I have no way to gauge smut.

As promised, a post about "One Hundred Years of Solitude" by Gabriel García Márquez.

I thoroughly loved this book. I thought it was engaging, well written, and just plain interesting. I'm excited to read "Love in the Time of Cholera", by the same author (and widely publicized in one of my personal favorite movies, Serendipity). Why have I not yet stated "Everyone must read this book"? Because there's ... well, a bit of family lovin', in the non-legal way. I don't know how to explain this without sounding disgusting but because the book starts in the 19th century (or so it seems, the author never says), because it takes place in a remote South American village, because it's not immediate family, and because it isn't graphically described, I wasn't really phased by it. I know, I know. I'm a creeper. I'm just saying, I really enjoyed the book. The author had a way of writing with ease, even about strange village traditions and beliefs. They seem completely foreign to modern logic, but maybe that was part of the appeal to me. Fantasy, in a very realistic way.

For example, when the wandering waif girl shows up with nothing but a satchel and a name, the protagonist family soon discovers the bag contains the bones of her dead parents, begging to be buried properly. I forget specifically why, but for one reason or another, the family waits, and puts the bag of bones in a room. Throughout the next few chapters, the bones are found in different locations throughout the house. A 21st century reader would assume there's a subplot about someone wanting to steal the bones, but it's just common knowledge in this literary world that bones can move of their own free will. I'm poorly explaining this, but the author weaves magic into the mundane, touching all five of your senses in the process.

Don't judge me when you try to read it and are too disgusted to finish it. I suppose I'm just a smutty reader.