Customer Reviews

Memories of My Melancholy Whores

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4 star:		(3)
3 star:		(0)
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A charming, poignant book about finding love and innocence where you least expect it. Its selfish, closed protagonist, brooding on his salacious but ultimately sterile memories, seeks the ultimate debauchery to stave off old age - only to realize that debauchery is the opposite of what he wants.

Like the magic realism for which Marquez is known, this is not a book to be taken too literally - a point that seems to have been lost on some of its more politically correct critics. The author isn't trying to convince us that the protagonist's behaviour towards women is creditable; that his love for the sleeping beauty is unadulterated by self-indulgence and self-delusion; or even that the fairy-tale ending (with its slightly twisted version of nuclear-family bliss) is particularly realistic. The message is more that self-absorbed, mawkish, slightly misogynistic and slightly gross old men want love, too - and in the end, it's all they want. And if it's all they want, then how much more so for the rest of us.

I was looking for something to read on my hammock on one of my only quiet weekend; Something light and amusing. The first page surely set the tone for the unexpected - and it was perfect!

I highly recommend any of Marquez's books - he is a master.

this book is very short but the story is to be cherished. a reminder that love can find you anywhere, anytime.

go for it.

We don't see brothels like the Latin Americans do and despite the challenges of reading about this topic, I loved every page.

"Love is like auberge in Pyrenees: all you can eat there is what you bring along with you" - a quotation from forgotten French author.
On the surface it is a simple book with a simple narrative: An Old man of 90 intends to enjoy his birthday by spending love night, in bordello, with an adolescent virgin. Understanding madam arranges encounter, but to ensure smooth (for little girl) transition to womanhood, drugs adolescent with overdose of "valerian". And now our "virgin"-this is how we will call here, sleeps. She sleeps trough the rest of novel - this silky, budding body deep in slumber. Old man - this is how we will, justifiably, call him, admires here. He comforts her; sing for her, recitate poems and plays classical music. To this sleeping body of a primitive girl, he, being a commentator in local paper, writes enchanting love essays. There is no sex. Old man, for the first time in his life, falls in love.
Book ends. There is no consumption of his desires but palpable aura tenderness and hope. Hope to continue until his hundredths birthday