with it all over again. You should try it too when you get a chance. I think you might also like ‘I Am Not I’ by Juan Ramon. Lorca’s poems are also very memorable.” This was a night she could never forget.

I could've sworn I saw her shoulders lift with pride as she spoke, that smug smile never leaving her face. She makes me fucking sick. “Interestingly, it is the same plight as the female lead of my newest bestseller book,” Gabi continued, “a woman with so much to give the world, but such little luck. So much so that she falls into the hands of a Killer, a dangerous Mafia man…” I watch as the Interviewer literally piques. Her brown eyes glow with desperate curiosity at the mention of the word ‘Mafia’.

My heart ached for my babies, for the life I had thought we would share together, free from the shadows that now enveloped us. As the hours passed, I curled up on the bed, tears streaming down my face. My world had crumbled, and I was left with nothing but the bitter taste of regret and the haunting knowledge that I was now ensnared in the web of the mafia, a world I could never escape. --------- Gabriel's POV

The door clicked closed and Gabriel was alone again. Hours had gone by and Gabriel was finally finished destroying all the papers and files his father kept, and now he was throwing the books in large garbage bags to be burned. Gabriel tossed the books roughly into the bag, ignoring the flyaway dust particles that seemed to invade his skin, creating a thin layer over him. He felt gross. But he knew this needed to be done. He picked up an old notebook that had less dust than the other books surrounding him. Curiously, he opened it and was rather surprised to see what his father had written.

It doesn't matter that I don't see any; I'm aware of them now. I climb the stairs and can't resist pushing on a door that's partially open-cameras or no. It's directly across the hall when I reach the landing. I'm excited to find that it's a library with books lining tall oak shelves. There are two comfortable reading chairs and behind them a large business desk. I wonder if this is Moon's office. Snooping in different rooms is one thing. Going through his desk quite another, and I won't do it. I'll forget that Moon told me to treat his home as my own. Instead, I search the shelves and read titles. It's barely after twelve and I need to kill some time. I should have asked Mr. Thug where Moon

It is hoped that it was his personal symbol for desire and hope. The famous Colombian novelist Gabriel Garcia Marques once termed him 'the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language. In 1919, he participated in the literary contest Juegos Florales del Maule, where he won third place for his poem (Nocturno ideal). By mid-1920, he was a published author of poetry, prose, and journalism. In 1927, out of financial desperation, he took an honorary consulship in Rangoon, later, he worked in Ceylon, Java, and Singapore. Pablo Neruda wrote a poem about Rangoon as he had seen it. It goes this way.

She had to ask. “No. Only because it gets changed every month. I have my room stocked with books every month.” He winked at her, proud of himself. Gabriel always pride himself when it came to books, no one in the pack can match up to him when it came to intelligence as well. He read all types of books, novels, and educational writings. Fictions. Biography. Horror. Newspapers. Politics. He was the man. He was good.

The hidden corner of the library had always been mine, my little fortress of books and silence, the only place where I could pretend that the world outside didn’t exist, where the chaos of people and expectations didn’t claw at me. I had spread my notebooks across the long wooden table, pens in hand, formulas and quotes scribbled in careful way not to seem confusing it crowdy, and for a while, I allowed myself to focus entirely on the neat order of knowledge, the simplicity of facts and logic. My chest had room for nothing else. Until he appeared. “Never thought I’d see the day,” Gabriel said, his voice low, teasing, but it carried the weight of surprise. I looked up, narrowing my eyes, send