Chronicle of a Death Foretold

Chronicle of a Death Foretold

by Gabriel García Márquez, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

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Overview

A man returns to the town where a baffling murder took place 27 years earlier, determined to get to the bottom of the story. Just hours after marrying the beautiful Angela Vicario, everyone agrees, Bayardo San Roman returned his bride in disgrace to her parents. Her distraught family forced her to name her first lover; and her twin brothers announced their intention to murder Santiago Nasar for dishonoring their sister.
Yet if everyone knew the murder was going to happen, why did no one intervene to stop it? The more that is learned, the less is understood, and as the story races to its inexplicable conclusion, an entire society—not just a pair of murderers—is put on trial.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781400034710
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date: 10/07/2003
Series: Vintage International Series
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 128
Sales rank: 13,977
Product dimensions: 5.30(w) x 7.94(h) x 0.34(d)

About the Author

Gabriel García Márquez was born in Colombia in 1927. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1982. He is the author of many works of fiction and nonfiction, including One Hundred Years of Solitude, Love In The Time Cholera, The Autumn Of The Patriarch, The General In His Labyrinth, and News Of A Kidnapping. He died in 2014.

Hometown:

Mexico City, Mexico

Date of Birth:

March 6, 1928

Place of Birth:

Aracataca, Colombia

Education:

Universidad Nacional de Colombia, 1947-48, and Universidad de Cartagena, 1948-49

Read an Excerpt

ON THE DAY they were going to kill him, Santiago Nasar got up at five-thirty in the morning to wait for the boat the bishop was coming on. He'd dreamed he was going through a grove of timber trees where a gentle drizzle was falling, and for an instant he was happy in his dream, but when he awoke he felt completely spattered with bird shit. "He was always dreaming about trees," Plácida Linero, his mother, told me twenty-seven years later, recalling the details of that distressing Monday. "The week before, he'd dreamed that he was alone in a tinfoil airplane and flying through the almond trees without bumping into anything," she said to me. She had a well-earned reputation as an accurate interpreter of other people's dreams, provided they were told her before eating, but she hadn't noticed any ominous augury in those two dreams of her son's, or in the other dreams of trees he'd described to her on the mornings preceding his death.

Nor did Santiago Nasar recognize the omen. He had slept little and poorly, without getting undressed, and he woke up with a headache and a sediment of copper stirrup on his palate, and he interpreted them as the natural havoc of the wedding revels that had gone on until after midnight. Furthermore: all the many people he ran into after leaving his house at five minutes past six and until he was carved up like a pig an hour later remembered him as being a little sleepy but in a good mood, and he remarked to all of them in a casual way that it was a very beautiful day. No one was certain if he was referring to the state of the weather. Many people coincided in recalling that it was a radiant morning with a sea breeze coming in through the banana groves, as was to be expected in a fine February of that period. But most agreed that the weather was funereal, with a cloudy, low sky and the thick smell of still waters, and that at the moment of the misfortune a thin drizzle was falling like the one Santiago Nasar had seen in his dream grove. I was recovering from the wedding revels in the apostolic lap of Mariá Alejandrina Cervantes, and I only awakened with the clamor of the alarm bells, thinking they had turned them loose in honor of the bishop.

Santiago Nasar put on a shirt and pants of white linen, both items unstarched, just like the ones he'd put on the day before for the wedding. It was his attire for special occasions. If it hadn't been for the bishop's arrival, he would have dressed in his khaki outfit and the riding boots he wore on Mondays to go to The Divine Face, the cattle ranch he'd inherited from his father and which he administered with very good judgment but without much luck. In the country he wore a .357 Magnum on his belt, and its armored bullets, according to what he said, could cut a horse in two through the middle. During the partridge season he would also carry his falconry equipment. In the closet he kept a Mannlicher Schoenauer .30-06 rifle, a .300 Holland & Holland Magnum rifle, a .22 Hornet with a double-powered telescopic sight, and a Winchester repeater. He always slept the way his father had slept, with the weapon hidden in the pillowcase, but before leaving the house that day he took out the bullets and put them in the drawer of the night table. "He never left it loaded," his mother told me. I knew that, and I also knew that he kept the guns in one place and hid the ammunition in another far removed so that nobody, not even casually, would yield to the temptation of loading them inside the house. It was a wise custom established by his father ever since one morning when a servant girl had shaken the case to get the pillow out and the pistol went off as it hit the floor and the bullet wrecked the cupboard in the room, went through the living room wall, passed through the dining room of the house next door with the thunder of war, and turned a life-size saint on the main altar of the church on the opposite side of the square to plaster dust. Santiago Nasar, who was a young child at the time, never forgot the lesson of that accident.

