Whilst incredibly dense and at times hard to follow, this novel is a magnificent feat of literature. Márquez' writing is illusive and imbued with magic, words flowing together and over each other as though Melquíades wrote the novel itself. I can hardly express my amazement at this novel, at the deftness of the storytelling and the truly gorgeous and melancholy tales of these characters who, despite following so many, are all simultaneously real and surreal, sympathetic and ridiculous. Within the many strands of this story, Márquez asks about the human condition, about conflict and love and isolation, philosophising over the fates of this family that seem to exist outside of their control yet shaped by their repetitive misjudgements and immorality. I will forever wish I could read this again for the first time.

A short time later, when the carpenter was taking measurements for the coffin, through the window they saw a light rain of tiny yellow flowers falling. They fell on the town all through the night in a silent storm, and they covered the roofs and blocked the doors and smothered the animals who slept outdoors. So many flowers fell from the sky that in the morning the streets were carpeted with a compact cushion and they had to clear them away with shovels and rakes so that the funeral procession could pass by.