Gabo’s wonderfully moving last novel is a poignant examination of the sweet, solemn storms within the human heart.
The text has a gorgeously quiet, ephemeral quality that makes you recognise Gabo’s unmistakeable penchant for emotional veracity instantly.
Yes, the novel was published posthumously against Gabo’s wishes. Yes, as his sons themselves have said, it is a betrayal. Yes, the prose might not be perfectly polished, there may be inconsistencies, but why should that make it less of an achievement?
If anything, the book is alive. It’s imperfect and therefore very human. It is different and therefore beautiful. It is all the more special knowing that, constrained by his progressing dementia, though having started writing it decades before, Garcia Marquéz could no longer work on developing the plot. It remained unfinished forever.
Despite it all, it’s a wonderful little tribute to a towering legacy that, despite all the criticism toward this imperfect novel, will move you and inspire you.