Robert Lowells sonnet History begins as such:

History has to live with what was here,clutching and close to fumbling all we had it is so dull and gruesome how we die,unlike writing, life never finishes. Magic realism is a drowning man with a sand-parched tongue. Or better, it is a stylistic coping device. The heartbreak of that story is never in the telling, only in the tragedy and trauma it gilds. Like a world-weary man cataloguing his woes, One Hundred Years of Solitude (as a transcript) belongs to the oral folklore tradition. While the defining fanciful images of Disneys postwar hallmark films, e.g., pumpkin-cum-carriage in Cinderella and the sorceress-cum-dragon of Sleeping Beauty, heighten the paramours romantic stakes, making love as atypical as it is splendored, Solitudes five-year downpour, litter of yellow butterflies, and apotheosis of sage-like Remedios the Beauty make the utter humanity of the tale bearable. Reading magic realism as any sort of naturalism is self-deception; Mrquezs narrator believes his own myth, believing the act of manipulation to not only support the truth, but to comfort us in stomaching it. Agony is in the details, and having the Fernandas white sheets described with as much tenderness as ancestral Remedios awful bleeding out deals a softened blow, but a blow nonetheless. When Rebeca howls, Its not right for them to come to me with that memory right now as (unbeknownst to her) nephew Aureliano Triste combs through her derelict house, that is the sound of a life that has lost its trickeries; her skeletal frame and balding head have shed the necessary fat and locks of vitality. Mrquezs Buendas greet history as an native yet unwelcome poltergeist whose existence is independent of the ticking years and wars and Macondo even, only [living] with what was here.