(One Hundred Pages) of One Hundred Years of Solitude
by Gabriel García Márquez
I have two major rules. They are:
1) The One-Mile Rule
2) The Hundred-Page Rule
The One-Mile Rule is my running rule. The subset rules of this major rule involve running a mile. The rule says I must run a mile. And if I feel like crap after that one mile, then I can call it quits. But no matter how crappy I feel, no matter how grumpy, or bloated, or bored, or no matter how bad the head hurts, just give it a mile. If, after that one mile is over, I still feel the yuck, I can turn around and call it a day.
I have used the One-Mile Rule many times. As of today, I've yet to call it quits after that first mile. Usually a mile is all it takes for me to realize that "Hey! This is fun. I feel okay. Let's keep going."
I also have a reading rule. It's called the Hundred-Page rule. The subset rules of this rule mandates that I must read a hundred pages. If I've finished a hundred pages, and the book is either horribly dull or too much work to enjoy, then I can toss it aside and get a new one. After all, reading is entertainment now, not work.
I read tax instructions for pay (meaning it's my job.) Nothing is more work than reading tax instructions. Therefore, if my entertainment selection is even the slightest amount of work, I say it's a no go. Being an adult is great sometimes, isn't it? Like, you totally get to choose what you want to read and when.
Incidentally, it's prolly not a good idea to tell your teenagers that one of the highlights of adulthood is choosing your own book. Might give 'em a sense of impending doom. I can hear it now. Wait... What...? Choosing your own book is one of the perks of being an adult...? What the...? That's it? Not a million dollars or a mansion? Or Disneyland every weekend?
I gave One Hundred Years of Solitude a hundred pages. Nothing happened, really. Except for the father of the clan went nuts and they tied him to a tree. That was exciting. Also, there was a sister-chick fight over marrying some piano forte dealer who came to town, and one of the sister-chicks tried to poison the other sister-chick, but then the poison ended up killing their sweet, innocent, peace-making sister-in-law.
Other than the excitement listed above... oh and one of the brothers spent the night with a gypsy. She ended up with child, then the brother bailed town, and the gypsy dumped the baby on the front porch for the family to raise. So I guess there was some excitement. But it just wasn't exciting. Nothing really happened. And when something did happen, like the traveling gypsy magician died, the author just said, "He died. And they mourned for a year." Or something like that.
One Hundred Years of Solitude is a family affair. A tale that chronicles the entire this 'n thats of three generations. All three generations, however, have the same dang name. I guess that's a thing – this naming your offspray after yourself. All three main characters had the same name and I could not keep track of who did what with whom and when.
Anyway, I gave One Hundred Years of Solitude its symbolic hundred pages, found it too much work, and took it back to the library. I've since picked up Great Expectations. I'm into that masterpiece sixteen blissful pages. This one will pass the hundred page rule.