“You have to handle his work”: young authors read García Márquez without the label of ‘magical realism’

Japanese readers of Gabriel García Márquez wait for a Tokyo bookstore to open to obtain the first paperback edition published in their country of One Hundred Years of SolitudeFilmmaker Woody Allen evokes his admiration for the celebrated author (“Charming, fascinating and truly brilliant”) in a recent interview with the newspaper Time. A note from Infobae refers to the “family ties” between the Nobel Prize winner for Literature and the president-elect of Mexico, Claudia Sheinbaum. In one week, news about García Márquez fills the world press with a touch of frivolity, opinion or bookish cultural note, celebrating even an author who seems alive. “The image of García Márquez is much celebrated, the character he was or is believed to have been, but little is said about his texts,” says the writer and editor from Barranquilla Pedro Lemus (1995), author of the novel I’ll call it love (2023). The discussion about García Márquez “has focused on the product,” replies Harold Muñoz (Cali, 1992), author of the novel Get out if you can (2022) and based in Bogotá, like Lemus. Both participate in the talk The weight of Gabo: how do new authors read García Márquez?at the 12th Gabo Festival, which takes place from July 5 to 7 at the Gimnasio Moderno and other locations in Bogotá.

Four guests ―born in the nineties― of the talk gave their point of view to EL PAÍS based on that somewhat labyrinthine question: “Do people read García Márquez?” In light of his multiple appearances in the media, the successful launch of his posthumous novel See you in Augustand the imminent release on Netflix of the series based on One Hundred Years of Solitudethe answer is obvious. But for Muñoz, those “are ways of keeping the author alive; not his work.” And he adds: “They have turned it into one of those fridge magnets that they sell in souvenir shops […] Which is a pity, because what inspired him with his work and other vital commitments is conveniently left aside.”

Author of novels, short stories, columns, journalistic reports, scripts and film scripts, García Márquez was also a prolific manager and founder of projects that advocated for the defense of human rights and the construction of peace, and that continues to influence the cultural and political life of Latin America in various ways. “These facets are the ones that move me the most and bring me closer to him. I admire him for those social and political struggles, and I would never separate them from what he wrote,” says Muñoz, who believes that the other dimensions are “rather undervalued,” overshadowed by the “prepared and reproducible model for that brand of country he spoke of.”

There is certainly a well-known concept that contributes to this “souvenir in the fridge”: magical realism. “I am interested in reading García Márquez’s work outside of that label that does not express the complexity of the texts and limits them,” says Lemus. “There is always something lazy about these labels, and in this case it reproduces a condescending and reduced idea of ​​García Márquez’s literature and of Latin America and the Caribbean.” The expression, says Muñoz, “is completely valid” for readers and “has become a commonplace for approaching Gabo’s work.” And he adds: “For writers, on the other hand, it is uncomfortable. Or at least for me. Partly because I would not like to cover myself with that shadow, but also because it has become a slogan.”

From Central America, journalist Jennifer Ávila (El Progreso, Honduras, 34 years old) says that García Márquez’s work “remains alive” not because the posthumous book was published, “but because it is perennial.” According to Ávila, director of the digital media Contracorriente, “Gabriel García Márquez is a recognized author even in the schools of the most remote towns, he has become required reading in educational systems, this does not mean that his work is being discussed in depth.” The latter, she adds, is due to “the delay that our region has had in providing a comprehensive education.”

Egyptian writer, literary translator and journalist Ahmad Mohsen (29 years old), who lives in Colombia, says that a sign of the persistence of the writer’s legacy “is the continuous reading of his books by readers, especially the new generations.” He does not know if his work is discussed, “but it is read, of course it is.” Mohsen considers Mohsen to be one of the most important figures in the history of the author’s work. One Hundred Years of Solitude a “sacred” book that he first read in Arabic. When he did so, he did not feel “in front of a very well thought-out book, but rather a book that was conceived. A book that was written in one sitting.” He also says: “I really feel that it is a miracle when I read it. If there were sacred books in Latin American literature, for me, without a doubt, it would be one of them.”

From García Márquez’s bibliography, Muñoz highlights The Autumn of the Patriarch: “It taught me to laugh at power, or at least at the power represented by a patriarch and what that political system implies on an emotional and social level.” To allow us to detect “the germ of what happened later,” Lemus recommends reading the author’s first novel, Litter. “And because it is tremendous and the first two pages are a great avalanche.” Ávila is leaning towards two works: the novel One Hundred Years of Solitude and the anthological I’m not here to give a speech. The first one “is recommended to be read at various times in life and even to concentrate on one or two characters in each reading, it has an enormous richness of language and in the development of the characters, which is impressive.” She liked the second one “because it is like listening to him speak” and “he has good humor.”

Two years after the centenary of his birth

For these authors, there is no tension or conflict in encountering the presence or receiving the weight of this dead person. On the contrary, his proximity suggests an emancipatory place: “In some way, García Márquez’s success ended up convincing us that our accents and daily practices were narratable,” says Muñoz. “I don’t think there is a tension, because of the time that separates us, which is not much but implies that other generations of writers received the direct weight of writing alongside him and right after him,” says Lemus. Ávila rather believes in an interlocution: “I read Gabo and other authors of literature only for pleasure, I am not interested in being like them but rather in enjoying what they did. […] There are things that inspire me, help me to narrate better and lessons that I can learn for my journalistic work, but it is not a competition or revenge, it is a conversation sometimes.”

Two years after the centenary of García Márquez’s birth, it is inevitable that cultural and editorial policies promote an agenda around the work of the most important author born in Colombia. Regarding the possibility that the anniversary manages to unfold new paths and meanings towards his reading, Muñoz says that “it would be the perfect opportunity to have a different and contemporary discussion with his work. Something similar to what happened this year with The maelstrom”, he adds in reference to the centenary of José Eustasio Rivera’s magnum opus and the initiatives surrounding the event. “Hopefully it will happen”, says Ávila, “we are experiencing a contamination of junk content that is already suffocating and with this I mean books, medi
a, social accounts, films, series, etc.” For Lemus, it is time “to shake him off from his place as a consecrated writer and open spaces to read, discuss and handle his work, far from the mere celebration of the character that tends to embalm rather than give life.”

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