. Spinning .

As much as we put into reading and make it what it becomes for us, we draw a certain amount out and it becomes us as well.

Aureliano goes through his childhood home, removing himself from it in bits and pieces of what he has left behind.  He is no longer that child.  When he has faced who he has become, he shoots himself, but through the trickery of the old doctor who has painted a circle on Aureliano’s chest in response to a question of where exactly his heart lay (exactly the question, no?), the bullet goes through the only place it "could pass through without harming any vital organ."

Who was he, who had he become?  I often told my mother that "two out of three ain’t bad."  She’d laugh through her anger as once more I tried her patience by coloring outside of the lines, the edges they’d drawn.  A mother is forgiving, understanding.

As Aureliano Segundo, son of Arcadio (son of Jose Arcadio, Aureliano’s brother), names his first son Jose Arcadio, Marquez gives us insight into the family history and choice of names through the eyes of Ursula:

"Ursula, on the other hand, could not conceal a vague feeling of doubt.  Throughout the long history of the family the insistent repetition of names had made her draw some conclusions that seemed to be certain.  While the Aurelianos were withdrawn, but with lucid minds, the Jose Arcadios were impulsive and enterprising, but they were marked with a tragic sign."

The living on of Jose’s and Aureliano’s, the thirty-four wars, the endless rooms of a dream, the history of family.  Is there a cycle that need be broken, or is it impossible to break.  Do we become what we are destined in the limited time of a lifespan, or fail.  Are we blind to ourselves until in one striking moment we see all, and are shattered.

Am I evil hiding behind a bouquet of begonias?

I must say, I’ve come a bit down off my high since Jose died. 

I’m in the second half of the book, and besides some catching up on the new generation, there appears to be a political bend to the story, and I’ve never been one for politics.  I am more of the nurturing type, and government is about as far away from home and hearth as you can get. 

Aureliano has resigned himself from war and mayhem, and has shot himself.  He screwed it up, but we knew that would happen because Marquez has told us that he dies of old age.   

Perhaps I’m grieving for Jose Arcadio Buendia.  I loved his outlandish plans and dreams.  His idea of bettering mankind was via inventions, not war.  I miss him.