Love is not a condition of the spirit but a sign of the zodiac.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Profession: Novelist
Nationality: Colombian

Love is not a condition of the spirit but a sign of the zodiac. Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Some suggestions for you :

What Uncle Leo XIII never suspected was that his nephew's courage did not come from the need to survive or from a brute indifference inherited from his father, but from a driving need for love, which no obstacle in this world or the next would ever break.

That dawn he officiated at the daily mass of his ablutions with more frenetic severity than usual, trying to purge his body and spirit of twenty years of fruitless wars and the disillusionments of power.

The truth is that she spoke about her misfortune without any shame in order to cover up the other misfortune, the real one, that was burning in her insides.

If men gave birth, they'd be less inconsiderate.

He was aware he did not love her. He had married her because he liked her haughtiness, her seriousness, her strength, and also because of some vanity on his part, but as she kissed him for the first time he was sure there would be obstacle to their inventing true love.

I always had understood that dying of love was mere poetic license.

He himself, facing a firing squad, would not understand too well the concatenation of the series of subtle but irrevocable accidents that bought him to that point.

It was a lone voice in the middle of the ocean, but it was heard at great depth and great distance.

In the end, it is impossible not to become what others believe you are.

Dr. Urbino replied without looking at her: I did not know that fellow was a poet. And then he wiped him from his memory, because among other things, his profession had accustomed him to the ethical management of forgetfulness.

At dawn, after a summary court martial, Arcadio was shot against the wall of the cemetery. In the last two hours of his life he did not manage to understand why the fear that had tormented him since childhood had disappeared.

He was invaded by an unreasoning calm, which he interpreted as an omen that nothing new was going to happen, that everything he had done in his life had been in vain, that he could not go on: it was the end.

Old people, with other old people, are not so old.

He repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stone cutter more obstinate, no manager more lucid or dangerous, than a poet.