Baby, its cold outside.... 100 hours and a 100 years

Two months left, and I swear if the groundhog declares another six weeks of winter, there won't be a groundhog next year to make any unfortunate predictions!

Temperatures went down to single digits last week, and it snowed all of yesterday, jamming up (it seemed) every single road I took (and only in the direction I was going in). It took me 2 hours to travel 10 miles, and at the end of it I was just about ready to muder the next person I saw- at the very least I figured, the cop cars would move a bit faster than the snail's pace I was going in.

It was completely stunning. The world covered in powdered sugar, like a giant cake, trees hung in Swarovski crystals too delicate for mortal hands, that sparkled in the headlights. Even the smallest gardens turned into lovely, dark deep woods to inspire Robert Frost. I was completely unispired though. The only thing inspiring me was the red light turning green- that was the stuff that poetry ought to be made of!

I did finally finish "100 years of solitude" - for a while there, I thought the title referred to the amount of time it would take for an average person to finish the book. But the cold is good for something after all, and when I'm cooped up indoor,s there's not much I can do but read.

It's not that its a bad book (hallo! its a Nobel prize winner), but it just didn't appeal to me in the personal way that 'Love in the Time of Cholera' did. It's a sweeping epic, which at the same time, revels in the tiniest quirks of the characters, the small twists of their lives. But while obviously, its not a story written purely for the sake of told, neither is the meaning of it- the hidden lesson- easy to glean.

I'm not sure what the lesson was. Was it the futility of fighting fate? The revelation, in the end, that it was all written, 'everything is known' long before it happened... would it have helped if they had understood before? Would it have changed anything? Could it have changed anything? If they had read the book befreo... would the book itself have read differently? (but of course says me... but who knows for sure?)

The mix of science and magic, again, the idea that technology sufficiently advanced, may be like magic, when magic itself becomes more believable than science... the loss of magic slowly from the world, like the loss of innocence, in the bitterness of war, the even greater bitterness of politics, the last battle against chains imposed by narrow-mindedness, tradition. Ursula's painful realization, of not simply recognizing patterns, but watching living in a time warp, forgetting history and being doomed to reapeat it over and over again.

Solitude, the word that threads the book together, a village separated by space and time from the rest of the world, an anachronism that was brough reluctantly to modern age, only to be washed back into the darkness (or is it into the harsh light of the rainless days). Solitude, as in the Aureliano's doomed to live alone, each one, alone. The companionship they sought, in the end, became each of their destruction- the first in war, then in love, in friendship and in brotherhood.