García Márquez, Gabriel (Vol. 15)
García Márquez, Gabriel 1928–
García Márquez is a Colombian novelist, short story writer, journalist, and screenwriter. Effectively combining imagination and corrupt reality, his novels often occur in a setting of political oppression and conflict. His invention of the town Macondo with its function as microcosm, and his use of interior monologue often elicit comparison to Faulkner. (See also CLC, Vols. 2, 3, 8, 10, and Contemporary Authors, Vols. 33-36, rev. ed.)
Garcia Marquez has been translated into so many different languages, and acclaimed for so many different reasons, that any generalisation about the secret of his success is bound to look unsatisfactory. But in this country, at least, part of his appeal is as an expansive and full-blooded alternative to our tight little novels of social manners. The energy and excess which would probably not be tolerated in an English writer present no problems when they come from a Latin. Garcia Marquez has revitalised that dead phrase 'larger than life'. His characters eat more voraciously than real people, they make love more noisily, they live more adventurously and to a much greater age. They survive firing squads, suicide attempts, massive doses of poison. They experience the worst weather the world has ever known…. Garcia Marquez's love of statistics helps normalise the abnormal and is a key factor in his special blend of realism and fantasy: the impossible spans of time over which people sleep, disappear, play chequers or whatever are recorded with scientific care.
Given this love of scale, it is not surprising to find that the best story in [Innocent Eréndeira and Other Stories] is the biggest—the novella which gives the collection its title…. It is Garcia Marquez at his best, a world of lonely itinerants and haunting desert landscapes.
This story and the next two in the collection are all fairly recent ones. The...
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Marquez's style (unlike Borges, who has been influenced by writers as diverse as Poe, Stevenson and Carlyle) is perhaps more what the European would expect from Latin America: earthy, sprawling, often ludicrously hyperbolic. And, again unlike Borges' refined economical tone, one suspects it translates badly. Certainly the punctuation in [Innocent Eréndira] is wayward and Marquez's vocabulary is obsessive: favourite words—'arid', 'radiant', 'torpor'—appear again and again.
The three most recent stories (1972, 1970 and 1961) are undeniably the best. The other nine (all written between 1947 and 1953) are repetitive, overly-symbolic tales of the fantastical folk-myth variety. Marquez's development, as illustrated here anyway, is to be applauded. Since the early stories he has acquired a sense of humour, discovered dialogue and now roots his narratives in a more convincingly realised landscape. The long title story 'The Incredible Sad Tale of Innocent Erendira and her Heartless Grandmother' is the outstanding one of the book….
[The folk-tale tone] is complemented by a sardonic relish in the corruption and venality of the world and Marquez's expansive style bludgeons the reader into an admission of the story's force: the grandmother is a repulsive flabby monster, no deserts are drier and no ordeals so unrelenting and cruel. Throughout her captivity Innocent remained childlike and enchanting, but at her release...
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It has been written, occasionally, that Gabriel García Márquez's writing owes much to surrealism. It might, but the thing is that it is not the writing that is surrealist, it is his subjects. Latin America is surrealist, García Márquez is its chronicler. The Colombian writer could be described more appropriately, and especially since publication of One hundred years of solitude and Autumn of the patriarch, as one of the Latin Caribbean's few real historians….
[In] Innocent Eréndira and other stories the same pattern, a chronicle of surrealism, is evident—and prepares the way for the great book. (p. 91)
The other stories in the book are shorter, none up to the standard of 'Eréndira'. They have the same style, showing the human being in his outrageous reality—where feelings have no logic other than that which arises from under the weight of heredity or from a law of spontaneity and actions need no explanation beyond the fact that they have been acted. (p. 92)
Andrew Graham-Yooll, "Surrealist Historian," in London Magazine (© London Magazine 1979), Vol. 19, No. 8, November, 1979, pp. 91-3.
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[In] 1979, nearly a quarter of a century after its conception, "In Evil Hour" appears at last in English, thereby filling in the last significant gap in the García Márquez opus. Given its wit, perception, imaginative richness and easy accessibility, it is astonishing that we have had to wait so long….
[With "In Evil Hour"] young García Márquez, moving away from the experimental fantasy and lyricism of his early stories toward his own sense of "social realism," chose to transpose his tale of the lampoons into the contemporary Colombian reality [of civil war], in this way interlacing a comic craziness with a terrible one.
When the novel opens, the unnamed "village"—which, in spite of some superficial similarities and even a contradiction or two, is not the famous Macondo—has been experiencing a period of enforced and artificial "peace," this peace being useful to the authorities in the consolidation of their wealth and power. The first immediate effect of the mysterious lampoons … is to instigate a seemingly apolitical crime of passion….
As the slanderous broadsides proliferate, the villagers—especially those of the dominant middle class—grow increasingly restless and fearful…. [Ultimately] a curfew is imposed, with citizens deputized to stay up all night to try to catch the person or persons responsible.
With the return of the curfew, the political...
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Gene H. Bell-Villada
García Márquez is a rare instance of the sort of writer often daydreamed about by modern booklovers and literati—an artistically serious, technically and intellectually sophisticated, politically progressive author whose works enjoy popular acclaim. (p. 97)
Though mixed, [Innocent Eréndira and Other Stories] is well worth its two or three achieved narratives, especially the title work, one of García Márquez's loveliest. (p. 98)
"Innocent Eréndira" is simply a gem. It exhibits the raw humor of any downhome tall tale, the legendary quality and serene wisdom commonly associated with folk fable—but also presents a highly polished artistry. Both here, as well as in a couple of the stories, García Márquez evinces his uncanny skill at conveying, in his most lucid prose, the sounds and textures of plebeian life…. At the same time, this panorama of ordinary life is filled with surprises, fresh, magical glimpses guaranteed to give delight and split your sides…. García Márquez's narrative, moreover, shows genuine political depth and vision. If heartless Grandmother is a visible embodiment of honey-tongued tyranny, Eréndira is a classic portrait of youthful innocence in absolute thrall to worldly power, who even reacts with knee-jerk loyalty to her oppressor and does housework in her sleep…. Similarly, the story "Death Constant Beyond Love" gives us an extraordinary feel for the song-and-dance, showbiz...
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In Evil Hour, begun in 1956, abandoned for a while, then finished in 1961, is a novel which belongs to the period of García Márquez's idolatry of the cinema. It doesn't have the verve or the tone of the narrative invention of One Hundred Years of Solitude, but it does have other virtues. It is intensely visualized, as befits García Márquez's beliefs at the time, and it has pieces of dialogue which would be a credit to any movie, but especially those Hollywood movies where a delicate edge of parody is what keeps the night-mare away. Every shape is a little too clear and the book moves toward travesty: a comic version of what William Empson called a style learned from despair, except that here the style is in the way you avert your face, turn away from the despair you would see if you looked. (p. 44)
If lampoons and/or fliers serve to turn back a perhaps reprehensible progress, and if the writer sees himself as engaged in some such enterprise, however many qualifications he might wish to attach to the parallel, then In Evil Hour represents not the claims of the imagination, as Vargas Llosa suggests in his study of García Márquez, but the claims of mischief, the possible usefulness of making a disturbance. I think the claims of mischief are serious, but they do imply an optimism about our capacity for learning from disturbances which I suspect García Márquez doesn't have. Certainly the fate of the town in this...
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