I found this book to be very sad. Not that I don’t appreciate Gabriel Garcia Marquez in any shape and form, and not that I don’t love his writing, but this book was very sad. Actually, Memories of My Melancholy Whores reminded me a lot of Philip Roths’s Everyman (see blog post from Jan 15). Perhaps this is becoming a genre: writers reach the end of their lives and must write about dying old men who realize how futile and worthless their lives have been because they never married and did nothing else with their lives but sleep around. Kinda sad, like I said.
So far, for me, nothing Gabriel Garcia Marquez has written can compete with his Love in the Time of Cholera (Vintage International) and the more of his books that I read, the more I become convinced that that really is his master work – NOT One Hundred Years of Solitude (P.S.) which, in my opinion, lacks the same emotional depth. But in all honesty, Memories of My Melancholy Whores wasn’t really about prostitution and sex, as the title suggests, it’s really about the importance of finding love and meaning in our lives. Would I recommend it? Do me a favor and read Love in the Time of Cholera (Vintage International) first. Then we’ll talk.