With fifty pages left I'm beginning to see a culmination of plot in One Hundred Years of Solitude. It's incredible to witness the passage and non-passage of time. He weaves details and characters in a series of original repetition, laying memory on memory, detail intricately linked to detail. It's a style that I've never experienced anything of the like before.
"One burning noon, a short time after the death of the twins, against the light of the window he saw the gloomy old man with his crow's wing hat like the materialization of a memory that had been in his head since he was born." (Marquez, 384)
I almost take the language for granted until I ask my husband for the meaning of a word, read it aloud in context then marvel over the sentence that almost escaped me. His writing is definately like a fine tapestry. And I can't believe that this is just the English translation. I wish I read Spanish.
I've enjoyed the comments that I've read about magic realism on this site. And I agree with Jose that life is surreal. I think that life is mostly surreal but most western cultures impose a mental order over top of reality. The war in Iraq is surreal and completely ridiculous, laughable; a comedy of chaos kind of laughter when we look at our own existences and find the absurd, sad, and incredible.