Convolutions, etc.

            All of this is my own meandering; there is no logical argument. As a writer (and reader who reads like one), Enishte Effendi’s brush with death in Venice in Pamuk’s My Name is Red and the Catalonian bookseller’s world-weary flight from Macondo in Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude thrill me most; the vignette form and its brand of humanity under narrative pressure trumps any devastating psychodrama.

            What interests me is not the conflict within the human heart. Give me a heart, sure, but a heart in extraordinary circumstances and a getaway with dreadful odds. In Toni Morrison’s Beloved, fugitive slave Sethe, a woman heavy with her own sins and those of others, finally requites freedman Paul D’s twenty-year love. Though both were whipped the same by the impassively diabolical schoolteacher (who never earns a name), their empathy is silently understood.

            His look begs for caring hands on his “tobacco tin” of a heart, and Sethe knows; “he wants me to ask him about what [his bridling] was like for him…held down by iron…the wildness that shot up into the eye the moment the lips were yanked back” (84). How does one begin to articulate that violence? Paul D’s enslaved smile, the leather scouring his mouth’s corners… A slave knows death without dying.  And perhaps the saw in the toolshed was the proverbial bit in Sethe’s own mouth.

            But we’ve seen this anguish before; in One Hundred Years of Solitude, patriarch José Arcadio Buendía unravels time as nothing but a construct and in his madness is tied to a tree until his death years later. Yet Beloved isn’t a fable/parable/creation myth, but rather a neo-slave narrative. “Sixty million and more,” the book’s epigraph reads. Morrison’s Sethe and Paul D stand against a background of institutionalized evil, having lost some fragment of selfhood (otherwise they are “something else and that something else was less than a chicken sitting in the sun on the tub)" (86). Schoolteacher’s perverse plantation management is the insult to the blunt force trauma of American slavery. These raised stakes make that moment of wild eyes all the more pitiful.

            I should soon be a critic and not a reader.

Coloring Book

Toni Morrison’s Beloved is an amalgamation of topics that beg to be discussed; race as color is particularly important throughout the first half of the novel. Beloved cues readers into this theme via subconscious reasoning: the many examples of color vivify both the language of the novel and the issues of a social hierarchy dependent on race which need to be addressed.

There hardly exists a page of Beloved without some wild splash of color. From the very first page (“the gray and white house on Bluestone Road” (3)) to nearly half way through the novel (the mud flood described as “dark brown slime” (110)), Morrison’s language exhibits a direct correlation of race and color.

The literally “marked” category of coloredwoman (her whipping scars) comes in direct contrast with ethereal woman-in-white and Beloved-as-character (“a white dress knelt down next to her mother and had its sleeve around her mother’s waist” (29)). Different dresses throughout the novel also embody color in their varying degrees of cleanliness (ie: milk-stained mother-dress, bedding dress, etc), in which their relative darkness from dirt is implied.

Light is explored in a manner far more creative and complicated than “light and dark”, however. Two stunning and perhaps outrageous examples are that of baby Beloved’s pulsing red light (from the first time we encounter Paul D, the “hazelnut” man on page 9) and Denver’s “green closet” (37), a lively bush-built hideaway. These two powerful centers of safety for Denver are conjured up more than once—in fact they both play a rather prominent part in the understanding of the novel.

Morrison also paints with plants, particularly trees; her many examples of green life evoke interesting imagery and push the back-burner issue of race to the forefront of readers’ minds. Aside from Brother, other (nameless) trees are often mentioned—a few examples include page 109’s yellow poplar and 51’s mulberry tree. “By the time the white petals died,” page 64 examples, “and the mint-colored berry poked out, the leaf shine was gilded tight and waxy.”     

By layering so many colors in to the novel, and so frequently, Morrison brings forward the idea of color in a reader’s mind. Whether or not a reader is fully aware of this, she is processing the concept of color almost constantly throughout Beloved, and in this way, is processing our societal basis of race, which of course is skin color (and not ethnic background). Beloved invites discussion of race both outright (with obvious themes of slavery and inequality) and subtly (with its under-the-surface evocation of race as color) in each turn of the page.  

Identity in Beloved

American slavery dehumanized and erased the identities of its victims. Toni Morrison elaborates on this effect of slavery in her signature novel, Beloved. In the story, each of the primary characters struggles with their identities.

Sethe has only a very limited memory of her past before arriving at Sweet Home. Before Beloved’s appearance, the novel does not reveal anything about her childhood. What she does eventually remember is painful and shocking to her. The structure of slavery keeps her away from her mother- Sethe is raised by a disabled slave woman while her mother works in the field. Slavery’s violence steals her mother from her forever when she is hanged. In this way, the matrilineal descent is disrupted and Sethe’s self-identity is damaged because she blocks out the painful memories of her childhood. She similarly represses her memories of punishment and rape at Sweet Home until Paul D, a living reminder of Sweet Home, reappears in her life.

Denver struggles to conceive of herself in her loneliness. She grows up without the benefit of a significant social context, which is particularly difficult for a young person, as a result of the community casting out Sethe. Her primary contacts are Baby Suggs, who unfortunately passes away when Denver is still very young, and her mother. Denver enjoys hearing the story of her birth, which includes Amy Denver, the woman for whom Denver is named. Denver has a sense of personal history, having always been free, that her formerly enslaved mother does not have. However, the damage done to her mother by slavery continues to harm Denver as well. Sethe has been irrevocably altered by her experiences, and she passes on the fear of memory to her daughter.

Beloved calls herself by the name on her tombstone, and states that she has no last name. Her lack of last name signifies the way slaves were either not given a last name or given the name of the family that owns them, as is the case for Paul D. Garner. When Beloved first comes to 124, she says that she has no memories, much like an infant. As the novel continues, a few of her memories do come up. It is unclear if Beloved is purposely hiding her memories from the family or if they come to her as she tells them. Beloved loves to hear about Sethe’s past, as if soaking in her family’s history, the same way that Denver listens to the story of her birth.

Memory

There's a certain element about this book that caught my attention; similar to themes from 100 Years Of Solitude. In addition to the magical realism aspect, there was a specific attention to time from the first half of Beloved that stood out to me. The quote is "If you go there-you who was never there....it's going to be there always waiting for you." In this quote, Denver is recalling what Sethe had once told her about the persistence of things; in a similar manner which we saw in 100 Years, discussing the circular nature of time in the story. In Marquez' book, we see the past, present, and future all overlap at different points in the novel. So far Beloved offers a similar message. One obvious example is the ghost of Sethe's deceased first born baby, which hangs around and haunts, keeps company, excites the residents of 124-in any case the past manifests itself in the present in this transparent way. Other quotes in the novel allude to permanence as well. On pages 42 and 43, there are references to dead coming back to life, or staying alive rather, and "places" remaining, in reality or memory. This can be a burden, however, as Sethe's memories prove to carry quite a weight on her soul. Early in the book we see Sethe try to forget her past as much as possible. We see her physically convulse when describing the past, and heed Denver about the power of lessons from the past. So like in 100 Years, we see recursion being used, maybe as a tool or crutch, or possibly the issue of time will be used as a larger theme or motif as the book develops.

Repressing Memories

From the beginning, I had certain expectations for Beloved as a neo-slave narrative. I was looking for the importance of collective memory, emphasis on tradition, a strong mother/daughter relationship, and definitely the sharing of a history. So far, however, Toni Morrison approaches many of these themes that are very prevalent in other slave narratives in a different way.

The biggest surprise to me was the emphasis on repressing memories. Baby Suggs has lost the memories of her eight children, and much of her past life. Sethe, most importantly, finds it too difficult to think about the past and has forgotten much about her two sons. Denver tells us that Sethe doesn't share with her memories or stories about Sweet Home, where she lived as a slave. Only when Paul D visits do the memories start to slowly come out.

The surprise I felt is because in other neo-slave narratives and works, there is traditionally an emphasis on sharing history and memories in order to solidify a collective identity the enslaved. Sethe's memory repression is sure to affect her and Denver's sense of identity because they will not be able to align themselves with an important group to which they belong.

These painful memories, so painful that Baby Suggs dies under their weight, need to be kept alive so that the history remains true and in mind of the people. I likened this to 100 Years of Solitude because if memory is wiped out, then we are doomed to repeat history with all of its flaws.

Resurrected Baby?

Early in the novel it is apparent that there is a connection between the baby ghost that angrily haunts the house, 124, and the character who enters the novel shortly, named Beloved. 'Beloved', after all, is the one word inscribed on the baby's tombstone and the character Beloved's extreme attachment to Sethe, the mother of the dead baby, forges an obvious connection. Thus far the novel indicates that Beloved may be a reincarnation of the dead baby. When Denver asks Beloved, "'Why you call yourself Beloved,'" Beloved replies, "'In the dark my name is Beloved'" (75). Denver is also acutely aware of how Beloved asks questions she shouldn't have the context to be able to ask: "'Where your diamonds?' 'Your woman she never fix up your hair?' And most perplexing: Tell me your earrings. How did she know" (63). The implication being, possibly, that Beloved has been watching them for some time, has been around, though she has not physically manifested until now. 

The anger that the baby ghost is associated with does not seem to be quite so obviously manifested in Beloved. However, there is are also implications that Sethe may be involved in the death of the child from the question Nelson Lord asks Denver at school: "'Didn't your mother get locked away for murder? Wasn't you in there with her when she went'" (104) and the page 5 mention, "Not only did she have to live out her years in a house palsied by the baby's fury at having its throat cut...her knees, wide open as the grave, were longer than life, more alive, more pulsating than the baby blood that soaked her fingers like oil." The blood being on her hands could work figuratively or literally in this instance but that it stains her hands and is like oil, extremely difficult to remove, could indicate some sort of guilt on Sethe's part. 

Though Beloved often seems devotedly loving towards Sethe the scene in the clearing where Denver swears, "I saw your face. You made her choke" (101). This scene is extremely powerful as the dialogue parallels what I am projecting as a mirror of Beloved's own feeling of betrayal: "'You told me you loved her.' 'I fixed it, didn't I? Didn't I fix her neck?' 'After. After you choked her neck.' 'I kissed her neck. I didn't choke it. The circle of iron choked it'" (101). What is so powerful in this scene is the distance between the action and the guilt. To say that the circle of iron choked the neck implies how mechanical and inhumane the death was. How there was not feeling to the act of murder, that it was dissociative. 

Internalizing Subjugation Beyond Slavery

            Being born and raised slave—a commodity, a thing to be bought and sold at another person’s discretion—has obvious lasting effects that linger inside (and on the skin of) a person even when liberty is obtained. Sethe has internalized her subjugation so that rather than being a slave to a white colonist, she is now a slave to her own home and past.

            While at Sweet Home Sethe attempted to subvert the feeling of subjugation, of belonging to someone else “because she wanted to love the work she did, to take the ugly out of it, and the only way she could feel at home on Sweet Home was if she picked up some pretty growing thing and took it with her” (27). But when Sethe escaped she was subjugated not to Sweet Home, but to her own home—or to the spirit haunting her home. Even with the house/ghost driving Denver mad, Sethe refuses to leave: “No moving. No leaving. It’s all right the way it is,” (17) she tells Paul D. Despite being free from the yoke of Sweet Home, Sethe surrenders her autonomy to the house that binds her to itself and to her past.

            Sethe may have physically obtained her freedom, but she has internalized the slave mindset so that she is still mentally subjugated to a force outside of herself. While at Sweet Home she leaned on it as though “it really was one. As though a handful of myrtle stuck in the handle of a pressing iron propped against the door in a whitewoman’s kitchen could make it hers. As though mint sprig in the mouth changed the breath as well as its odor” (28). Though Sethe now has her own kitchen it seems all the mint sprig in the world couldn’t change the odor of subjugation that lingers in her home and in herself. 

Magical Realism Fills the Gap

            While it may be considered lighthearted and maybe a bit silly at times, the genre of magical realism fuses well with the narratives surrounding slavery because it fills the gap between the modern day reader’s sense of morality and the horrible occurrences of slavery. This is the case for Beloved because the genre turns the novel into something that is closer to fantasy—something we can believe but not relate to. It creates a distance between the reader and the story, a distance that is important when speaking about a part of history that is so hard to examine.

            The supernatural elements within the novel begins when the narrative does, when author Toni Morrison writes, “124 was spiteful” (3).  Through this first sentence we identify the house as a character itself.   We learn later that the reason the house is a character is because it is being controlled by the spirit of a young girl, so young that she was never named. In later sections of the novel, we will see that “124 was loud” (199), and “124 was quiet” (281) which shows that, like any other character, 124 goes through some development. While this element may be hard to accept at first, it is one of the strongest supernatural elements and a key piece to the distance between the reader and the novel.

            Another supernatural element is the arrival of the character Beloved. While the family believes that she is merely a traveler, there is later a moment in which she and Denver bond and it is revealed that she may be the return of the baby whose spirit controlled 124. When Denver asks why she calls herself Beloved, she replies “in the dark my name is Beloved” (88). We know that the child Sethe had died before she could be named, but that the word “beloved” was inscribed on her tombstone.

Additionally, when describing where she was before she got to 124, Beloved explains that it was “dark” and that “a lot of people is down there. Some is dead” (88).

            While these supernatural elements make the novel engaging, as I have said before, it also creates a distance that makes it easier to enjoy the novel while still identifying the cruelties of slavery and the devastating conditions of life as an African American in the reconstruction era. While it is unfortunate that authors must “water-down” the concept of slavery and reconstruction, if it means that readers will be engaged in the story and want to read it then it is beneficial. 

Paul D's Lack of Adoration

                One of the things I find most intriguing when reading Beloved is how Beloved invokes such different responses, but equally powerfully, from each family member.  These responses range from adoration to a strong dislike, enough to want to kick Beloved out of the house.  Paul D’s response to Beloved is the one I find most interesting because it differs greatly from Sethe and Denver’s reaction.  Paul D is not captivated by Beloved like the others and does not try to endlessly please her.  In fact, he is suspicious of her stating that, “Something funny ‘bout that gal” (56).  I think that Paul D’s dislike of Beloved stems from two distinct reasons.

            The first reason I believe Paul D dislikes Beloved is because she is taking Sethe’s attention away from him.  Paul D has not seen Sethe for eighteen years and has traveled through harsh conditions to end up with her.  He explains his travels to Sethe saying, “I been in territory ain’t got no name, never staying nowhere long.  But when I got here and sat out there on the porch, waiting for you, well, I knew it wasn’t the place I was heading toward; it was you” (46).  Then, just as Sethe, Paul D, and Denver go to the carnival, have a great day, and start to feel like a family, Beloved shows up.  While Paul D wants to take care of her at first, he begins to resent her presence when Beloved does not leave.  When Paul D comes home at night, Sethe is not waiting for his arrival, but spending time with Beloved.  He decides that it is time to kick Beloved out of the house when he notices, “some petlike adoration that took hold of her as she looked at Sethe” (64).  While Paul D does have good reasons for not trusting Beloved and her past, his dislike grows from the way Beloved captures Sethe’s attention.

            The second reason that I believe Paul D dislikes Beloved is because she pays no attention to him.  When Paul D initially recognizes the obsession that Beloved has with Sethe, he mistakenly believes adoration (which he refers to as shining) is for him.  However, when he realizes that her “shining” is not for him, he begins to detest Beloved’s presence stating, “He wanted her out” (66).  Beloved often acts as if Paul D is not there.  If she does acknowledge his presence, she treats his poorly and does not answer his questions.  He observes her behavior: “she paid him no attention at all – frequently not even answering a direct question put to her.  She would look at him and not open her mouth” (64).  He reacts to these actions by quizzing Beloved about her past and how she ended up at 124.  He does not start to push for Beloved’s departure until he notices her cold attitude towards him.