The last image his mother had of him was of his fleeting passage through the bedroom. He'd wakened her while he was feeling around trying to find an aspirin in the bathroom medicine chest, and she turned on the light and saw him appear in the doorway with a glass of water in his hand. So she would remember him forever. Santiago Nasar told her then about the dream, but she didn't pay any great attention to the trees.

"Any dream about birds means good health," she said.

She had watched him from the same hammock and in the same position in which I found her prostrated by the last lights of old age when I returned to this forgotten village, trying to put the broken mirror of memory back together from so many scattered shards. She could barely make out shapes in full light and had some medicinal leaves on her temples for the eternal headache that her son had left her the last time he went through the bedroom. She was on her side, clutching the cords at the head of the hammock as she tried to get up, and there in the half shadows was the baptistry smell that had startled me on the morning of the crime.

No sooner had I appeared on the threshold than she confused me with the memory of Santiago Nasar. "There he was," she told me. "He was dressed in white linen that had been washed in plain water because his skin was so delicate that it couldn't stand the noise of starch." She sat in the hammock for a long time, chewing pepper cress seeds, until the illusion that her son had returned left her. Then she sighed: "He was the man in my life."

I saw him in her memory. He had turned twenty-one the last week in January, and he was slim and pale and had his father's Arab eyelids and curly hair. He was the only child of a marriage of convenience without a single moment of happiness, but he seemed happy with his father until the latter died suddenly, three years before, and he continued seeming to be so with his solitary mother until the Monday of his death. From her he had inherited a sixth sense. From his father he learned at a very early age the manipulation of firearms, his love for horses, and the mastery of high-flying birds of prey, but from him he also learned the good arts of valor and prudence. They spoke Arabic between themselves, but not in front of Plácida Linero, so that she wouldn't feel excluded. They were never seen armed in town, and the only time they brought in their trained birds was for a demonstration of falconry at a charity bazaar. The death of his father had forced him to abandon his studies at the end of secondary school in order to take charge of the family ranch. By his nature, Santiago Nasar was merry and peaceful, and openhearted.

On the day they were going to kill him, his mother thought he'd got his days mixed up when she saw him dressed in white. "I reminded him that it was Monday," she told me. But he explained to her that he'd got dressed up pontifical style in case he had a chance to kiss the bishop's ring. She showed no sign of interest. "He won't even get off the boat," she told him. "He'll give an obligatory blessing, as always, and go back the way he came. He hates this town."

Santiago Nasar knew it was true, but church pomp had an irresistible fascination for him. "It's like the movies," he'd told me once. The only thing that interested his mother about the bishop's arrival, on the other hand, was for her son not to get soaked in the rain, since she'd heard him sneeze while he was sleeping. She advised him to take along an umbrella, but he waved good-bye and left the room. It was the last time she saw him.

Victoria Guzmán, the cook, was sure that it hadn't rained that day, or during the whole month of February. "On the contrary," she told me when I came to see her, a short time before her death. "The sun warms things up earlier than in August." She had been quartering three rabbits for lunch, surrounded by panting dogs, when Santiago Nasar entered the kitchen. "He always got up with the face of a bad night," Victoria Guzmán recalled without affection. Divina Flor, her daughter, who was just coming into bloom, served Santiago Nasar a mug of mountain coffee with a shot of cane liquor, as on every Monday, to help him bear the burden of the night before. The enormous kitchen, with the whispers from the fire and the hens sleeping on their perches, was breathing stealthily. Santiago Nasar swallowed another aspirin and sat down to drink the mug of coffee in slow sips, thinking just as slowly, without taking his eyes off the two women who were disemboweling the rabbits on the stove. In spite of her age, Victoria Guzmán was still in good shape. The girl, as yet a bit untamed, seemed overwhelmed by the drive of her glands. Santiago Nasar grabbed her by the wrist when she came to take the empty mug from him.

"The time has come for you to be tamed," he told her.

Victoria Guzmán showed him the bloody knife.

"Let go of her, white man," she ordered him seriously. "You won't have a drink of that water as long as I'm alive."

