Here’s that first line again—"It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.” The reader opens “Love in the Time of Cholera,” and the first page presents her/him with a charming puzzle—who is speaking? Whose is the voice that tells the story—the storyteller’s voice? Let’s consider the suspects. Is it one of the main characters—Dr. Juvenal Urbino, Fermina Daza, or Florentino Ariza? Nope—because the narrator is able to report on the actions of all the characters, as well as their thoughts and feeling, and do this over a period of seventy plus years. For the same reason, it can’t be one of the minor characters. Is it the author of the book, Gabriel Garcia Marquez? Some might say—duh, of course, he wrote the book, so he must be the narrator. Yeah, I always assume the author is the one telling the story—who else could it be? Hmmm. Last week, the detective figured out that the present-time of the story is in 1913. We know Garcia Marquez wrote the novel in the early 1980’s. The narrator speaks of “we,” and “us,” and seems to be referring to events that have recently occurred, so it appears the narrator is a different entity than Marquez, an entity who is aware of the events of the lives of Dr. Urbino, Fermina Daza, and Florentino Ariza, over a nearly seventy-year period, and can also see inside them to report on their thoughts and feelings. The narrator can also do this with most of the other characters. An entity that Marquez created, someone who is apparently a resident of “our” city and has access to people’s inner lives. What? How could that be? Does the story tell itself? No the narrator tells it. Really? But the narrator is a fictional character in the story. My head hurts. True art conceals art. Last time, I wrote that the reader is seduced into believing that Garcia Marquez is not telling the story, that it’s an unnamed narrator who, by the way, is never mistaken—more on that below, my friends. So, the narrator of “Love in the Time of Cholera” is an entity in the story, unnamed, who tells the story of the named characters, getting inside their skins. What effect does this narrative style have? Let’s try to answer this by considering alternatives—taking the first two sentences as an example. If the story were written in first person: “It was inevitable, I thought: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded me of the fate of unrequited love. I noticed it as soon as I entered the still darkened house…” This might actually work, the rest of the prose is so magnificent. But problems would arise quickly—how could a first-person narrator “know” the hearts and minds of the other characters? How could such a narrator “know” about situations in which they were not physically present? Well, there are ways—more illusion—but another time. Actually, the narrator in “Cholera” writes in first person—or second. “…Jeremiah de Saint-Amour could become what he was among us.” Or if it were written in third person: “It was inevitable, he thought: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love. He noticed it as soon as he entered the still darkened house…” Okay, again, this could work for parts of the story, but still, a character described in this way would not know the hearts and minds of the other characters. No, an omniscient narrator entity works well, especially when the story gets to the long description of the city and of Dr. Urbino’s house. If the story were told from say, Dr. Urbino’s first- or third-person point of view, he would have to enter a long reverie to describe things. “I was riding in my carriage and thought about the suffocating gases of the marshes, how the old slave quarters were built from weathered boards and zinc roofs.” No! Why would he notice such things, things he would probably take for granted and not notice. It would make Dr. Urbino a different character. Awkward. The chosen narrative style allows the real author to present a great number of stories—episodes—about different characters that, taken together, weave the whole story together. The reader gets to know Fermina, Dr. Urbino, and Florentino, in depth. In fact, the structure of the story, having two characters essentially separated for their adult lives, needs a narrator who can tell about both. An alternative would be to present the story in first or third person sections—say, first, a Fermina section, then, page break, a Florentino section. Actually the narrator would still be there but tucked further away. Another effect—style. I alluded to this last time, but today, let’s consider it in a new context. The narrative style of “apparently omniscient narrator” refers to an older style, when stories always had a narrator character, a story teller. Think of “Don Quixote,” or Stendhal. And “Cholera” is a tale from the past—isn’t it? (More seduction here). Using this narrative style gives the story a feel of having been written in the past when it really wasn’t. I say “apparently omniscient narrator” because it’s worth considering—does the narrator really know everything? Could it be that the characters trick the narrator, that they don’t reveal everything? Florentino, for instance, is a pretty slippery guy. I guess we’ll never know.