            Beloved seems to have won over every member of the family except Paul D.  While none of the family knows Beloved’s past, Paul D is the only one who is suspicious.  This stems from Beloved stealing Sethe’s attention from himself and Beloved not paying any attention to him.  For these two reasons, Paul D pushes for Beloved’s departure from 124.

Denver as Mother-Sister

            I’m starting to think that incest is the only qualification needed to win the Nobel Prize.  Not really, but at this rate V. C. Andrews should prepare a lecture.  I’ve only read half of the novel, but I’m starting to notice how unnatural the connections the women in this family have.  It struck me at first with Denver and Beloved, and although I have no textual proof that there is anything out of the ordinary, Denver’s desperation to keep Beloved in the family seems startling.  Denver alone knows the secret of Beloved’s true nature.  She is the incarnate ghost of the dead child.  Although Beloved only has attention to give to Sethe, (I will get to my thoughts on that later) Denver casts her own maternal gaze upon her.  Denver wants to teach Beloved how to tie her shoes, how to do chores, anything that will form a connection between them.  This might just be showing how lonely Denver is without the ghost, or emphasize how sad it was that her only connection to another spirit was a ghost in the first place, but it is also starting to get a bit creepy.  She oven refers to the tip of something peaking out of Beloved’s dress.  I believe it is an umbilical chord, and that is very weird, but referring to it as an unnamed fleshy object with a tip arouses sexual connotations. 

            Beloved’s interest in Sethe also seems a bit over dramatic.  Sometimes it seems like she is trying to kill Sethe, and other times the love she has seems romantic.  On page 114, a spirit chokes Sethe and she moans in pleasure as Beloved puts her fingers on her neck to soothe her.  The contrast between Beloved’s benevolent actions and her loving gestures are very suspicious, yet Denver would choose Beloved over Sethe since she feels a sense of responsibility over her.  I also think that Beloved might have had sex with Paul D, which would cause some problems.  Beloved’s intentions may be to kill Sethe in order to have Sethe for herself in the afterlife.  She often states that the house is “where she is” meaning that she does not plan to leave.  Could her intention be to kill Sethe, and live as ghosts in the house together? 

The Nostalgia and Madness of 100 Years

(Nikki’s post and a class with Dr. Doggett encouraged me to discuss the notion of nostalgia.)

       Nostalgia stereotypically carries a positive connotation but its etymological root is in the word nausea. Homesickness relates memory to feel physically ill. While nostalgia can mean fondly looking back, it is also a feeling of unease. In 100 Years, Ursula exemplifies these seemingly polar definitions. The bedridden Ursula, in her recounting of the family history to the children, regresses into the past to reach the details of her dynastic family.

      Colonel Aureliano Buendias exhibits in the first brief moments of the novel his connection to memory. His immediate flashback to childhood, the earliest we can recall, allows his life—which will become only a memory—to come full-circle, in the way that the novel tends to do.

      The Colonel’s nostalgia comes in the form of regret. The mistakes he’s made come back to haunt him as he sinks further into the madness of isolation. He later views the treaty he signed with the Conservatives as a sign of personal weakness. He allows, despite hearty protest, the execution of his long-time friend Moncada. His rash decision to threaten warfare resulted in the assassination of sixteen of his sons, who could be identified by the crosses on their foreheads and who were killed uniformly.

      Colonel Aur. provides an interesting case study: his lack of social interaction and his obsessive behavior show the old man’s deteriorating sanity. His serial depression and mental instability stem from the need to entirely remember the past.

      The golden fish he’d create out of hobby or habit suddenly haunt him. He cannot create anything new—all the fish have to come from something old. He melts down his old models in order to create new ones because he longs for the sincerity of the past. He has destroy the past in order to recreate it, to know it, to remember it. His dying moments are the beginning of the tale, so we already know the story will be cyclical. Throughout his adult life and as an old man, he is wracked by the clutches of nostalgia.

      Nostalgia in the novel does not only apply to the elderly, however. Jose Arcadio Buendias tries to delve back into his past by exploring Melquiades’ documents in isolation. He also falls into the trap of madness via isolation.

      Nostalgia is bittersweet. It can be kind, and it can be evil.  

