Most of the time, you put a book down, walk away, and probably never think of it again. A lot of stories are like that; fun while they last, but transitory, fleeting.
And then, sometimes, there’s a book that haunts you. A book whose last line echoes in your head for days. When you remember it, you feel a gut reaction, as the ghost of the emotional reaction it drew from you gently flutters its wings.
That’s a beautiful book. A beautiful story, with an ending as wonderful as its beginning (no mean feat). That’s what happens at the end of One Hundred Years of Solitude.