Gabriel
García Márquez, the Colombian novelist whose “One Hundred Years of
Solitude” established him as a giant of 20th-century literature, died on
Thursday at his home in Mexico City. He was 87.
Cristóbal
Pera, his former editor at Random House, confirmed the death. Mr.
García Márquez learned he had lymphatic cancer in 1999, and a brother
said in 2012 that he had developed senile dementia.
Mr.
García Márquez, who received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1982,
wrote fiction rooted in a mythical Latin American landscape of his own
creation, but his appeal was universal. His books were translated into
dozens of languages. He was among a select roster of canonical writers —
Dickens, Tolstoy and Hemingway among them — who were embraced both by
critics and by a mass audience.Related Coverage
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An Appraisal: Entwining Tales of Time, Memory and Love
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Essay: Magic in Service of Truth
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ArtsBeat: Remembering the Life and Work of Gabriel García Márquez
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City Room: In the Works of García Márquez, Finding a Link to Home
Harvey Weinstein remembers García Marquez
No draft had more impact than the one for “One Hundred Years of Solitude.”
Mr. García Márquez’s editor began reading it at home one rainy day, and
as he read page after page by this unknown Colombian author, his
excitement grew. Soon he called the Argentine novelist Tomás Eloy
Martínez and summoned him urgently to the home.
Mr.
Eloy Martinez remembered entering the foyer with wet shoes and
encountering pages strewn across the floor by the editor in his
eagerness to read through the work. They were the first pages of a book
that in 1967 would vault Mr. García Márquez onto the world stage. He
later authorized an English translation, by Gregory Rabassa. In Spanish
or English, readers were tantalized from its opening sentences:
“Many
years later, as he faced the firing squad, Col. Aureliano Buendía was
to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover
ice. At that time Macondo was a village of 20 adobe houses built on the
bank of a river of clear water that ran along a bed of polished stones,
which were white and enormous, like prehistoric eggs. The world was so
recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it
was necessary to point.”
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