Brilliant stuff: great storytelling, and very much about storytelling. And its limitations, or at least the limitations of the stories that get told. The narrator's grandmother tells nightly stories throughout--related to us, at least partially--and storytelling has a special place in the magical realist town in which the novel is set, and which, it soon becomes clear, is on the verge of being taken over by corporate/petroleum interests. That powerful, violent takeover isn't without precedent, though; later in the novel, the grandmother, on completing a cautionary tale, warns: "That's the way stories end in Agustini, Delmira. Here people kill."
As if it's not clear enough already that the book is about magic realism itself, at the end of the book, as Delmira is leaving (and we're told at the start she will leave), a fellow plane passenger gives her a copy of then newly published One Hundred Years of Solitude, which she finds disappointingly reminiscent of her home town Agustini. And she goes to the European reason of logic that she has longed for--only to discover they are enraptured with Marquez. It's not clear to me what the relation is between this novel and that: is it a critique? Or just a self-conscious retelling, maybe an updating, or an expression of disappointment that there has been no updating?
At one point, though, Delmira returns from a demonstration to the domestic servant she has grown up with: "After running around all day, wearing myself out, and venturing on the high seas of a political demonstration, here I was, in front of the nanny I had enslaved all my life." It's a kind of reckoning of the storyteller's (and potentially the reader's) own position. And to some extent it seems the book is about estrangement from a society, about exile, and about the inadequacy both of a kind of magical thinking that obscures fundamental social relations, and also of a dispassionate liberal logic that also misses much. Toward the close, the narrator tells herself: "There's no place to return to now, Delmira, you've returned to the only place you can: to memory."