The Mind Is an Unreliable Container of the Past.
I Can't Go On. I'll Go On.
I have been reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez. Stunning book. I can only muse at what his outline for the novel must have looked like. The story follows the rise and fall of a town in Columbia and uses several generations of one particular family as the device to hang the story on. It has really got me thinking about family, history and how moments that have so little significance in the present could be the turning point in retrospect for great things, be they good or bad.
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