She'd been seduced by Ibrahim Nasar in the fullness of her adolescence. She'd made love to him in secret for several years in the stables of the ranch, and he brought her to be a house servant when the affection was over. Divina Flor, who was the daughter of a more recent mate, knew that she was destined for Santiago Nasar's furtive bed, and that idea brought out a premature anxiety in her. "Another man like that hasn't ever been born again," she told me, fat and faded and surrounded by the children of other loves. "He was just like his father," Victoria Guzmán answered her. "A shit." But she couldn't avoid a wave of fright as she remembered Santiago Nasar's horror when she pulled out the insides of a rabbit by the roots and threw the steaming guts to the dogs.

"Don't be a savage," he told her. "Make believe it was a human being."

Victoria Guzman needed almost twenty years to understand that a man accustomed to killing defenseless animals could suddenly express such horror. "Good heavens," she explained with surprise. "All that was such a revelation." Nevertheless, she had so much repressed rage the morning of the crime that she went on feeding the dogs with the insides of the other rabbits, just to embitter Santiago Nasar's breakfast. That's what they were up to when the whole town awoke with the earthshaking bellow of the bishop's steamboat.

The house was a former warehouse, with two stories, walls of rough planks, and a peaked tin roof where the buzzards kept watch over the garbage on the docks. It had been built in the days when the river was so usable that many seagoing barges and even a few tall ships made their way up there through the marshes of the estuary. By the time Ibrahim Nasar arrived with the last Arabs at the end of the civil wars, seagoing ships no longer came there because of shifts in the river, and the warehouse was in disuse. Ibrahim Nasar bought it at a cheap price in order to set up an import store that he never did establish, and only when he was going to be married did he convert it into a house to live in. On the ground floor he opened up a parlor that served for everything, and in back he built a stable for four animals, the servants' quarters, and a country kitchen with windows opening onto the dock, through which the stench of the water came in at all hours. The only thing he left intact in the parlor was the spiral staircase rescued from some shipwreck. On the upper floor, where the customs offices had been before, he built two large bedrooms and five cubbyholes for the many children he intended having, and he constructed a wooden balcony that overlooked the almond trees on the square, where Plácida Linero would sit on March afternoons to console herself for her solitude. In the front he kept the main door and built two full-length windows with lathe-turned bars. He also kept the rear door, except a bit taller so that a horse could enter through it, and he kept a part of the old pier in use. That was always the door most used, not only because it was the natural entry to the mangers and the kitchen, but because it opened onto the street that led to the new docks without going through the square. The front door, except for festive occasions, remained closed and barred. Nevertheless, it was there, and not at the rear door, that the men who were going to kill him waited for Santiago Nasar, and it was through there that he went out to receive the bishop, despite the fact that he would have to walk completely around the house in order to reach the docks.

No one could understand such fatal coincidences. The investigating judge who came from Riohacha must have sensed them without daring to admit it, for his impulse to give them a rational explanation was obvious in his report. The door to the square was cited several times with a dime-novel title: "The Fatal Door." In reality, the only valid explanation seemed to be that of Plácida Linero, who answered the question with her mother wisdom: "My son never went out the back door when he was dressed up." It seemed to be such an easy truth that the investigator wrote it down as a marginal note, but he didn't include it in the report.

Victoria Guzmán, for her part, had been categorical with her answer that neither she nor her daughter knew that the men were waiting for Santiago Nasar to kill him. But in the course of her years she admitted that both knew it when he came into the kitchen to have his coffee. They had been told it by a woman who had passed by after five o'clock to beg a bit of milk, and who in addition had revealed the motives and the place where they were waiting. "I didn't warn him because I thought it was drunkards' talk," she told me. Nevertheless, Divina Flor confessed to me on a later visit, after her mother had died, that the latter hadn't said anything to Santiago Nasar because in the depths of her heart she wanted them to kill him. She, on the other hand, didn't warn him because she was nothing but a frightened child at the time, incapable of a decision of her own, and she'd been all the more frightened when he grabbed her by the wrist with a hand that felt frozen and stony, like the hand of a dead man.

