Book Review 100 Years Of Solitude の小説・ストーリー

It was just a lot of questions I didn’t want at all so that’s why I don’t use the credit card on books. Pushing out a breath, I shoved the thoughts of my father to the back of my mind and refocused, running my fingers along the spines of the books I was returning. When I got to my new favorite, One Hundred Years of Solitude, I hesitated, tracing the title absentmindedly, perhaps I should give it a re-read and use it for my thesis? A voice suddenly spoke behind me, quoting a line from the book. “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.”

I still had plenty of time to get ready and head to the club to meet Antony and his friends. I put my backpack on, locked the car, and went to buy that coffee. I sat on my favorite bench and enjoyed my coffee while I read my book. The book I borrowed from the public library was Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes. People said it was really good and I agree with them. I swallowed the pages like I was famished! It was amazing so far and I was still on page forty-one. I sighed with satisfaction and thanked Cervantes for this pleasant distraction.

ERICA The book in my hands was good. Too good. The kind of good that made you forget the world around you, that pulled you into a reality so immersive, you felt the weight of each word like it was your own story. I had been reading for hours, curled up on my bed, wrapped in the comfort of my oversized sweater, with nothing but the steady rhythm of rain tapping against the window to accompany me. It was one of those rare moments of peace, where time slowed, and nothing else existed except the pages in front of me.

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?"

He almost smiled. They finished lunch and she went back to the couch and he went back to the desk and the Sunday afternoon continued its slow patient self outside and inside the apartment held them both in the particular ease of two people who'd had a small disagreement and resolved it inside three minutes and didn't need to mention it again. At four she closed the book. "Done," she said. "The whole thing." "I read fast when the structure is good." "What did you think." She looked at the ceiling. "It's the best book I've read in two years," she said. "The backwards construction is the whole trick. By the final page you're grieving something you didn't know you'd been losing since page one."

Layla sighed, "will you please read that book to me then? I don't understand it." Solomon looked over to the book Layla had been looking at. "That one? No, that one is boring. It's about trade embargoes." He walked over to the furthest book shelf and selected what appeared to be an old well-worn leather bound book. "This one is my favorite." He crawled into the bed beside her. As she laid her head onto his chest, he began to read it in its original language. To Layla it sounded like music and before she knew it, she had drifted off to sleep.

Who would have guessed he reads. My curiosity gets the better of me and matches it. The first book I spot one hundred years of solitude. I haven't read it so I decide to move to the next, The Great Gatsby. Am familiar with it so I pick it off the shelf and sit on his bed. The book is dusty like it hasn't been read in a while. Am so absorbed in it until someone snatches it away from me. "Get out!" I look up. Quinn is staring at me super mad.

Adrian Hale laughed, actual laughter, and she'd heard him laugh before but not like that, not in her kitchen with her mother telling stories. She thought: I didn't know this was possible. She thought: I built the wrong thing for five years. At the door, on his way out, he stopped. He turned, the same way he always did with the one more thing, and she stood ready for it. "The book," he said. "One Hundred Years of Solitude, with the coffee ring. I left it in your bag on purpose." She looked at him. "Page 212," he said. "You'll find the margin note."

“Then what are some of your favorites?” “Would it be cheesy to say that all of these are?” She pulled out a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude. “You’ve read all these? Impressive. I don’t know if I’ve read thirty percent of the books on my shelf.” “I only keep the ones I like. I have a rule that if I don’t read a book within a year of buying it, I donate it.” She laughed. “If I had that rule, I wouldn’t have any books left.” Placing the book in her hand back onto the shelf, she continued looking before taking out another one. “Lady Chatterley’s Lover, huh? I have read this one.”