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 aspect of electoral politics—even as it sketches, in Senator Onésimo Sánchez, a touchingly seriocomic figure.

At the far end from this sheer mastery are those disquieting early narratives. Brooding and morose, they deal overwhelmingly with isolation or death, with souls or bodies trapped in graves or dreams…. [They] suggest Beckett's Unnameable without the humor, clarity, or warmth. Some material here is bizarre without being magical…. Only one of these juvenilia shows notable, if derivative achievement—"The Woman Who Came at Six O'Clock," a Hemingwayesque fable of suggested murder…. For an early effort, this open-ended sketch is quite subtle.

Throughout most of these pieces one sees the 20-year-old adolescent shooting for the long sentence and purple rhetoric, groping for technique but coming up with forced conceits and pat endings. Curiously, these stories provide few materials for literary geneticists. Very little of the great-author-to-be glimmers forth here; if anything, one realizes just how much any potential genius must grow in order to attain something like maturity and compose even a decent book like Leaf Storm. (pp. 98-9)

Somewhere between these two extremes stands "The Sea of Lost Time," a story from 1961 that shows the author at the very brink of One Hundred Years of Solitude, his twin gifts of fancy and humor fully formed, his overall sense of structure still weak. Happily, García Márquez has gotten outside people's heads and set himself up in familiar country—one of those tropical small towns where he weaves his best imaginings and conjures up his funniest peoples. (p. 99)

Each of the divers fantastical strands in "The Sea of Lost Time" is a marvel of evocation and precision—though they seem artificially patched together as one. The reader also comes across fanciful bits that cry out for elaboration…. García Márquez's turns of phrase and ribaldry here are as good as anything he would come up with five years hence…. They are instances of high-quality handiwork from the fast-expanding atélier of an advancing craftsman, soon to marshal his best skills into an art of broad sweep and grand canvases. (pp. 99-100)