The bombardment of opinions about García Márquez in the days following his death has been as inordinate as his novels and short stories. It is rare for a writer to garner so much interest in this technocratic and postmodern age, from the Twitter witticism to the funereal eulogy of the print media. Perhaps it's all because García Márquez, more than a singular writer, is himself an entire literature. His One Hundred Years of Solitude not only became the world's best seller in 1967, but also made European and North American readers suddenly take notice of Latin America as a fabled land. After that novel, nothing would ever be the same. From then on, the work of authors from the other side of the Atlantic was no longer ignored and people in Spain realized that the fiefdom of literature was not limited to the Peninsula. Borges, Carpentier, Rulfo, Cortázar, Onetti, Sábato, Paz, Vallejo, Huidobro and so many others began to be read seriously. García Márquez helped us to become less provincial.

CS. Lewis said that readers of best sellers actually go to books to confirm their ideas and prejudices about things. They don't want books to make them think about complex reality, they don't want to imagine new worlds.

The mythical utopia of Macondo, with its interchangeable pairs of men and women, its sudden magics and apocalyptic nature, was undoubtedly surprising in its day, but it consecrated an anthology of clichés about Latin America: that superstitious territory, with lots of sex and Caribbean sweats, family passions and beautiful ladies who fly up to heaven. García Márquez, like the Lorca of the Romancero gitano, elevated the topic to literary excellence, but he could not escape stereotyped readings or imitators of much lesser level. Borges commented mischievously that Lorca was a professional Andalusian. Of García Márquez it could be said, without a doubt, that he was a professional Latin American.

Apparently, his books have seen an enormous increase in sales in the last few days. I dare to recommend that, before starting with the sentimental upheaval of Love in the Time of Cholera or the exotic cocktail of One Hundred Years of Solitude, whoever wants to start with his work should choose the austerity of The Colonel Has No One to Write to him or the virtuosity of Chronicle of a Death Foretold. Or, if you want, the stories of Los Funerales de la Mama Grande. There we find a García Márquez just as important, but more contained and less professional of the telluric. Sometimes, the best and most exquisite is not in the most obvious. Many things have been said about the 20th century writer who has sold the most books in the world at Spanish . It is likely that his work will enter the solemn pantheon of those less ephemeral books that we call classics. With the permission of impatient eulogists, it will be at least a couple of generations before that happens. However, until then, one thing will be clear forever: many years later, facing the firing squad of history, everyone will remember García Márquez as the writer who discovered Latin America for the world.