By Orly Benaroch Light

I only hope to convey the feeling I felt the very first time I opened the covers of One Hundred Years of Solitude. It hit me like starlight—it was sudden, timeless, boundless. I remember thinking to myself: So now I'm reading with my whole soul.

It reminded me of an experience many years ago in the Himalayas. A group of us were trekking near Annapurna when we paused—to catch our breath. No village in sight. No trail markers. Just endless sky.

Stars twinkled with such force, such brilliance, it felt as if you could step right into them.

That is what reading Márquez felt like.

Not escape, but entry. The back door you didn't see, suddenly opening. Into memory, into mystery, into magic. Into the hum of what it means to be human in all its ache.

I'll never read the book for the very first time again. Its enchantment has in no way lessened, though. If anything, it has only remained even brighter.

These days, I read slowly. I pause frequently—not because I’ve lost track of the plot, but because it’s well worth recalling again. Because existence, with all its pleasure and rough edges, has sharpened the words to be truer.

When Gabriel García Márquez sat down to write One Hundred Years of Solitude, he risked everything. He quit his job, sold his car, and pawned his wife Mercedes’s mixer and hairdryer to carry on. He went into debt for the tale.

And after presenting the first draft to her at long last, she said: “This had better be one good novel.”

It was.

Not even because of the magical prose. But because Márquez wrote from experience lived to the fullest—vivid, dangerous, passionate. You can't reproduce that. You can't research it or diagram it on an Excel spreadsheet. You live it. Then, if you're lucky, you find the words.

I look back at it all a lot nowadays as I traverse the latter sections of my own life. These days, I’m accumulating wisdom instead of possessions.

As much as I’ve derived inspiration from Márquez, my own wisdom didn’t come from his words. It came from living with an open heart—with my feet in the flames.

He once wrote: “Nobody will ever be able to take away the dances you have already enjoyed.”

That resonates with me.

Loss has happened to me—not just people, but places, roles, dreams. Futures I thought would be mine. I had to let them go.

The dances, though. The laughter-filled meals. The late-night conversations. The early light, coffee. The quiet strength. No one can take those from me.

He also said: “It is not the case that people cease to dream as one ages; it is the case that people age as dreaming is no longer pursued.”

Let that one sink in.

We’re sold the idea that aging is a gradual fading. What if it’s something else? What if it’s the refining fire—a crossing into something that shines more brightly? A quieter, longer-lasting kind of significance?

A few more of Márquez’s truths now strike me as more relevant than ever:

• Wisdom only comes to us after it is no longer useful to us.

• A minute in reconciliation is better than living the rest of one’s life as friends.

• “The heart forgets the wrongdoing but retains the good.”

• “A real friend is one who takes your hand and reaches your heart.”

And always—there is still something to be loved.

That one, in particular? It has helped me understand one of the most difficult truths in life.

I never believed that love was some winnable goal or final destination. I loved by trusting—people, the world, the moment. That trust brought heartbreak. It left me sometimes weary of trying again.

But now, I see love differently. I see it as practice. As an act. As a way of being in the world.

We love anyway. We love again. We love even when it’s hard—especially then. But not when it dims our light. Not when it costs us our peace.

Whether it’s a person, a calling, a place, or a history—there is always something to love.

I will always remember one stop we made in a small village while trekking to Annapurna. In a quiet courtyard, a ten-year-old girl lay ill. A shaman was performing a healing ceremony, waving sage, smoke, and a live chicken over her.

We asked what was wrong. They told us she had something in her chest. My children’s father, a doctor, examined her. We had antibiotics in our backpack. We gave some to her parents—along with the name, dosage instructions, and information on where to get more.

Ten days later, on our way back through the village, we stopped again.She was in the courtyard, playing with the other children.

That is love—even between strangers in a remote Nepalese village.Love needs no shared language—only the one we all speak as human beings.

I have loved. I have lost. Raised children, raised questions. Let go, held on. Come to terms with some things, made stories out of the rest.

I am no wiser than anyone else. But I’ve learned to listen—sometimes. To others, and to the stories inside me.

We should have written:“Fiction began the day Jonah returned from work three days late, telling his wife he’d spent the time as a guest inside a whale.”

He did get it. Stories don’t just help us understand the world—they help us survive in it. Sometimes, they even help us begin again.

And if you’re reading these words thinking your golden years are already behind you—they’re not. There is always something worth being passionate about, new opportunities to embrace, and a growth mindset to cultivate.

As for me, I have no plans to stop dancing anytime soon.

One Hundred Years of Solitude—this is a novel every human should read at least once in a lifetime.