A Chronicle of a book, translations and a death

Back in 2004, I signed up for an English course called Development of the American Literature, marking the first of three classes I took with Jose Skinner. The first thing he said was the class isn't American literature in the sense that it would primarily focus on books by authors of the United States, but would focus on writers from the Americas. 

While I can't recall most of the authors covered - William S. Burroughs was one - Gabriel Garcia Marquez stood out the most. Skinner, opting not to play the typical Garcia Marquez book, chose Chronicle of a Death Foretold, a 120-page novella detailing the events of the murder of Santiago Nasar.

I haven't the faintest clue why I didn't read it for the course; half of me probably held on to my  prejudices. I don't like reading translations for the sole reason that I feel they fail their original language. Books like Innocent World and Snakes and Earrings failed to keep me as an audience, even though I completed the book. However, with Gabriel Garcia Marquez I read and finished - even fell in love with - his novella, Memories of My Melancholy Whores - Memoria de mis putas tristes - which, obviously, is also a translation. Of course, this leaves it all open to the fault of the translator and not the original writer.

Six years after being introduced to the novella Chronicle of a Death Foretold, I'm at the library browsing through used books when I see a new copy on the shelf. It's been a while since I've sold mine - probably shortly after the course concluded - so I decided to attempt another read through. Costing only half the cover price, I saw it as a good deal. I paid for my purchases and went home, putting off the read until I finished at least one of the two books I'd been reading. When concluding Thirteen, I dived into this one.

Regretfully, I realized how much I missed out in 2004. The book was beautifully written (translated?), leaving me feeling helpless for not having been able to read it in its original language. I'm looking forward to reevaluating my stance on reading translations.

Poetry Reading & An Impromptu Book Hunt

The Dustin Michael Sekula Memorial Library hosted another night of reading, and it was great seeing old friends again. Sadly, El Senor couldn't make it. In fact, several people who said they would try to were no shows. It's something I'm beginning to become accustomed to. It's okay, I don't go to their readings either.

Getting there, I started to feel the old familiar itch. There was a book out there for me; I just had to find it. Thinking I might hit pay dirt by finding a copy of Rant by Palahniuk in the used shelf, I instead found a half-priced, new copy of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Chronicle of a Death Foretold - a book that previously graced my bookshelf in college while I was enrolled in Jose Skinner's American novel class.  I can't remember why I sold it - I either needed the cash (which I wouldn't gotten much for it) or because I thought I didn't like - which is more likely to be the case. Either way, I got a new copy of it to sit down with later and read. 

Moving along to the used bookshelf, I found an aging copy of The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison - an author I was introduced to during Skinner's class (we read Sula). As I was about to check out, from the corner of my eye I caught the sight of another awesome find - one I had been looking for since before Hastings shut its doors - The Te of Piglet by Benjamin Hoff. Total price? $7.90, meaning the latter two books were fifty cents a piece.

Reading, blues music and book hunting - I should say this day was awesome. What made it even better was, I didn't have to go into work due to the thunderstorm that moved in this morning. Awesome.