One of the literary giants of the modern world passed away yesterday and left us with a great legacy. Though his genius was unmistakable and I tried to read what's surely his masterpiece "One Hundred Years of Solitude," I couldn't get into it. I found it too rich, too imaginative, too complex and confusing for my taste. But I'm in the minority, millions bought his book and understood his message. I wish I had been one of them. But I'm saddened with his departure just the same, and more so because his last years were very painful. Struck by cancer in the twilight of his life and later on by dementia, he suffered a lot. His life though, was as complex, rich and fantastic as his book, the one he'll be remembered for, the one he often wished people would forget he wrote and learn to appreciate his other works. They did, but somehow they always came back to that first book, "One Hundred Years of Solitude," and now that he's gone, that's the book they're talking about, sorry, Gabriel.
