I just ran into a colleague who was taking some time in the sun to catch up on Love in the Time of Cholera. He’s an ex-mechanic, a guy who spends his days helping mechanics and panel beaters with their technical difficulties. He has a kind of rounded, no-quite-ocker accent, and he frequently drops final syllables and ends sentences with ‘ey?. He told me it was beautiful, and seemed thrilled to have someone to talk to about this book he was reading. He said “It’s nice to have something a bit different from the day-to-day, isn’t it?”
I was surprised. I would never in a million years have imagined this guy, who I don’t even know very well at all, reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
Take that, inner cynic. It takes all types to read beautiful books.