What People are Saying About This

From the Publisher

“Exquisitely harrowing . . . very strange and brilliantly conceived . . .a sort of metaphysical murder mystery.”—The New York Times Book Review

“This investigation of an ancient murder takes on the quality of a hallucinatory exploration, a deep, groping search into the gathering darkness of human intentions for a truth that continually slithers away.” –The New York Review of Books

“Brilliant . . . A small masterpiece . . . we can almost see, smell and hear Garcia Marquez’s Caribbean backwater and its inhabitants.”—San Francisco Chronicle

“As pungent and memorable as a sharp spice, an examination of the nature of complicity and fate . . . an exquisite performance.” –The Christian Science Monitor

"A tour de force . . . In prose that is spare yet heavy with meaning, Garcia Marquez gives us not merely a chronicle but a portrait of the town and its collective psyche . . . not merely a family but an entire culture.” –The Washington Post Book World

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Chronicle of a Death Foretold 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 74 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Disappointed.  Perhaps because it was translated, I found the language to be somewhat disjointed - much like the plot. The story is quite brief and not much is actually divulged within it. The plot is scattered and somewhat difficult to follow, while the story itself has many elements that are not cohesive. Having read all of the wonderful reviews, I was expecting quite a bit more from this book.  Honestly,  I found it to be rather vulgar at times and not because of the gore. Certainly not a masterpiece in my mind. 
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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ekorrhjulet on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Remarkable! Very short, and so well written that not a word is superfluous. The very first sentence foretells the death of the protagonist, and the rest of the novella is the story leading up to its inevitable end. It is an exasperating tale, where every glimmer of hope is extinguished as soon as it's lit. The fate is already sealed.
ex_ottoyuhr on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Unlike _One Hundred Years of Solitude_, this book is actually comprehensible. But if its quality's any indication, _One Hundred Years_ must not be worth bothering with either...
hemlokgang on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
As always, Marquez has written a powerful story in this novella. In a deceptively simple plot, Marquez raises questions as to what is the level of responsibility one has to one's community and its residents? Must we protect them? Where is our personal responsibility? We know from the start that a man has died, and then the story unfolds. To me this indicates that the point of the story is not the death, but the convoluted series of events and choices made in the hours leading up to the death. What a phenomenal writer!
IlluminatedWorld on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
In this book Marquez uses names that have specific meanign to provide hidden meanings in the story. For example his mother's name was Luisa Santiaga Marquez Iguaran as in Dr. Dioniosio Igauran. There's a lot more to the story than just a chicano writer using traditional magical realism.
jburlinson on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
It's not that I don't enjoy Marquez' writings, it's more that I think the translations may emphasize a certain portentousness that may not (or, for all I know, may) be present in the originals. Just look at the title of this book, which in Spanish is Crónica de una muerte anunciada. The last word is translated by Gregory Rabassa as "Foretold." Is it wrong? Well, not completely; but it does underscore the "magical realism" element much more than the simple, and more exact, "Announced," or even "Proclaimed." True, the novella begins with a character presumably misunderstanding the more ominous signficance of the soon-to-be-victim's dream; so, "foretelling" is certainly part of the meaning of the title. But, much more, "announced" has a wider and more compelling application; it comprehends both the identification of the victim as the bride's "perpetrator" (which of course leads to the inevitable consequences), but also to the murderers' repeated declarations of their intentions, which gives numerous characters a chance to speculate on the ambivalence of the killers. There is also also the sense that the narrrator is continuing to "announce" the death decades after its enactment, a sense that is lost with the use of the word "foretold." Am I making too much of this? Perhaps so; it's only everything.