Here’s that first line again—"It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.” The reader opens “Love in the Time of Cholera,” and the first page presents her/him with a charming puzzle—who is speaking? Whose is the voice that tells the story—the storyteller’s voice? Let’s consider the suspects. Is it one of the main characters—Dr. Juvenal Urbino, Fermina Daza, or Florentino Ariza? Nope—because the narrator is able to report on the actions of all the characters, as well as their thoughts and feeling, and do this over a period of seventy plus years. For the same reason, it can’t be one of the minor characters. Is it the author of the book, Gabriel Garcia Marquez? Some might say—duh, of course, he wrote the book, so he must be the narrator. Yeah, I always assume the author is the one telling the story—who else could it be? Hmmm. Last week, the detective figured out that the present-time of the story is in 1913. We know Garcia Marquez wrote the novel in the early 1980’s. The narrator speaks of “we,” and “us,” and seems to be referring to events that have recently occurred, so it appears the narrator is a different entity than Marquez, an entity who is aware of the events of the lives of Dr. Urbino, Fermina Daza, and Florentino Ariza, over a nearly seventy-year period, and can also see inside them to report on their thoughts and feelings. The narrator can also do this with most of the other characters. An entity that Marquez created, someone who is apparently a resident of “our” city and has access to people’s inner lives. What? How could that be? Does the story tell itself? No the narrator tells it. Really? But the narrator is a fictional character in the story. My head hurts. True art conceals art. Last time, I wrote that the reader is seduced into believing that Garcia Marquez is not telling the story, that it’s an unnamed narrator who, by the way, is never mistaken—more on that below, my friends. So, the narrator of “Love in the Time of Cholera” is an entity in the story, unnamed, who tells the story of the named characters, getting inside their skins. What effect does this narrative style have? Let’s try to answer this by considering alternatives—taking the first two sentences as an example. If the story were written in first person: “It was inevitable, I thought: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded me of the fate of unrequited love. I noticed it as soon as I entered the still darkened house…” This might actually work, the rest of the prose is so magnificent. But problems would arise quickly—how could a first-person narrator “know” the hearts and minds of the other characters? How could such a narrator “know” about situations in which they were not physically present? Well, there are ways—more illusion—but another time. Actually, the narrator in “Cholera” writes in first person—or second. “…Jeremiah de Saint-Amour could become what he was among us.” Or if it were written in third person: “It was inevitable, he thought: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love. He noticed it as soon as he entered the still darkened house…” Okay, again, this could work for parts of the story, but still, a character described in this way would not know the hearts and minds of the other characters. No, an omniscient narrator entity works well, especially when the story gets to the long description of the city and of Dr. Urbino’s house. If the story were told from say, Dr. Urbino’s first- or third-person point of view, he would have to enter a long reverie to describe things. “I was riding in my carriage and thought about the suffocating gases of the marshes, how the old slave quarters were built from weathered boards and zinc roofs.” No! Why would he notice such things, things he would probably take for granted and not notice. It would make Dr. Urbino a different character. Awkward. The chosen narrative style allows the real author to present a great number of stories—episodes—about different characters that, taken together, weave the whole story together. The reader gets to know Fermina, Dr. Urbino, and Florentino, in depth. In fact, the structure of the story, having two characters essentially separated for their adult lives, needs a narrator who can tell about both. An alternative would be to present the story in first or third person sections—say, first, a Fermina section, then, page break, a Florentino section. Actually the narrator would still be there but tucked further away. Another effect—style. I alluded to this last time, but today, let’s consider it in a new context. The narrative style of “apparently omniscient narrator” refers to an older style, when stories always had a narrator character, a story teller. Think of “Don Quixote,” or Stendhal. And “Cholera” is a tale from the past—isn’t it? (More seduction here). Using this narrative style gives the story a feel of having been written in the past when it really wasn’t. I say “apparently omniscient narrator” because it’s worth considering—does the narrator really know everything? Could it be that the characters trick the narrator, that they don’t reveal everything? Florentino, for instance, is a pretty slippery guy. I guess we’ll never know.

