I am in love, simply, walking through the words of One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

I have wanted to read this book for years--ever since a woman at a drum circle in college talked magically about it, while tripping into the beat of her fingers on the stretched hide of her drum.

It's eluded me, however, and now, less than a third of a way into it, I wish I read faster--that I could gobble up the author's rhythms into my own heartbeat. But I have always been a slow reader, licking up the syllables of words along with their meanings on my tongue; going so slowly that by the end, I have tatooed many of the words somewhere onto the surface of my memory, where they sit to be recalled years from now.

"Things have a life of their own, the gypsy proclaimed with a harsh accent. It's simply a matter of waking up their souls."

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