Jose is distraught, his son Aureliano busy in the alchemy shop, his wife and daughter away, his inventions having proved nothing to him. He is wrestling with ghosts, that of Prudencio, the man he killed back in the old village, and of Melquiades, the gypsy who brought him such wonders to fiddle with.
"A few hours later, worn out by the vigil, he went into Aureliano’s workshop and asked him: "What day is today?" Aureliano told him that it was Tuesday. "I was thinking the same thing," Jose Arcadio Buendia said, "but suddenly I realized that it’s still Monday, like yesterday. Look at the sky, look at the walls, look at the begonias. Today is Monday too." Used to his manias, Aureliano paid no attention to him. On the next day, Wednesday, Jose Arcadio Buendia went back to the workshop. "This is a disaster," he said. "Look at the air, listen to the buzzing of the sun, the same as yesterday and the day before. Today is Monday too."
Wow. That’s an interesting idea, no? And I note here particularly Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s choice of words, his use of language: "Look at the sky, look at the wall, look at the begonias." In a tense moment of insight on the part of Jose, Marquez softens it with the word "begonias" which, while not funny in itself, just is in this instance. In fact, another "side" of the word is that in truth, the begonias which are living plants, would change in four days. Is Marquez pointing out things we take for granted that are transient? Has he carefully selected the words to zoom in from sky, to wall, to flower? And the unnatural action of "looking" at air, and the "buzzing of the sun" reiterates the feeling in Jose’s questioning of the natural space of time.
"He spent six hours examining things, trying to find a difference in their appearance on the previous day in the hope of discovering in them some change that would reveal the passage of time. He spent the whole night in bed with his eyes open, calling to Prudencio Aquilar, to Melquiades, to all the dead, so that they would share his distress. But no one came. On Friday, before anyone arose, he watched the appearance of nature again until he did not have the slightest doubt but that it was Monday."
Hate to say this, but I understand this theory perfectly. I read these paragraphs in wonder and sympathy, knowing that I myself have followed a similar path of thought–even posting on it on Spinning once after a few quiet moments in the dark garage. These are the things men think about, worry about, but rarely speak of with others. Jose Arcadio Buendia is a philosopher looking for some shred of truth to expound upon, wanting his wild ideas validated by scientific evidence. I love him. I love his willingness to find more meaning and understanding of his world than rising, working, eating, shitting and going back to bed.
Of course, he does end up tied to a chestnut tree babbling to himself.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology