The sad and hot wind of Cartagena, Colombia blows on your red flower and black bottom long dress, slightly rippling, inadvertent glance I have fallen into. When I got home that night, I told my mother that I was in love. Before I could say a word to you, you didn't belong to me, but I belonged to you. Goddess, let me play the long-held violin for you in the early morning when the oil runs out and the lights go out.
On church day, I handed my dwindled love letter, a trembling heart—your outstretched hand and charming smile saved it. My joy and my vows melted into uncontrollable pain, and it was written between the lines. If you understand it, please respond with enthusiasm that even 1/10,000 cannot match.
Cholera spread everywhere, and the whole city was in panic. My heart, like the radiation of cholera, suffers wherever it goes. Look at me upstairs when you send your babysitter away, close at hand. I got down on one knee and begged you to marry me. Trust me, I'm by no means rambunctious.
The identity of the telegraph operator is always not favored by the parents. On the empty road, the dust from the carriage covered your father's eyes. You're leaving me, forgive me for my weakness, I can only hide in my mother's arms, I can't stop sobbing.
When you arrived at the sister's house in the suburbs, my telegram was already waiting in advance. Imagine you riding a horse, I miss madly in the dark and noisy brothel. "The virginity for you", I never assumed, just wait firmly, waiting for the day you marry me.
Sweeping away the autumn leaves in the courtyard, I have been waiting for your return after living like a year. When I met in the market, I suddenly realized that you had changed like a tide. You turned around and told me that the vows you once told me were just youthful ignorance. In 1867, I endured the misery of inaction and lost you in the hatred of your father's sweeping the door. Miracles and nightmares all came from the same direction.
The whole city was celebrating the union of the wealthy merchant's daughter and the medical family, and I had to live. Back from your honeymoon in Paris, your handsome and free-spirited husband announced the arrival of the afterlife in front of the noble businessman. My uncle gave me a job writing letters for people, and I'm leaving, leaving Cartagena, about to meet the first sexy swaying woman, leaving the tortured truth far behind.
Poor mother, bewitched by a father she never met. The guilt of the illegitimate child bears the burden of the name, but it is the mother who bears the pain for me. The night she went mad, I, as the sole heir, owned the largest ship dealer on the Columbia Canal. But when I was at work, I was still a face with a love letter, full of you. Looking at your happiness, but not intersecting your life, I sit in the back garden of your house every day, only hoping that the window will always be open, and you flash by in a hurry.
To you, it turns out I'm just "a shadow, a ghost". Then let me have sex with women who are also ghosts, at least they are real, slutty, pure and desperate, seen and forgotten. 622, record every woman, happy, at least the woman whose throat was cut was because of his jealous husband. I mourned all night, and then I was fortunate to have met a college student at the age of 70**. With endless women and wealth, enough to show off to every young lad, what the hell am I missing. But the way I walked was still shrunk, tiny and staggering.
On the afternoon of your husband's funeral, I broke into your big house on crutches.
"I'm waiting for you in July 51 years and 4 days, you marry me."
I wrote in my love letter to you after a few years: Elegance is not the means of love, but the end of love, the beginning is the end . When
you're getting old you ask me 'how long can we go on'. I call it 'forever' - common and imaginary word, but never abrupt.
Even if you just want me to be with you You spent the rest of your lonely life, and I was just as naive and ecstatic as I was secretly watching your back at the Grand Theater.
September 1951 and 4 days. The love is not over, and you and I are still in the sunset. Countdown to the bottom...
Florentino Ariza
PS: "Love in the Time of Cholera", the time between reading the book and the movie is two years apart. In the book, Márquez presents the whole of Colombia in the 19th century with his rambling imagination. The film condenses into a man's endless and desperate wait. In contrast, the artistic point of view tends to the former, and the catharsis of emotions tends to the latter.
But there is such a man in real life, wouldn't it be too scary. If he betrayed him one day, he might be divided into five horses. Extremes are not always a good thing, and moderation is the criterion for a happy life. I really like the 50 years of Dear Fermina Daza and her doctor husband. It's trivial, plain, noisy, but quite stable.
By the way, Javier Bataan's performance is fantastic. The heroine is like a withered shape, and when all the supporting characters are mediocre, he can make the audience's heart slowly break and disintegrate with the plot.
View more about Love in the Time of Cholera reviews
