"Magic realism, by the way, is magic only for us. For south americans it is just realism, everyday life. He once said that when he started writing, he was just putting on paper the old tales of his grandmother."
I agree with +Massimo Marengo
's comment on an earlier Gabriel Garcia Marquez post reshared from +Bill Abrams
. Magic realism is what is perceived as normal in some parts of the world. My Lola (grandmother) could tell stories like no one else I'd ever met. When she got started, usually at the dinner table, or during power blackouts in a Philippine typhoon, we sat spellbound for hours in flickering lantern light, listening to her recount events where the lines between fancy and reality were blurred. We never knew which bits were true and which bits weren't, and no one cared or questioned her. It was better than watching a film; we never wanted her to stop.
A typical story would begin thus: "I remember that rainy Sunday in May 1951 when your Lolo's sister Izmir shocked the town when she flew in unannounced, all because she wanted a bottle of my mango jam. She landed her plane on the main street because the fields were planted to crops and there was nowhere else for her to land that noisy thing. When she climbed out, she was wearing an old blue shirt of her Papa's knotted at the midriff, and a pair of those khaki haciendero shorts, rolled up almost to her culo. She was a rebel, that one, a good looking girl with a movie star face and a dislike for conventional dress. When old Dr Ortaliz, our only dentist in Isabella, saw her while walking home from morning Mass, he crossed himself and lost his speech for a whole month. It was not a good time to have an abscess, which Lolo did."
Many stories later, Lola would pause, look around in surprise, and exclaim, "Why is everybody still here? Why hasn't the table been cleared? Ay, dios mio, I'm late for my nap! Shoo, shoo, all of you!"
How I miss her.