Memories of my melancholy whores

The title is meant to grab you. It is meant to convey a rawness, a feeling of dispassion and tedium born of world-weariness. Gabriel Garcia Marquez is a story teller. It should come as no surprise that I am partial to his works. This work teeters on the edge of taste but given his age, stature, and style, he not only pulls it off, but he also manages to infuse into the story more than can be imagined given the premise.

The Age of Enlightenment

With age comes nothing. The adage that with age comes <insert kung-fu wisdom type value> is such serious blither. With age can come fear, lethargy, anxiety, wisdom, weariness, lust, passion, or any nonsense that the mind conjures up and the heart wills and the body yearns.  The concept of a physically and spiritually satiated old age is an absurdity. So says Marquez. There can be love affairs without any love at all and paid encounters that could have a deeper significance.

Where and how and why does one start making sense and what if it is too late?

There is age and there is enlightenment. Then there is age appropriate enlightenment. Temporary wisdom that gives meaning to short spans of time. Soothing oneself into self-delusional peace. Long lasting if lucky, fleeting if luckier.