I drew the family tree on the back of an envelope and still lost track

Seventeen Aurelianos. Seventeen! And I did try, I drew the whole family out on the back of an envelope in about the third chapter, and by the time the second José Arcadio came round I had given up and started reading it the way you'd listen to somebody's very long family story at a wedding, letting the names wash past and holding onto the good bits.

And the good bits are extraordinary. The insomnia plague, where they start labelling everything in the house so they won't forget what a cow is for. The rain that goes on for years. The yellow flowers. That business with the ice in the opening — I've read the first sentence out loud to three people now.

Is it a book I loved or a book I admired? Honestly a bit of both and I can't fully separate them. There are stretches in the middle where I could feel myself drifting, and a repetitiveness that I know is deliberate and still had to push through, and I went through the last long stretch in one Sunday outside with a jug of iced coffee because I'd finally got the rhythm of it and didn't want to lose it again.

The translation is beautiful. I have no Spanish so I'm taking that on trust, but the English sings.

Eight. I suspect it'd be a nine if I read it somewhere hot, which is not a serious critical position, and it's the one I've got.