Showing posts with label Marlise Simons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marlise Simons. Show all posts

Saturday, March 15, 2014

Love and Age / A Talk with García Márquez

Gabriel Garcia Márquez

LOVE AND AGE: A TALK WITH GARCIA MARQUEZ

BIOGRAPHY

GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ is in the midst of a new novel, and a predictable order is imposed on his life. The 1982 Nobel Prize in Literature is behind him and so is the publication of his most recent novel, ''Chronicle of a Death Foretold.'' Still, his fans seek out the 57- year-old author of ''One Hundred Years of Solitude'' - the book that made him a celebrity.
His days now are like his writing - planned meticulously and carried out with carefree style. After six hours at the typewriter, he divides the remainder of the day between reading and listening to music, and friends, writers, politicians - people he calls my ''critics, protectors and co-conspirators.''
At times he lives in Cartagena, on Colombia's Caribbean coast, not far from where he was born. The area remains a rich source for him, replenishing his imagination with the myth and anecdote that find their way into his writing. But he and his wife, Mercedes, always return to the highlands and Mexico City, where he writes in the privacy of a studio in his garden. This is where the shy yet gregarious writer and I talked in late February. He has said that his novel in progress has to do with aging. I asked him to discuss his approach to old people in fiction:
You're writing a happy love story, as you've called it, a love affair between two very old people.
It's the story of a love that begins when the boy and girl are very young. But it is suspended. It stays in a cocoon. It's renewed when they are in their 80's.
It began with an idea, an image I had. The point of departure for a book for me is always an image, never a concept or a plot. The first image I had for this book is that of an old couple fleeing by boat. An old couple, happy on a boat, dancing on the deck. But I don't want to talk about the book yet. That will bring me bad luck. You've always said that a writer spends the rest of his life writing about his youth. Now you're inventing a peiod of your life that you haven't lived yet.
Yes, I'm anticipating. But in a way I've always done that since I was young. My two first books (both published in the United States as the title stories of collections) were about old people. In ''Leaf Storm,'' an old man no longer knows what to do and hangs himself. And '' No One Writes to the Colonel'' is about an old man waiting for a letter that never arrives. If I think about it, about all those characters in ''One Hundred Years of Solitude,'' I always seem to have observed my elders. I've never written about children.
Perhaps because as a child you lived for some time with your grandparents?
Yes, that was very important. Basically my grandparents were the models for many of the people in my books because I knew how they talked, how they behaved. To make sure the characters were real, I would always use my granparents as a reference point. But I was trying to reflect the behavior of my elders without really penetrating what was happening inside them.
I am beginnig to become conscious of old age now. This book I'm wirting obliges me to think six hours a day about things I had never seriously explored: old age, love and death. It is having an effect on me. You leave a lot of yourself in a book, but a book leaves you with a lot of reflections. I never thought so seriously about death until I began to try and see how it affects people in their old age. I was used to my characters never dying. They were living endlessly.
Except the ones that were hanged, shot or otherwise assassinated.
Yes, through violence. But they didn't die of old age, there was no aging process. Now that I'm getting older, I'm concerned with how age affects the sentiments, which after all is the most important.
Sex, well I don't know, but I have the impression that sex does not end as long as you don't want it to end. While a person does not give up sex, sex does not give up the person. What you cannot do is to stop for a long time because then it is very hard to start up again. So you always have to keep the engine running. It is something I'm dealing with in this book. I don't care what age the characters are, if they've had a continuous sex life, they go on. I don't know if this is a fantasy I'm having. But at least I know that my grandfather, who died very old, was still active.
Did you study old age or read how other writers have treated it?
No, I don't work that way. I only read Simone de Beauvoir's book ''The Coming of Age.'' I try to let the writing, the imagination and invention tell me the secrets of old age. I imagine that afterward, specialists and old people themselves may say that it's not like this. So it may have to be the old age of my book and not that of life.
Curiously, I heard that someone in Colombia just published a study about old age in ''One Hundred Years of Solitude.'' I haven't read it. I was told it was done by a gerontologist who said that the treatment of old age was very well done. For me it was sheer intuition. I wrote the book when I was between 38 and 40.
What I don't do is prepare myself to deal with an overall theme. I may consult on small points. For ''One Hundred Years of Solitude'' I didn't study the economic or social conditions of Colombia. I could have made a serious investigation about the drama of the foreign banana companies. But I asked a few questions and look what happened. I went to check how many dead there were in the banana workers' strike of 1928. It was a tremendous national scandal. It's not exactly known, but I was told about 17. For my book, 17 dead would have been a joke. I needed enough bodies to fill a train. I wanted the train instead of being loaded with bananas to be loaded with corpses. History was against me, with 17 dead. That would not even fill a wagon. So I put 3,000. And so not long ago, during a commemoration of the event, someone in a speech talked about the massacre of the 3,000 compatriots.
So what I'm trying to say is that I don't make a study. I am not inclined to theorizing. I do not want to turn any of my experiences into theory and I also read very little literary theory. But of course I may look up some episodes someone has written or check some statistics.
What did you learn from Simone de Beauvoir's book?
I was very impressed by it. It's a study, a book of reflections on old age, and it includes statistics. Nevertheless, one aspect that is not dealt with much interests me a great deal. And that is the sex life of the aged. It is mostly dealt with statistically. What interest me is: why is there a tendency to look upon the sexual activities of the aged with aversion. I don't understand why it should be.
It is one of the points I am working out in the book. The couple are not allowed to marry when he is 22 and she is 18 because they are told they are very young. And when they again consider marriage, he is then 82 and she is 78, they're told they can't because they're very old. As far as I'm concerned, this tendency to see the sex life of the aged as repugnant is unjust. There is no doubt that some old people who can have no sex life masturbate until their death.
My parent in some way are the model for the book - maybe not the model, but many of the experiences are theirs. My parents were married for 60 years, they had 16 children, my mother had a child after she was 42. I've always been very curious to know what happened between them after they were 70. My father died when he was 84. I talked to him about this in very general terms. But you know how it is in Latin America, you don't dare ask such questions, not of one's parents or anyone else.
You've said how much you've always liked being able to drop in at your parents' home every day when you're in Colombia. Now your father has just died (in December). Do you feel his absence has changed you?
Since the age of 13 or 14, I haven't lived with my parents. So I've always felt a visitor at home. And this helps me cope better with the emptiness my father left behind. My brothers and sisters who always lived at home are very disconcerted. No one had died in that family - there are the 16 children, 34 grangchildren and 14 great-grandchildren.
But the death of one's father brings the certainty of death closer. And it creates a certain haste. This haste you get not only from a father's death, you get it anyway as you age. As time is passing, you get the impression that you have to work faster. And above all, to start preparing for a useful old age.
How do you see that?
Well, for me it's suffieient to be able to write, I can be useful until I'm a hundred years old if I can write. My subject is life and the subject gets larger the longer I live.
Do you think a lot about growing old?
I'm beginning to. My main fear is the failing of the body. There will be a moment that diets or exercises won't do any good, that the body wastes away. I feel I'm reaching the age of the ''never'': I never felt this before, I never had this pain, I never breathed this way, I never had to go to the bathroom so many times during the night, I never woke up so early.
But the most interesting is what happens in one's heart. that is still a mystery. I'm very curious, as I'm writing this book, to see how the characters go on behaving. It's a true investigation. I could almost say that one writes the novel to see how it will turn out. And to be able to read it.
Do you work very differently now than when you were young?
The writing process is very different. When you are young, you write almost - well, every writer is different, I'm talking about myself - almost like writing a poem. You write on impulses and inspiration. You have so much inspiration that your not concerned with technique. You just see what comes out, without worrying much about what you are going to say and how.On the other hand, later, you know exactly what you are going to say and what you want to say. And you have a lot to tell. Even if all of your life you continue to tell about your childhood, later you are better able to interpret it, or at least interpret it in a different way.

When you are older, when the inspiration diminishes, you depend more on technique. If you don't have that everything collapses. There is no question that you write much more slowly, with much more care, and perhaps with less inspiration. This is the great problem of the professional author.
When I was 20, I wrote a daily story for a newspaper and at times even some editorials on the same day. Then at night when everyone had left the newsroom, I would stay to write a short story or work on a novel.
There is a story called ''The Night of the Curlews,'' one of my first. It was the time when we put out a weekly literary magazine in Barranquilla, called La Cronica. At one point the editor suddenly found he was left with two empty pages. So in the evening I sat down and wrote that story.
I couldn't do that today. If I had it completely worked out, I would still need at least two or three weeks to write it. Worse, not many years ago, I wrote a story of 15 pages and bought a package of 500 sheets of paper. when I finished the story, I had used up all 500 to write the 15.
Besides, I always used to write at night and write smoking. It's disadvantage of youth that you almost always write when you are tired. You sit down only after you've done everything you have to do to make a living. Then with time you become more of a professional and you organize your life.
When the time came that I no longer had to work in a newspaper and could only write, I found it very hard to sit down in the morning and write during the day. Then, as I got older, I had to stop smoking. I had never written a word without smoking.So I had a choice, wait until I get used to not smoking, or learn to write without it right away. I tried right away and it was extremely difficult. Only then I realized that I used to stop writing not because I was so tired but because I was so intoxicated from the cigarettes. I'm much older now but I wake up feeling fresh.
Another great difference between one age and another to me is memory. I never used to write down all the ideas that occur to me while writing.I believed that if I forgot them they were not important, and the ones that really mattered were those I remembered. Now I write them all down. It makes me very anxious to know that I thought of something but I forgot, something I was going to say, that I read, where I read it, a melody I cannot recall. At a certain age, you begin forgetting names, things. It's a real cause of anguish that one has to learn to overcome. It's not easy. A lot of one's work deals with form and you can get obsessive or desperate about a detail. So now I take notes. I'll scribble a phrase, or a point I may need tomorrow. There are advantages and disadvantages in aging.
I've come to realize though, there is one thing for which you need to be young. And that is to learn the technique of writing, the tricks of the trade. If you don't learn that when you're young, you won't when you're old.
After the Nobel Prize you said that success, the prize, are a burden that makes it more difficult to write. Do you still feel that way?
It's a private joke of mine that I have been famous for a long time but nobody knew about it. No, recognition is not a burden for me. I've always had my projects and I haven't changed them. I was working on this book before the prize and I'm still writing it. But it is disturbing for one's private life. It brings many outside interferences, distractions, interruptions. There are many requests to do things, to attend events, they take a lot of time, people don't like to be refused.
Perhaps it's an excess of vanity, but I've always felt all this was going to happen. My commitment to my writing is no different, it's always been very deep. Even in journalism.
Now all my newspaper stories have been dug up in Colombia, whatever I wrote since I was 18. Six volumes have already been published and there are two or three to go.
Imagine the shock I got when I heard people wanted to do this. Then I realized it was going to happen anyway, sooner or later. Or they wait till I'm dead and do it then. So I figured the best thing was to have control over it. I read almost all of them and I don't have to regret anything. There are no great gaffes and no important contradictions. But I've always known that whatever you write down, it will pursue you, even after you're dead. There it is. You cannot say, I didn't write that.
But fame has not created greater pressures?
You could ask me if today I'm more frightened than before when I sit down to write. All my life I've been frightened at the moment I sit down to write.
Every day?
Every day. Terribly frightened.
When will you finish the book you're writing now?
Someone asked me the other day how much longer I was going to be in Mexico this time. I said, not how much time, but how many pages. I have about 180 pages to go. That means 180 days. It's a matter of three months, I think.
We were talking about how from a very young age you were already writing about old people. How would you feel about doing children's stories, now that you are growing old?
I already tried writing children's stories. It did n't work. Once I wrote one and I showed it to my two sons who were very small then. They gave it back to me. They said: ''Papa, you think that children are really dumb.''




