Here lies Gabriel García Márquez. Believed by many to be a magician.
Journalist. Writer. Husband. A man who didn’t try. He did.
Here lies Gabriel García Márquez, long arrived from somewhere else. A gypsy in exile. He walked up this land here and here and finally settled here. The inky footsteps are visible like those of Armstrong’s, just not in the dusty terra. But on the page, instead.
Here’s the chin on which he took the hits from Roberto Bolaño, Mario Vargas Llosa, Brian Fawcett, and a few others. Notice its lack of irregularities.
Here’s the illusionist who first died in 2000 and published his farewell poem called “La Marioneta,” which shortly afterwards was determined to be the work of a Mexican ventriloquist.
Here lies the writer who disconnected the telephone and wrote no words in 2005. The showman shaman who decided to cancel all gigs, all trips, all friends.
Here lies Gabo.
After he was born, he lived, and then he died. And after he died, he was dead. Just like everybody else.