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Book Review—Memories of My Melancholy Whores by Gabriel García Márquez

C-Ville Weekly, 13 December 2005


The publication of Memories of My Melancholy Whores would be less newsworthy were it not
Gabriel García Márquez’s first novel in more than a decade. The Columbian Nobel laureate
recently produced a radiant memoir, Living To Tell the Tale, after a battle with lymphatic cancer,
so readers eagerly anticipated this work’s appearance. Sadly, this slight volume has not been
worth the wait: a more apt title might have been One Hundred Pages of Solitude.
Memories opens in typical García Márquez fashion, with a bold statement from an unnamed
narrator who suggests at least as much as he asserts. “The year I turned ninety, I wanted to give
myself the gift of a night of wild love with an adolescent virgin.” The proclamation’s first-person
emphasis also discloses the self-reflexive nature of this story.
The man in the mirror is a bachelor newspaper columnist in a coastal Columbian town, who
describes himself unflinchingly as a “hack” as well as “ugly, shy, anachronistic.” He details his
cloistered semi-retirement only to mark its surrender to a reignited lust on the approach of his
tenth decade. The former roué, who had counted his paid conquests until they surpassed 500,
returns to the city’s brothels.
This time he arranges to indulge in a newfound fetish for the pubescent female form. Enter Rosa
Cabarcas, an elderly madam whose high drama and epigrammatic wisdom will form the bedrock
of future bad García Márquez parodies. She quickly fulfills his “impossible” request by
procuring a 14-year-old whose button-making job fails to fill her family’s coffers, but a
concoction intended only to ease the girl’s anxiety knocks her out instead, on the first night and
all those to follow. The narrator then exchanges physical pleasures for metaphysical ones,
obsessively contemplating her body through many darkened hours. Christening her Delgadina
the first night after a princess who inspired paternal lust, he falls in love but refuses to learn her
true name – which reflects how much more real she is in his memory than in the flesh or the
story.
García Márquez has previously written about desire undiminished by time, most persuasively in
Love in the Time of Cholera. But Memories lacks other compelling voices like those that give
depth, shading, and a sprawling yet intimate liveliness to his earlier works. This book’s final
pages offer modest narrative redemptions, particularly a brief but shattering senior moment
shared by the narrator and the fiancée he spurned a half-century before. But like the narrator,
astonished one evening by Delgadina’s rapid growth and garish makeup, the reader may be
“charmed by these achievements of nature but stunned by the artifice.” Whether you’re looking
to be introduced to García Márquez or just reacquainted, crack an earlier work, any of them.
Ample pleasures lie elsewhere, and Memories is no sleeping beauty.

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