I find that I like this book despite myself. The writing is beautiful and the tale absorbing in spite of its glaring flaw. Or, at least, what I see as a flaw.
When you are a teenager, it is natural to follow your sweetheart around, sighing over them with longing. This does not work, however, when you are an adult. With adults, this is called stalking. To me, it is not romantic, it is slightly creepy. And “stalker” is the word that flashed through my mind many times while reading Love in the Time of Cholera. What is charming and sweet at eighteen or nineteen is creepy at fifty or sixty.
This plot device did not work for me, and was made even worse by the “dirty-old man” relationship with América Vicuña.
Yet, as I said, I find that I liked this book, anyway, a tribute to the skill of Señor García Márquez.
By the way, am I the only one who thinks a bit about Hemingway while reading García Márquez? Something about the overt masculinity of the writing makes me think of Ernest Hemingway. The difference being, of course, that I actually like García Márquez while Hemingway bores me silly.
Rating: 4.5 out of 5 stars