Making Love in 100 Years of Solitude

Spring is in the air, everyone is kissing and flirting with everyone. Flowers stun bees with their colors and scent to get stung with a shot of pollen. Butterflies flit about. Clouds shed their heavy grays to wear puffy whites so they can dance lightly with the winds on scrubbed skies. Colors riot, birds are crazy, because it's time to make love. And what better book than 100 Years of Solitude to serenade you love with, and to use as a love making guide:

“Come here,” he said. Rebeca obeyed. She stopped beside the hammock in an icy sweat, feeling knots forming in her intestines, while José Arcadio stroked her ankles with the tips of his fingers, then her calves, then her thighs, murmuring: “Oh, little sister, little sister.” She had to make a supernatural effort not to die when a startlingly regulated cyclonic power lifted her up by the waist and despoiled her of her intimacy with three clashes of its claws and quartered her like a little bird. She managed to thank God for having been born before she lost herself in the inconceivable pleasure of that unbearable pain, splashing in the steaming marsh of the hammock which absorbed the explosion of blood like a blotter.

So they rented a house across from the cemetery and established themselves there with no other furniture but José Arcadio’s hammock. On their wedding night a scorpion that had got into her slipper bit Rebeca on the foot. Her tongue went to sleep, but that did not stop them from spending a scandalous honeymoon. The neighbors were startled by the cries that woke up the whole district as many as eight times in a single night and three times during siesta, and they prayed that such wild passion would not disturb the peace of the dead.

Here's to waking up the dead around and within because it's spring. And its in that hammock where we thrash and cling where we are one but also two because the pleasure is in you and me being you and me with each other waking up the dead.