Isn’t it so endearing and charming that Gabriel Garcia Marquez – the GGM – Gabito’s greatest failing which resulted in a “lifelong drama”, was his inability to spell correctly!
I wish I had the discipline, temperament and [how little I acknowledge my main shortcoming] the talent to write as prolifically as Gabito. Somehow saying Gabito seems almost blasphemous. Like it’s too personal. Like I’ve violated the code of reverence.
And it’s so easy to sound glib.
Saying the right things. Sounding just right. The right stutter at the correct point. Artfully playing out an interjection by your subconscious mind, projecting how it’s so evidently grappling with an emotion and the desire to express it. How shammy can you get?
Ah. If only. I wasn’t the coward that I am. If only I wasn’t so consistently unsure. If only I didn’t say, “If only”.
But he lived everything down so passionately. I think the knowledge of an early death is a good thing… especially if it doesn’t come to pass.
And being a man? Where does that figure?
Am I betraying womankind, my reluctant sisterhood by whispering this aloud?