Now, that's love sitting down!

What a glorious paragraph from the immortal Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the time of cholera:

He was the first man that Fermina Daza heard urinate. She heard him on their wedding night, while she lay prostrate with seasickness in the stateroom on the ship that was carrying them to France, and the sound of his stallion's stream seemed so potent, so replete with authority, that it increased her terror of the devastation to come. That memory often returned to her as the years weakened the stream, for she never could resign herself to his wetting the rim of the toilet bowl each time he used it. Dr. Urbino tried to convince her, with arguments readily understandable to anyone who wished to understand them, that the mishap was not repeated every day through carelessness on his part, as she insisted, but because of organic reasons: as a young man his stream was so defined and so direct that when he was at school he won contests for marksmanship in filling bottles, but with the ravages of age it was not only decreasing, it was also becoming oblique and scattered, and had at last turned into a fantastic fountain, impossible to control despite his many efforts to direct it. He would say: "The toilet must have been invented by someone who knew nothing about men." He contributed to domestic peace with a quotidian act that was more humiliating than humble: he wiped the rim of the bowl with toilet paper each time he used it. She knew, but never said anything as long as the ammoniac fumes were not too strong in the bathroom, and then she proclaimed, as if she had uncovered a crime: "This stinks like a rabbit hutch." On the eve of old age this physical difficulty inspired Dr. Urbino with the ultimate solution: he urinated sitting down, as she did, which kept the bowl clean and him in a state of grace.

I suppose there is a time and a place for any book, too.  A few years ago, I started reading this novel and never was able to proceed beyond a few pages.  This time around, I find it to be riveting.

At 350 pages, Love in the time of cholera is not for those with attention spans that have been conditioned by Twitter or Facebook posts.  This is not one that can be forwarded via WhatsApp.  The reader has to take in the words slowly and let the imagery and the emotions sink in. The reader has to enter that world, familiarize oneself with the context and the characters, and then begin to feel like and for those characters.  The days of such books are numbered, bit by byte!