Shaking. Breathless. A little heartbroken. This book isn’t just a classic—it’s the classic. A literary thunderstorm. A divine spiral of storytelling, soaked in loneliness and fate. It traces a family's rise and fall—births and deaths, dreams and decay—until all that remains is silence. The writing is lush. The imagination? Boundless. It flows like a river, and then—stops. And you just sit there. In awe. But the part that left me cold was the ending. Aureliano deciphers the parchment, only to realize he's reading the prophecy of his family’s extinction. Including his own death. And as he reads it... it happens. Right there. Full circle. It hit me like a ghost story. A dream folding in on itself. And the names… repeated for generations like echoes. So when the last Aureliano dies, it truly feels like fate completed a full loop. Like time devoured itself. It reminded me of this line I once read: "The sun, at every moment, is both rising and setting. When it quietly sinks behind one mountain, it blazes brightly on the other side. Someday, I too will descend. But elsewhere, some child will be climbing, laughing, arms full of toys. Of course, that won’t be me. But then again… won’t it?" That’s One Hundred Years of Solitude. A book about endings. That somehow keeps echoing. — #Entertainment #Books #OneHundredYearsOfSolitude