García Márquez / The best years of his life

Mercedes, Gabo and sons
THE BEST YEARS OF HIS LIFE: 

AN INTERVIEW 

WITH GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ


FOR Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the pleasure and turmoil of writing change from novel to novel. In the case of ''One Hundred Years of Solitude,'' he thought so long and hard about the story that when he finally sat down to commit it to paper, it came in a great burst. But he had difficulty writing ''The Autumn of the Patriarch,'' a novel he published seven years before he won the Nobel Prize in 1982. With that book, he recently recalled, ''I was doing well when I could finish four lines a day''; the whole project occupied him, off and on, for seven years.
By contrast, the years when he worked on ''Love in the Time of Cholera'' were among the happiest of his life. Nostalgically, he wrote about the courtship of his parents and his own journeys by riverboat, both of which were important sources for the book. In Mexico City, his longtime home base, we talked about what writing the novel had been like:
This book was a pleasure. It could have been much longer, but I had to control it. There is so much to say about the life of two people who love each other. It's infinite.
Also, I had the advantage of knowing the end beforehand. Because in this book, the end was a problem. It would have been in poor taste if one or even both of the characters died. The most wonderful thing would be if they could go on loving forever. So the reader is given the consolation that the boat with the lovers will keep on with its journey, coming and going. Not only for the rest of their lives, but forever.
A kind of Flying Dutchman of love. Have you done a lot of traveling on boats yourself?
I've known that boat for a long time. I traveled a lot on it, beginning when I was 12. I lived on the coast [ in Colombia ] but I got a scholarship to study in Bogota. So I would take the boat from Baranquilla to La Dorada and then the train to Bogota. That was about the time the river began to deteriorate. Between my first trips and my final ones, I saw the decay in the river that appears in the book.
I had to have two river journeys in the book. The first was that of Florentino Ariza, when he is named telegraphist in the interior. There is no purpose to this one because he arrives, regrets it and turns back. But I had to invent it to be able to describe the river and the landscape. If not, that whole description would have had to come at the end of the book, when the two old people go on their journey. And that would have overshadowed the relationship between the two, which is what mattered there. So that device helped me also to show how the river changed from a fresh and thriving stream and fell into decadence. I must have taken the last trip when I was at the university, when I was about 22. Then the boats stopped running.
All these things for me are part of a nostalgia. Nostalgia is a great source for literary inspiration, for poetic inspiration.
You wrote most of the book in Cartagena?
Yes, and those two years when I was writing it was a time when I was almost completely happy. Everything went well for me. People spend a lifetime thinking about how they would really like to live. I asked my friends and no one seems to know very clearly. To me it's very clear now. I wish my life could have been like the years when I was writing ''Love in the Time of Cholera.''
I would get up at 5:30 or 6 in the morning. I need only six hours of sleep. Then I quickly listened to the news. I would read from 6 to 8, because if I don't read at that time I won't get around to it anymore. I lose my rhythm. Someone would arrive at the house with fresh fish or lobster or shrimp caught nearby. Then I would write from 8 till 1. By midday, Mercedes [ his wife ] would go to the beach and wait for me with friends. I never quite knew who to expect; there were always people coming and going. After lunch I had a little siesta. And when the sun started going down I would go out on the street to look for places where my characters would go, to talk to people and pick up language and atmosphere. So the next morning I would have fresh material I had brought from the streets.
I also had one of the most curious and enjoyable literary experiences I've ever had. One of the characters was Fermina, an 18-year-old girl living in a Caribbean town in the late 19th century. She lived with her father, a Spanish immigrant, and with her mother, who I could not figure out. And there was an aunt, her father's sister, who I saw very clearly and who had the same name. I just could not grasp the mother. I would seat them around the table and I could see how they all behaved - except for the mother. At first I thought the aunt was in the way. And I took her out and put her back again. But the mother was the problem. I could not see her: not the face, the name or anything about her. And then one day I woke up and realized what had happened. The mother had died while the girl was still young. And when I saw that the mother was dead, she became alive and real. She grew and had a great presence -in the house, in everyone's memory. It made me so happy to resolve this. I had been stretching the logic of the book. I had been trying to put a dead person among the living, and that was not possible.
And the men? How did you feel about Florentino?

I don't really like him. I think he is very selfish, like all men are. And as for Fermina, I think she became more bourgeois than she realized. That changed her a lot and made her very pretentious. She only understood that by the time she was very old, when she agreed to go on the boat. To do that, she had to break with her whole life.
But there is another important character, one that has no name - and that is the society of the Caribbean coast, its prejudice and superstitions, its old-fashioned ways. This is what really drives the whole story.
You have said that the thwarted early courtship of your parents served in part as a model for this book. Has your mother read it?
I don't know if she's read it all the way through. She's 84 years old now. I think they have read parts to her. Anyway, she knows what's in it. When I first started writing it in Cartagena, I would go to her house every afternoon and I would question my mother and my father separately. He was still alive then.
Have you read the English translation?
My English translator is [ Gregory ] Rabassa. I always trusted him so much; I never had to pay attention. But this time he had other commitments, and another translator was sought. I can read English, but not well enough to judge the way I dare judge a text in French or Italian. But anyhow, there were all sorts of test translations. Of the three sample translations, I read only the first chapter of this one and it was the best, without a doubt. The editors at Knopf agreed. Anyhow, what can I do? I can't worry. There is also the Japanese and the Swedish and the Dutch and so on.
Do the translators contact you and consult you?
Sometimes it's an editor who sends notes asking little things. Sometimes translators send a list of things they have doubts about. The strange thing is that, regardless of the language, the list of doubts is almost always the same.
I know you get a lot of mail from your readers. What sort of things do they write to you?
The letters I find most interesting are from people who ask me where I got this theme or that passage or such and such a character. Because they feel it is about something or someone they know. They will say: So and so is just like my aunt. Or: I have an uncle just like him. And: that episode happened exactly like that in my village. How did you know about it? People from all over Latin America wrote such things, especially after ''One Hundred Years of Solitude.'' They felt it was part of their lives.
That's why you still refuse to let the book be filmed? Because that identification will be lost?
It will be destroyed. Because film does not allow for that. The face of the actor, of Gregory Peck, becomes the face of the character. It cannot be your uncle, unless your uncle looks like Gregory Peck.
Will ''Love in the Time of Cholera'' be filmed?
Maybe. I don't mind as long as it's a Latin American movie. By that I mean one that is directed by a Latin American, that exudes the atmosphere of Latin America, that shows our character, our way of being, our society, because those are the things that define this drama. Anyway it's a problem. But the answer is for me not to get involved. It has already happened with Francesco Rossi, who made ''Chronicle of a Death Foretold.'' He showed me the screenplay and I said, ''Don't show it to me because if I read it the film will probably never be made. I am thinking of my book and you are thinking of your film. I wrote the book alone, you make the film alone.'' And that's how it happened and he thanked me.



Monday, March 11, 2013

García Márquez / Storyteller with Bent for Revolution




Storyteller With Bent for Revolution: Gabriel Garcia Marquez



MEXICO CITY, Oct. 22, 1982
When Gabriel Garcia Marquez tried to call his mother in Colombia this morning to tell her he had just won the Nobel Prize, her phone was out of order. Later he heard her say, during a radio interview, ''Maybe now they will finally fix the telephone.''
It was the sort of story, of the absurd, the funny and the impossible in much of Latin America, that this Colombian author loves to tell.
When talking with friends recently about his growing fame and the chance of winning the Nobel, Mr. Garcia Marquez, a committed and politically active leftist, said it would be for ''the good of the revolution'' in Latin America.
But the short and stocky 54-year-old writer, who is shy in public, also said fame was making him personally deeply uncomfortable. ''I detest being converted into a public spectacle,'' he commented. ''The worst thing that can happen to a writer in a continent where people don't read is that his books are being sold like sausages.'' Fiction Based on Reality
This eminent storyteller has come a long way, as he once remarked, from Aracataca, the run-down banana town of wooden homes and zinc roofs on Colombia's Caribbean coast. He was born there on March 6, 1928, one of 16 children of a telegraph operator. When his parents moved to another town, he stayed behind and was raised by his grandparents.
The characters and the setting of those early years were frequently used in his writing and dominated his best-known novel, ''One Hundred Years of Solitude.'' He has often said that much of his fiction ''did not have to be invented - I took most of it from reality.''
As a teen-ager he won a scholarship to a school for the poor in the nearby village of Zipaquira. Later he enrolled in the law school at Bogota University because, he once said in an interview, it was the only one that had afternoons free so he could earn a living.
Political violence led to the closing of the university and ''Gabo,'' as his friends call him, moved to Barranquilla, where he got his first job as a journalist and wrote fiction in his free time. He was fortunate, he once recalled, in living over a brothel. ''It's the best thing there is for a novelist. The days are very quiet. At night you can enjoy yourself and meet interesting characters.'' Miserably Cold in an Attic
As a journalist on Bogota newspapers, first on El Tiempo, then on El Espectador, he was sent to Geneva, Rome and Paris. And when El Espectador closed down while he was in Paris, he decided to stay. Friends often found the writer, used only to the tropical Caribbean, in a small Paris attic, wearing overcoat, hat and gloves. He worked there on short stories, freezing with cold and deeply in debt.
''One Hundred Years of Solitude,'' published in l967, eventually brought him fame and wealth, but he still remembers the cold. The studio he built at the bottom of the garden in his Mexico City home is always kept very warm. When he is not traveling in Europe or Cuba - he is a long-time friend of President Fidel Castro of Cuba and President Francois Mitterrand of France - he writes there and listens to music every day from 9 till 2.
He uses his fame and the money he has earned from his numerous literary awards for specific political causes and to promote socialist revolution in Latin America. After the Cuban revolution he helped found Prensa Latina, the Cuban press agency, but in 1961, while he was its correspondent in New York, he fell out with the editors and moved to Mexico City. He still defends the Cuban revolution but opposes the region's Communist parties because, he has said, the ''model made in Moscow'' does not fit the character, traditions, likings or geopolitics of Latin America.
His political views have often caused squabbles between him and the Colombian rulers. In March 1981 he took refuge in the Mexican Embassy in Bogota; he said at the time had been told confidentially that he was about to be arrested.
For a decade after he left New York he was refused a visa by the United States because of his political leanings, but he says, ''I have never belonged to a Communist party.'' He was finally allowed entry in 1971 to receive an honorary doctorate at Columbia University. He says that he now gets a visa whenever he applies but that it is always marked ''For lecture at Columbia University'' even though that is not the case. A Love Story in the Works
For all his fame as a novelist and short story writer, Mr. Garcia Marquez says he still feels much like a journalist. Over the past two years he has written a weekly column of social and political commentary that is syndicated in l6 Spanish-language newspapers.
With the election of a new government in Colombia relations have improved and he says he hopes to start his own newspaper there next year. ''Gabo has always dreamed of having his own newspaper,'' said his wife, Mercedes, to whom he has been married 25 years. They have two sons, Rodrigo, 23 years old, and Gonzalo, 20.
The writer is now working on a novel that he has described as ''a love story'' with a happy ending. ''Love stories always end badly, the people are always miserable,'' he said recently. ''I'm writing a story in which people are happy forever and ever. The world is short of happiness.''

http://www.nytimes.com/1982/10/22/books/82nobel-garc2.html


Sunday, March 10, 2013

Marlise Simons / A Talk with Gabriel García Márquez


A TALK 

WITH GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ

BIOGRAPHY
By MARLISE SIMONS
The New York Times / December 5, 1982

T
he playful, imperturbable Gabriel Garcia Marquez was troubled and tense. His brown eyes and the large wart over his mustache seemed to have shrunk. He had buried his hands deep in the pockets of his navy blue overalls and paced his hotel room in this small Central Mexican town, where he had come to escape a barrage of well-wishers and journalists.


''This is the time I'm supposed to be happier than ever,'' he grumbled. ''I've just received the Nobel Prize. I'm going to Sweden. I'm famous. I don't have to work. And look at the state I'm in.''

Garcia Marquez was fretting over the speech he must deliver at the Nobel Prize award ceremony in Sweden on Friday. He had already studied other Nobel speeches for length, tone and content. Researchers, whom he calls ''my ghostwriters,'' were digging up facts and statistics on Latin America, not to be used as such but to give him ideas. ''It has to be a political speech presented as literature,'' he sighed. ''I envy the chemists and the Peace Prize winners. They don't have to say a word and everyone applauds anyway.'' What's worse, he muttered on, ''I've heard that the Swedish Academy is a solemn clan out to make me over. And I have to wear a tail coat, a colonial costume, an upper-class outfit from the 19th century. I will feel terrible.''

He was what a friend called ''being a Marquezian,'' perpetually spinning tales around events, inflating the small and diminishing the sacred to make it less frightening, more manageable. Those who know him well say he lives, talks and writes this way, taking a minor event of the day, tossing, polishing, repeating and expanding it until at the end of the week it has become an epos with a life of its own.

But this 54-year-old man of literature, the storyteller and novelist of the Latin American wondrous, is also a compulsive politician. The politics of the left he practices are as unorthodox as his own freewheeling mind. They express themselves in reactions and sentiments rather than as a coherent doctrine. They surface when he eats, drinks and debates with heads of state, cabinet ministers and guerrilla comandantes with whom he schemes and mediates. The purpose is to promote change, preferably revolution, maybe in his native Colombia, possibly in all of Latin America. When someone recently pointed to the paradox of his friendship with and support for both France's Francois Mitterrand and Cuba's Fidel Castro, he said, ''It is logical. Progress in France lies with Mitterrand, in Latin America with Fidel Castro.'' In October he acted as an intermediary between Mitterrand and Castro to obtain the release of the jailed Cuban poet Armando Valladares. Mitterrand had been under pressure from conservative French intellectuals for maintaining close relations with the Cuban Government which had jailed the paralyzed poet.

For an author who has long used his literary fame as a vehicle for his political sentiments, there may be few better political platforms than a Nobel award ceremony. Which is why he worried for much of the month of November. ''I have this great opportunity,'' he said. ''I must try and break through the cliches about Latin America. Superpowers and other outsiders have fought over us for centuries in ways that have nothing to do with our problems. In reality we are all alone.'' Inevitably, perhaps, the author whose recurrent imagery in his writings is that of solitude, was developing the theme of ''the solitude of Latin America.''

Why does Latin America's most famous author think he was given the coveted Nobel prize? ''For my books,'' he quickly replied, brushing aside suggestions that it may be related to politics or geography. ''But I knew I had a strong godfather there, the poet Artur Lundkvist. He is the only member of the Swedish Academy who intensely cares about Latin American literature. For us Latin writers, he was always a fearful, remote deity who determined the fate of our letters. When I met him, he proved to be a very humorous old man with a young heart. He once told me, 'I refuse to die until they give that prize to you.' ''

We left the hotel and our car headed through the desert to Zacatecas where the director Ruy Guerra, a friend of Garcia Marquez, was filming his story ''Innocent Erendira.'' From the outset the author, who has no pretense of erudition, had said, ''I am a bad theoretician and a bad critic. I prefer to tell anecdotes.''

He tells stories instinctively, with that same flow of the unexpected that runs through his written narrative. Looking at the unlikely sight of a shepherd appearing with his flock among the desert cactus, he said, ''Being a shepherd is always an art. But in Spain they say a shepherd is only good for one thing, for plane accidents. If a plane crashes somewhere, there is always a shepherd who can tell you, 'It's over there, I saw it fall with my own eyes.' ''

Fame - in Latin America he gets a treatment halfway between a movie star's and a charismatic leader's - to him is an unrelenting invasion of his privacy and an onerous pressure on his work. ''It has become more difficult to write. You cannot forget that everything you put down goes to an ever larger number of people. Fame is very agreeable, but the bad thing is that it goes on 24 hours a day. It reminds me of Graham Greene, who said the terrible thing about bombings is that you get wounded - but the bombing goes on.''

Yet fame, and the perennial interviews brought on by it, also permits him to talk about the past he has poured into his novels and short stories. He never seems to tire of evoking or exploring it with nostalgia.