I have decided to post more regularly on this site—it seems that The Fictional World of Alan Bray could contain fiction by other authors. What I want to do is communicate some thoughts I have about stories I’m reading. Please—if you want to react or add further thoughts, it would be great. Read the stories with me—our lives will be the better for it! But on these matters, I claim no expertise beyond loving to read and write. I’ve been reading Garcia Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera, re-reading it for the third time, although it’s as fresh as the first. I thought I’d start by some reactions to the start of the book, the first line. “It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.” I like the late Ross Chamber’s ideas about literature, in particular the one that stories contain cues and instructions about how they should be read. So if you read “Dick threw the ball to Jane, but Spot took it,” you learn there are three characters involved with each other, and that the style and vocabulary is simple and concrete. This first line from “Love” tells a different tale. The use of the words “inevitable” and especially “unrequited” cue the reader that the style is more intellectual, as does the prominent position of the colon. The use of the colon could signal complexity; it could also indicate an older writing style or a writing style that wants to refer to the past. There’s a hint of philosophy too in the mention of “fate.” “The scent of bitter almonds” is evocative and seductive. I’ve never smelled cyanide, although I’ve read elsewhere that it does indeed smell like bitter almonds. I hope I never find out, actually, but reading this creates mystery; it hooks you into wanting to read more. Why does the scent of bitter almonds always remind him of unrequited love? It’s not an everyday observation. And who is him? Other cues lurk. The reader can probably safely assume the story will be told in the past tense and in third person—again, possibly the signs of an older style. There’s an immediate sense of a narrator/story teller at work. I’m going to tell you a story about a “he” who is “always” reminded of unrequited love by a peculiar sensory sensation. What is “unrequited love?” A dictionary says it’s a one-sided love that is not openly reciprocated or understood as such by the beloved. The beloved may not be aware of the admirer's deep and strong romantic affection, or may consciously reject it. Hmmm—it seems like this first sentence expresses the whole story. A lot of thoughts about one sentence—if I’m reading a book for pleasure I’m in a hurry to get into it, I don’t stop and do this kind of analysis. So a lot of these signals and cues must occur at an unconscious level. Yup. You can view these post on the Blog page of this site. I hope you enjoy!

I'm happy to say my short story "The Underground" was selected as a top ten finalist in the 2019 Blood Orange Review Literary Contest. I'm proud to be among the finalists and offer congratulations to the winner. "The Underground" concerns romance between Saul and Maria, who owns a bookstore in one of Lisbon's Metro stations. Many thanks to the Blood Orange Review. #theunderground #bloodorangereview

My short story "This Year's Winner of the Starbuck's Prize" was a semi-finalist in Ruminate Magazine's William Van Dyke Short Story Prize. Congratulations to the winner. Out of 350 entries, "Starbucks" found its mooring among nineteen others, so I'm happy. For all you "Moby Dick' fans, "Starbucks" isn't exactly about Herman Melville's classic novel. It concerns a university professor who confronts the Dreamer crisis when a favorite student disappears.. Many thanks to Ruminate. #thisyearswinnerofthestarbucksprize

I'm honored that my short story "The Porous Texture of Snow" has been long-listed in the Fish Short Story Prize for 2019. This is a big international competition, so I'm pleased. And congratulations to the winners. #poroustextureofsnow #fishshortstoryprize

Happy Halloween. My story "Already She Was Root" is live on the Eclectica site. The whole issue is great; many thanks to Tom Dooley and congratulations on 20 years. #AlanBray #AlreadySheWasRoot #Eclectica

My story "Refrain" has won Honorable Mention in Glimmertrain's Fiction Open Contest. I'm very happy, Glimmertrain is one of the top literary mags and competition is fierce. "Refrain" remains unpublished though—I'm working on it. Glimmertrain #AlanBray #Refrain #Glimmertrain

I'm delighted to say that Eclectica, an on-line journal, will publish my story "Already She Was Root" on October 31st—Halloween. Over the past year, I've been working on several stories—"Root" being one—and didn't want to publish them till they were ready. Ready as defined by me, in my stubborn, obsessive way. I'm really happy that Eclectica has accepted it, I've admired them for years. "Root" is about a troubled marriage set in a parallel time period where America is divided into Red and Blue States after civil war. When the story goes live, I'll post the link. #AlanBray #AlreadySheWasRoot #Eclectica

Stephanie Hopkins and IndieBrag have just posted a short piece of mine on the Layered Pages site. It concerns how I think about writing characters in an early nineteenth-century setting. Many thanks, Stephanie. It's always a pleasure and I appreciate it. #BRAGMedallion #LayeredPages #ALANBRAY