One Hundred Years of Solitude sat atop my bookpile for 10 months before I picked it up to read the final 30 pages last week. I grew both interested and irritable at the way the author wove fantastic, supernatural events as part of a family's history.
I knew perfectly well that there were no flying carpet rides, that the most beautiful and perfect member of the family did not rise up into heaven body and soul, and that none of them lived to be 145 years old. But the author presented these things in such a simple, matter-of-fact fashion that they almost seemed believable.
This book spoiled any chance there was for me to ever take the Bible stories as truth. Marquez is a much better writer than whoever God sanctioned to write his holy books, but I still knew it was not the truth. I happened to be reading the Bible daily at the same time I started this book, and the parallels between the two fairly jumped off the pages. "It's not real!" the non-existant devil on my shoulder whispered in my ear. I knew it.
In an afterword, it was revealed that the author's inspiration for the novel was his grandmothers knack for doing just what I caught him do: weave a tale of unbelievable, impossible events with a "brick face". Nice job, but he wasn't the first to do such a thing.