Aracataca appears in his mind, his small, hot and dusty hometown in Colombia that became the Macondo of ''One Hundred Years of Solitude.'' So does the rambling house where he grew up as the only child among grandparents and aunts, all of whom became characters in the novel's complex family chronicle. When Gabriel was an infant, his parents, who had 16 children, moved to another town where his father worked as a telegrapher, and Gabriel was left in the care of his grandparents. His grandfather, Garcia Marquez said, was ''a former colonel who told endless stories of the civil war of his youth, took me to the circus and the cinema and was my umbilical cord with history and reality.'' Grandmother was ''always telling fables, family legends and organizing our life according to the messages she received in her dreams.'' She was ''the source of the magical, superstitious and supernatural view of reality.''

Almost as important perhaps were his days as a journalist in the coastal town of Barranquilla where he began his literary apprenticeship. He was 20 then and wrote, read and debated every day with three other young reporters with literary aspirations. The inseparable quartet met each evening in a bookshop and went on to cafes, drinking beer and rum till deep in the night. ''We would argue at the top of our voices over literature,'' recalled one of the four, German Vargas, to whom Garcia Marquez dedicated ''Leaf Storm,'' his first book. Along with their own work, the four read and dissected Defoe, Dos Passos, Camus, Virginia Woolf and William Faulkner, the American who has perhaps most influenced Latin American contemporary fiction. All four appear as friends - German, Alvaro, Alfonso and Gabriel - in ''One Hundred Years of Solitude.''

''The whole notion that I am an intuitive is a myth I have created myself,'' said Garcia Marquez. ''I worked my way through literature, reading, writing, reading and writing -it's the only way.'' He read the Russians and the great English and American authors. ''I learned a lot from James Joyce and Erskine Caldwell and of course from Hemingway.'' But the ''tricks you need to transform something which appears fantastic, unbelievable into something plausible, credible, those I learned from journalism,'' he said. ''The key is to tell it straight. It is done by reporters and by country folk.''

His stories, he recalled, often started from one initial visual image. '' 'Leaf Storm,' for example, began from a flash of myself as a little boy, sitting on a chair in the living room,'' he said. The initial image for ''No One Writes to the Colonel,'' he went on, came ''when I saw an old man looking at fish in the market of Barranquilla.'' But ''One Hundred Years of Solitude,'' his most monumental work, ''traveled in bits and pieces through my head for 17 years. In the end I was able to talk the book. I walked around with its fragments until they burst. Then I sat down and it took me 18 months to write.''

For ''The Autumn of the Patriarch,'' ''my only book which I have not lived myself, I read everything I could about Latin American and especially Caribbean dictators over a period of 10 years. On top of that I talked with whomever I could who had a related experience. Then I traed to forget everything and forced myself to work purely from my imagination so that no event could be linked to a real one. But the dictator became the most autobiographical character of all. Excluding the aspect of power, which I have not known, of course, many of my personal feelings, obsessions, ideas, nostalgias, superstitions, are attributed to the patriarch. No doubt there are affinities between power and fame. I think the loneliness of power and the loneliness of fame are much alike.''

Everything in his books and stories has an origin he can identify; he knows what he associated with each image and how he put them together. Many incidents are little games he plays with his family or friends. He once recounted the origins of General Lorenzo Gavilan, a character in ''One Hundred Years of Solitude'' who began as a character in ''The Death of Artemio Cruz,'' the novel by his close friend, the Mexican author Carlos Fuentes. ''A conscientious reader had written to Fuentes that the fate of Lorenzo Gavilan, one of his characters, had been left unresolved. Fuentes checked and realized it was true. I told Fuentes it could be fixed. So that is why Lorenzo Gavilan, with the belt buckle from Morelia, dies in the Macondo banana workers' strike.''

The years from age 20 to 30 for Garcia Marquez were a time of hawking manuscripts, of getting good reviews and poor sales. He spent almost three of these years in Europe, a short time in Rome, a longer period in Paris, writing and being dead poor. ''The most important thing Paris gave me was a perspective on Latin America. It taught me the differences between Latin America and Europe and among the Latin American countries themselves through the Latins I met there.'' He is still writing stories about the Latin Americans he knew in that period. It has left him with a love-hate relationship with the French, yet he still visits Paris every year.

Nothing exciting, he feels, is happening in West European fiction. The exceptions, he says, ''are Germany's Heinrich Boll and Gunter Grass. The French are writing the same sort of books every year for the same Goncourt Prizes.'' Garcia Marquez, the anti-intellectual, barely disguises his distrust of France's intellectuals and their ''schematic mental games and abstractions.'' Like so many Latin Americans he looks on theory as an enemy, a box that closes off perception and inhibits the mind. While he has a similar distrust for Communist apparatchiks, whom he calls ''communistoids,'' he voices this view only privately so as ''not to play into the hands of the Right.''

Latin American literature, he believes, is ''very much alive.'' He calls the late Pablo Neruda of Chile ''one of this continent's greatest poets.'' He admires the Mexican novelists Juan Rulfo and his friend Carlos Fuentes. But there are more than 30 young writers in Latin America, he says, who are doing interesting work and he has tried to use his influence to get their work published. Of Argentina's Jorge Luis Borges he once said that he ''deserves the highest merit because he has done more than anyone for the Spanish language since Cervantes.''

For the past 20 years the author has lived in Mexico City. He went there ''because there was work for him,'' recalled the poet Alvaro Mutis, his friend of 32 years. Here in the 60's Garcia Marquez wrote film scripts and magazine pieces for a living and fiction in his spare time.

But he feels most at ease, he never ceases to say, in the Latin Caribbean, in coastal Colombia rather than in the country's highlands. When he left the coastal town of Aracataca to go to school in a Colombian mountain town, Zipaquira, and later went to Bogota, the capital, he said, ''I became a foreigner.'' Those highlands were part of a Spanish colonial culture - ''solemn, gray and very cold'' - and felt like another country to him. They were opposite realms, the highlands, where people are introverted and silent, and the Caribbean, a domain of sensory profusion, of light, heat and quick repartee, a region where facts and reasons embody none of the virtues ascribed to them in the colonial world. In this realm, truth is regarded as one more illusion, just one more version of many possible vantage points and people change their reality by changing their perception of it.

It is from and about this Caribbean condition of mind that he writes. ''People here sense the presence of phenomena or other beings, even if they are not there,'' he said. ''These must be influences of ancient religions, of Indians and blacks. This world's full of spirits you find all over, in Puerto Rico, in Cuba, in Brazil. In Santo Domingo and in Vera Cruz.''

Given his attachment to the Latin Caribbean, it is not easy to explain why Garcia Marquez feels so irresistibly attracted to its apparent antithesis, the United States. This fascination began more than 30 years ago when the Barranquilla foursome not only studied American literature but also avidly examined the styles of American journalism. ''In Colombia, journalism was very heavy then, academic, classic, very Spanish. North American journalism, especially after its experiences in the Second World War, was new and different.''

American open-mindedness and pragmatism appeal to him. He also unabashedly declares that North America's authors are ''the literary giants of the 20th century'' and ''New York is the greatest phenomenon of our time.'' In the same breath he defends Fidel Castro's foreign policy and scorns Washington's.

His admiration for the United States makes it all the more painful for him that he has had great difficulties obtaining a visa to enter the country since 1960, due to his political views. He has sent his elder son Rodrigo to study history at Harvard. ''There is no way one can relate to contemporary cultural life without going to the United States,'' he said. Ironically that is the place ''with the most serious students and the best analyses of my work. Yet the State Department plays this game with me in which I may or may not be able to go there.''

Why does this man of literature invest so much energy in the political activism that has caused the controversies? ''If I were not a Latin American, maybe I wouldn't,'' he said. ''But underdevelopment is total, integral, it affects every part of our lives. The problems of our societies are mainly political. And the commitment of a writer is with the reality of all of society, not just with a small part of it. If not, he is as bad as the politicians who disregard a large part of our reality. That is why authors, painters, writers in Latin America get politically involved. I am surprised by the little resonance authors have in the United States and in Europe. Politics is made there only by the politicians. The era of Sartre and Camus has definitely passed.''

Next month, after the Nobel Prize dust has settled, Garcia Marquez hopes to go back to writing his new novel. Like his last two books it is already taking shape as a rumor, slowly creating a vanguard of its own. ''One Hundred Years of Solitude'' was preceded by the publication of small, provocative fragments and became a myth before it came out. ''The Chronicle of a Death,'' which is scheduled for publication in the United States next April, was heralded by a publicity extravaganza worthy of a show business scandal. Garcia Marquez has said that he showed the manuscript to Fidel Castro before submitting it to his publisher; ''Castro,'' he said, ''is a very cultured, well-read man, with a keen eye for spotting contradictions in a crime story like this.''

Critics of the author ascribe the brouhaha around his publications to his mastery of the calculated special effect. His friends say it is created by the hordes of reporters who are forever seeking him out. But even his friends concede that the author's claim, widely reported in the mid-70's, that he would refuse to publish until Chile's dictator Augusto Pinochet fell, fits into the category of ''calculated effects.'' Of his work in progress he is willing to give only a hint. It is ''a happy love story,'' he suggests, which may begin with two octogenarians in bed one morning talking and making love.

Next year the author also plans to fulfill a dream when he launches his own newspaper in Colombia. The project clearly appeals to his old yearning for the world of newspapers and to his newer appetite for power through political influence. His own explanation is that he wants to set new standards and train young people for his paper. ''I have always been pulled by the world of journalism. And I am still fascinated by the relationship between journalism and literature.''

Marlise Simons reports for The Times from Mexico and Central America.

http://www.nytimes.com/books/97/06/15/reviews/marquez-talk.html