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Zusatztext “Exquisitely harrowing . . . very strange and brilliantly conceived . . .a sort of metaphysical murder mystery.”— The New York Times Book Review “This investigation of an ancient murder takes on the quality of a hallucinatory exploration! a deep! groping search into the gathering darkness of human intentions for a truth that continually slithers away.” – The New York Review of Books “Brilliant . . . A small masterpiece . . . we can almost see! smell and hear Garcia Marquez’s Caribbean backwater and its inhabitants.”— San Francisco Chronicle “As pungent and memorable as a sharp spice! an examination of the nature of complicity and fate . . . an exquisite performance.” – The Christian Science Monitor " A tour de force . . . In prose that is spare yet heavy with meaning! Garcia Marquez gives us not merely a chronicle but a portrait of the town and its collective psyche . . . not merely a family but an entire culture.” – The Washington Post Book World Informationen zum Autor GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ was born in Colombia in 1927. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1982. He is the author of many works of fiction and nonfiction, including One Hundred Years of Solitude, Love In The Time Cholera, The Autumn Of The Patriarch, The General In His Labyrinth, and News Of A Kidnapping . He died in 2014. Klappentext A man returns to the town where a baffling murder took place 27 years earlier! determined to get to the bottom of the story. Just hours after marrying the beautiful Angela Vicario! everyone agrees! Bayardo San Roman returned his bride in disgrace to her parents. Her distraught family forced her to name her first lover; and her twin brothers announced their intention to murder Santiago Nasar for dishonoring their sister. Yet if everyone knew the murder was going to happen! why did no one intervene to stop it? The more that is learned! the less is understood! and as the story races to its inexplicable conclusion! an entire society--not just a pair of murderers—is put on trial. ON THE DAY they were going to kill him, Santiago Nasar got up at five-thirty in the morning to wait for the boat the bishop was coming on. He'd dreamed he was going through a grove of timber trees where a gentle drizzle was falling, and for an instant he was happy in his dream, but when he awoke he felt completely spattered with bird shit. "He was always dreaming about trees," Plácida Linero, his mother, told me twenty-seven years later, recalling the details of that distressing Monday. "The week before, he'd dreamed that he was alone in a tinfoil airplane and flying through the almond trees without bumping into anything," she said to me. She had a well-earned reputation as an accurate interpreter of other people's dreams, provided they were told her before eating, but she hadn't noticed any ominous augury in those two dreams of her son's, or in the other dreams of trees he'd described to her on the mornings preceding his death. Nor did Santiago Nasar recognize the omen. He had slept little and poorly, without getting undressed, and he woke up with a headache and a sediment of copper stirrup on his palate, and he interpreted them as the natural havoc of the wedding revels that had gone on until after midnight. Furthermore: all the many people he ran into after leaving his house at five minutes past six and until he was carved up like a pig an hour later remembered him as being a little sleepy but in a good mood, and he remarked to all of them in a casual way that it was a very beautiful day. No one was certain if he was referring to the state of the weather. Many people coincided in recalling that it was a radiant morning with a sea breeze coming in through the banana groves, as was to be expected in a fine February of that period. But most agreed that the weather was funereal, with a cloudy, low sky and t...
