Love In The Time of Cholera, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I've been meaning to read this book forever (it's on the list at www.thenewcanon.com, which I am working my way through), but I had been prevaricating due to a variety of factors, chief among them the book's reputation as the hipster read du jour. Hispanic writing is very much in amongst the beard-wearing, flat-white sipping, fixie-bike-riding sets, but I think LITTOC is a little old (and too often a school set text) to be a solid hipster choice.

What really made me pick it up in the end - and I'm not ashamed to say this - is that LITTOC is supposed to be Ted Moseby's favourite book. Whether you think Ted Moseby's a jerk or not is irrelevant, if you're familiar with the character then maybe it'll mean something when I say that LITTOC (stupid acronyms, but it's really long to write out) is the most Ted Moseby book in the world. It's a book for the hopeless romantic, not because it's necessarily romantic itself (though it has moments), but because it's about love, and a true romantic must stand to hear about love in all forms, even when old, even when ugly. And love in LITTOC is old, and often ugly in form and flesh, and sometimes full of spite and anger and guilt.

I'm pushed for time, so I'm not going to drop in quotes. If you're the sort that needs a certain number of pithy aphorisms before you can declare a work a classic then you can always Google it. Go on, I shall wait.

Now that you're back you'll see with what warm self-knowledge and wisdom Marquez speaks about love. When it comes to phrases for the inside of birthday cards and the like, LITTOC has it sewn up. It's also the ultimate will-they-or-won't-they story, since the entire temporal frame for the will-they-won't they (some 60 years) is established in the first chapter. It's also funny, in parts, often straight after it's miserable or cynical or hyperbolic. Mood whiplash is often the result, so beware.

It is not, however, an easy read, at least for me. Although the language is direct and melodious (in translation, obviously, make of that what you will), it's very discursive; the narrative swings back and forth in time and space and perspective, and though in retrospect it's all put together very cleverly at first reading you can feel like you're barrelling down a one-way street with no idea how to get back to the main track.

If you're a Ted Moseby, or know anyone like that, very strongly recommended. For everyone else, strongly recommended, but save it for a hot day with a nice unbroken stretch.