ferebend on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Those who've read the more famous One Hundred Years of Solitude will recognize the same style and the similar setting and characters. In fact, this book takes place in the same universe, with several references to people and places from the former.This is a fun, quirky, little mystery novel. Quirky, because there isn't actually any mystery, as the eponymous death was indeed foretold, with the perpetrators known to all. The mystery part comes in as the narrator returns to the town a couple decades after the events to try and peace it all together and find out how such a preventable murder was not, in fact, prevented.This book gave me the feeling that, if One Hundred Years of Solitude had been 300 pages shorter, it would've been awesome. Chronicle does not drag on at any point. The story is told summarily, and very satisfactorily, through interviews with the town's quirky (can you tell I'm overly fond of that word?) characters.Magical realism is mercifully kept to a bare minimum, with only a couple of things that could be construed as supernatural or surreal. This is quite a relief, as it was used exhaustively and largely ineffectually in Solitude.I would certainly recommend this, especially as a first foray into Márquez' work.
catapogo on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I enjoyed this book. The detail of description was, at times, a little tedious (but I struggle with that part of Marquez's style). Although the plot is fairly simple, and the primary action takes place within the space of an hour, Marquez uses this as an opportunity for describing an entire village, and seemingly everyone in it. It's a quick read as well.
ECBesa on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I think this short novella was written perfectly and is his masterpiece. The way the story evolves is a show of his mastery of writing in an a unique style.
Boobalack on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
After reading so much praise for this author, I purchased two books by him. The first one was a major disappointment, and had I read it first, I would not have bought the second one, but since I already had it and had just finished Love in the Time of Cholera, I decided to read it and get it over with. Big mistake. Big waste of time. Big waste of money. I did not enjoy reading about the condition of the dead body, with its intestines hanging out, nor did I enjoy reading about the autopsy. Never again will I buy a book by Gabriel Garcia Màrquez.
roblong on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Santiago Nasar has been murdered - on the first couple of pages we are told about the deed, and that everybody in his village knew who was going to do it, why they were going to do it, and where they were waiting for their victim, but that despite this it still happened. The novel flits back and forth, talking about how the crime came about and what happened afterwards.I must admit it didn't 'wow' me at any point, but this was excellently done. From the start you can tell you're reading a writer who really knows what he is doing. Lots of information is left out (for instance, whether Santiago is guilty of the offence for which he is to be murdered, and if not who is), leaving the focus on the vast array of characters Marquez fits into a very short space (only 120 pages), any one of whom could have halted the crime that everybody not only knew was going to happen, but knew precisely where, when and why. A story that might appear to be about a murder committed by two men becomes one about social responsibility, and when others can and should step in to prevent the worst.
Banoo on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Loss of honor, loss of virtue, loss of innocence, loss of life, loss of the facts... much was lost in this little book.Bayardo marries Angela. Bayardo on his honeymoon night realizes that Angela is no Angel, pure and simple, pun intended. Angela names her violator, poor Santiago. And poor Santiago gets butchered.And don't worry, these are not spoilers. You learn all of this in the first few pages.Told by an old friend years after the event took place, this is the chronicle of a death foretold... as the title of the book might suggest.Seems everyone in town knew who, where, why, when, and how Santiago was going to get it... except for poor Santiago.An excellent little book by an excellent writer. Read it.
theboylatham on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago

6/10.

Interesting story about the death of a single man and the effect of that day on the lives of those involved. I like the short story where GGM is concerned.

klarusu on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is a book of quiet genius. Marquez expertly crafts a picture of communal guilt in the killing of an evidently (or possibly not.....) innocent man in the name of 'family honour'. Although the final conclusion is known to the reader from the beginning, there is still artistry in the building of suspense throughout the book to the eventual act. The easy self-justification of a community who chose to say nothing rather than speak out to warn the victim is explored in depth through the investigations of a community member years later and his careful attempts to chronicle the events that led up to this killing appear as a modern day documentary or investigative reportage. The reader is left feeling frustrated by the missed opportunities to avert the course of events. The interviewer and narrator himself remains analytically detached, leaving one with the sense that whilst he dispassionately examines the culpability of others, he is yet to face his own. A very thought provoking book which adds weight to the adage that for evil to prosper, all that is needed is a good man that says nothing.
Clurb on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
An unravelling tale of a town's complicity in a local murder. Very readable.
ursula on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Slim novella, classic Garcia Marquez. Death in a small town.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
No reviews on the book, but am totally disappointed by the B&N service. I have paid for a membership & one of the facility provided is a 2 day express shipping...I got the book with a delay of 2 days...I had ordered the book for my son's school assignment & the book came in after it was due in the school. I had to go ahead & buy another book from the market & at a higher cost. The B&N customer service was pathetic...they were the rudest people on earth. I have promised myself that i am not going to ever buy any more books from B&N now...
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Miles_Brown More than 1 year ago
I was skeptical about reading this book because I had never seen or heard of it before, but my mother recommended it to me from a list of books for an independent reading assignment, so I thought why not. The format of the book was really cool. All within the first chapter, the whole plot of the book is told and the ending given away. It made me want to keep reading to find out how everything was going to play out and receive the explanation on why things happened the way they did. This book read like a crime drama on TV, where there is an unknown narrator who goes around the town asking people questions about what happened during the time of when the protagonist Santiago Nasar was murdered. Each person had a different account on what happened, down to what the weather was outside, which added even more intensity to the novel. The plot was interesting, and had many things that would draw someone’s attention: murder, mystery and problem solving. However, the novel was very overwhelming with too many different characters and their contributions to the story. It was hard to keep all the names straight and figure out who the narrator was talking about sometimes. I liked the perspective of the unknown narrator because just like me, the narrator wanted to know what happened and was willing to do some research to find out the truth. I did like that I got some new insight into the Hispanic culture. I had no idea that a wedding could be that big of a deal and that a town would get so worked up over a bishop coming to town who didn’t even want to be there. I didn’t like how much suspense this book had, I personally like to have closure when I finish reading a book and this book didn’t give me that. I was left with a feeling of emptiness when the story ended. I would have liked to eventually find out the identity of the narrator and the real truth of why no one warned Santiago about his fate. I would also like to know if Angela was protecting someone, or if she told the truth. The book left me with too many unanswered questions. I would not recommend this book to high school aged students because I had a difficult time reading this book and the concepts are very hard to grasp. I would like to try and reread this book when I am older and have a more mature understanding of literature. By Miles Brown
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The book I read was Chronicle of a Death Foretold, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. This was originally published in Colombia in Spanish, but then translated by Gregory Rabasa into English. Chronicle of a Death Foretold was published in New York, 1983. This novel is about a baffling murder that took place. The narrator, whose name is never actually said, is a dedicated reporter that is determined to get to the bottom of it and find out as much as possible. Angela Vicario and Bayardo San Roman planned to get married, until Bayardo found out the night of their wedding that Angela was not a virgin. Bayardo left her, in disgrace. When the twin brothers of Angela found out that a man named Santiago Nasar was the cause of this, they straight up declared that they were going to murder him.Santiago Nasar is definitely the main character throughout this novel, because it is about the brothers, Pedro and Pablo Vicario, killing him, and everyone else telling what they know about the murder. Pedro and Pablo told every single person that they were planning to kill Santiago, besides Santiago himself, and the confusing part, however, is that not a single one of those people warned Santiago. They did not know how to tell him and didn’t want to disrupt their own personal lives by doing so. Throughout this story, we are taken from a male reporters point of view and see many peoples reactions to Santiago Nasars death. We also learn about his household the day of the murder. “He had slept little and poorly, without getting undressed, and he woke with a headache and a sediment of copper stirrup on his palate, and he interpreted them as the natural havoc of the wedding revels that had gone on until after midnight (page 4).” He did not recognize the omen of the tragedy that was soon to occur. I did not really like this book at all. I felt like the plot was all over the place, and it was just also very boring which made it hard to follow along with. For example, it seemed like the whole novel was just unorganized in every way, and was very random. “He looked like a fairy (page 26),” a woman described how Santiago looked one day. Then, in just the next paragraph, the topic already changed to the narrator’s mother writing him letters.    From Chronicle of a Death Foretold, I learned the many different ways that somebody’s death can impact people. Some people move on with their lives, and some people cannot let go. Many people also have their different ways of coping, such as venting to other people. I would recommend this book, only for a few specific reasons, however. In my opinion it was a fairly hard read, so you probably wouldn’t enjoy this novel if you do not read things like this. Also, if you like books that don’t exactly have the biggest rising action, climax, etc., then you would most likely enjoy reading this.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Danielle_Boisvert More than 1 year ago
Santiago nasar, a young man accused of taking the virginity of Angela Vicaro. Angela's twin brothers, Pablo and Pedro Vicaro find Santiago, and kill him for his sin. I found the beggining of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's novel "Chronicle of a Death Foretold" to be very informative. I feel like he described the household just right. As i got farther and farther into the book, I became more and more interested. It's almost like the kind of book you can not put down once you start reading it. The book is about the events leading to Santiago's death. He lived in a wealthy family, taking the place of his deceased father, owning thier successful ranch. Santiago lives with his mother, Placida Linero, the cook, Victoria Guzman, and her daughter, Divina Flor. The day Santiago died was a very special day for Angela and Bayardo, it was the day the bishop was comming to bless thier marriage. Nobody believed that the twins were actually going to kill Santiago for what he had done. But they were proven wrong. After Santiago had been murdured the Vicaro family left the town, Bayardo San Roman left with his family and Pedro and Pablo went to jail for 3 years. Once Pablo got out of jail, he married Predencia Cotes, and Pedro went back to the armed forces. Even years after the crime has passed, it was still all what everyone was talking about. Though a lot of people warned Santiago of his foretold death, it failed to get through to him and as the chronicle of a death foretold lingers, so does Santiago's ghost.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago