I marked the day of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's death, Friday 18 April 2014, by abandoning his most notable work, One Hundred Years Of Solitude, after about eighty pages. It was just a bit dull. I was reading it because it's one a couple of those 'greatest books ever' lists that I've got, and although I find it hard to give up on a book before finishing it, I'd given it a go for some time, and I'm getting old, with a finite amount of time to read an infinite number of books, so I'm increasingly inclined to force myself to stop reading a book I'm not enjoying.
I really haven't got much more to say about it than that it was tedious and heavy going, and just felt like soap opera for people who liked literature and wouldn't be seen dead watching soap opera. It was hard to keep track of who was who, and I realised I just wasn't interested enough to care and to make the effort. One of those books of which I thought, I really don't get what the big deal is, this is wholly unremarkable. (One might wonder if it's the translation, but presumably most of the people whose opinion is communicated in English read it in this translation.)