Gabriel Garcia Marquez Years Quotations

The heart's memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good.

No matter what, nobody can take away the dances you've already had.

All human beings have three lives: public, private, and secret.

One minute of reconciliation is worth more than a whole life of friendship!

A lie is more comfortable than doubt, more useful than love, more lasting than truth.

They were so close to each other that they preferred death to separation.

She would not shed a tear, she would not waste the rest of her years simmering in the maggot broth of memory.

Many years later, in front of the firing squad, colonel Aureliano Buendía would remember that distant afternoon his father took him to see ice.

A person does not belong to a place until there is someone dead under the ground.

races condemned to 100 years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.

He who awaits much can expect little.

In the end all books are written for your friends.

Crazy people are not crazy if one accepts their reasoning.

wisdom comes to us when it can no longer do any good.

He really had been through death, but he had returned because he could not bear the solitude.

Intrigued by that enigma, he dug so deeply into her sentiments that in search of interest he found love, because by trying to make her love him he ended up falling in love with her.

He soon acquired the forlorn look that one sees in vegetarians.

The year I turned ninety, I wanted to give myself the gift of a night of wild love with an adolescent virgin.

Over the years they both reached the same wise conclusion by different paths: it was not possible to live together in any other way, or love in any other way, and nothing in this world was more difficult than love.

She always had a headache, or it was too hot, always, or she pretended to be asleep, or she had her period again, her period, always her period. So much so that Dr. Urbino had dared to say in class, only for the relief of unburdening himself without confession, that after ten years of marriage women had their periods as often as threes times a week.

No matter what you do this year or in the next hundred, you will be dead forever.

Florentina Ariza had kept his answer ready for fifty-three years, seven months and eleven days and nights. 'Forever,' he said.

Sex is the consolation you have when you can't have love.

People spend a lifetime thinking abouthow they would really like to live. I asked my friends and no one seems to know very clearly. To me, it's very clear now. I wish my life could have been like the years when I was writing 'Love in the Time of Cholera.'

Most critics don't realize that a novel like One Hundred Years of Solitude is a bit of a joke, full of signals to close friends; and so, with some pre-ordained right to pontificate they take on the responsibility of decoding the book and risk making terrible fools of themselves.

It was the year they fell into devastating love. Neither one could do anything except think about the other, dream about the other, and wait for letters with the same impatience they felt when they answered them.

In some way impossible to ascertain, after so many years of absense, Jose Arcadio was still an autumnal child, terribly sad and solitary.

The only thing he could do to stay alive was not to allow himself the anguish of that memory. He erased it from his mind, although from time to time in the years that were left to him he would feel it revive, with no warning and for no reason, like the sudden pang of an old scar.

Carmelia Montiel, a twenty-year-old virgin, had just bathed in orange-blossom water and was strewing rosemary leaves on Pilar Ternera's bed when the shot rang out. Aureliano José had been destined to find with her the happiness that Amaranta had denied him, to have seven children, and to die in her arms of old age, but the bullet that entered his back and shattered his chest had been directed by a wrong interpretation of the cards.

And again, as always, after so many years we were still in the same place we always were.

Tell him,' the colonel said, smiling, 'that a person doesn’t die when he should but when he can.

In her final years she would still recall the trip that, with the perverse lucidity of nostalgia, became more and more recent in her memory.