The Sad Waltzes of Pietro Crespi

Gabriel Garcia Marquez said that he wanted to write a book about incest, and of the various reoccurring and prominent themes throughout 100 Years of Solitude incest is perhaps the most prevalent. Macondo is essentially a town founded on incest, and despite their various misfortunes throughout the novel, the Buendia family can’t seem to get enough of each other—literally. Jose Arcadio Buendia and Ursula Iguaran’s children may not have been born with pig tails as they had feared, but their children surely lacked something to be desired: Colonel Aureliano Buendia and his seemingly endless and pointless war, the marriage of Jose Arcadio and Rebeca (though the two are technically not brother and sister, the way they were raised as such can be seen as a sort of incest in itself), and Amaranta’s cruel refusal of Pietro Crespi which ultimately led to his suicide give us just a glimpse of the consequences of incest. 

Incestuous desires seem to be the greatest weakness of the Buendia family; even when given the chance to love (and be loved by) someone outside of the family the Buendias’ can’t help but to gravitate towards each other. Both Rebeca and Amaranta fall in love with—the seemingly desirable and endearing—Pietro Crespi, but Rebeca is overcome with Jose Arcadio supposed “manliness,” and Amaranta, though she obviously regrets her harsh decision, refuses Crespi when he finally gives himself over to her. It seems Amaranta would rather torture herself by having incestuous relationships with her nephews than break the Buendia family tradition of ‘keeping it in the [Buendia] family.’ Even when Amaranta “listened to the waltzes of Pietro Crespi she felt the same desire to weep that she had had in adolescence, as if time and harsh lessons had meant nothing” (277). It seems as though time and harsh lessons, from the death of Prudencio and the founding of Macondo to its udder ruin, meant nothing to any of the Buendia family. 

Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s Suicide Attempt

Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s Suicide Attempt

            Colonel Gerineldo Marques captured the emptiness that leads to Colonel Aureliano Buendía attempt in his statement “You’re rotting alive” (165). 

            The Colonel was always slightly detached from others, yet his love for Remedios and his early passion for the war showed that he did have a certain capacity for emotion. Yet the passion that is invested in the war is wasted away as he realizes the hopelessness of it all, and that it is pride that keeps the war raging.           

           The two central parts in his life, love and war, served as vessels for emotion and they both failed him. Such losses paved the way for his act of shooting himself in the chest. Unlike the two before him the Colonel’s shot was placed “perfectly”, and he is not allowed to end his life. This miracle does not change his mind on the value of life for he believes that surviving made him look like a fool.

            While Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s attempt does not end in his death it does begin the end of his emotions, and soon his memories, and he withdraws from his family even more. Just as the family as a whole turns in on itself with more and more incestuous occurrences (José Arcadio Buendía and Úrsula Iguarán, Arcadio and Pilar Ternera etc.) on the smaller scope the individuals turn into themselves as well, and the Colonel locks himself away in his workshop. When the president of the Republic tries to award the Colonel with the Order of Merit he rejects its. He states that he “was not a hero of the nation as they said but an artisan without memories whose only dream was to die of fatigue in the oblivion and misery of his little gold fishes” (214). Once again the idea of losing one’s memories is revived, yet instead of it being a terrifying idea it is welcomed by the Colonel.

            As the Colonel shuts himself away from the world, the village is pried open, both actions are acts that turn away from the past, and both are destructive. The act of attempting suicide can be seen as a loss of innocence, the turning away from life, just as Colonel gave up, and lost himself, the town was torn open and its original Eden-like state was shattered.

Both the village and the man become mere shells of what they used to be:

“So many changes took place in such a short time that eight months after Mr. Herbert’s visit the old inhabitants had a hard time recognizing their own town” (228).  

“He locked himself up inside himself and the family finally thought of him as dead” (263).

            Colonel Aureliano Buendía finally dies without any memories, the same fate for the village, by a chestnut tree, surrounded by "his miserable solitude", ready to be picked apart by vultures (267).

             

What's in a Name?

Gabriel Garcia Marquez may only know approximately five names, which would explain the limited selection found in One Hundred Years of Solitude. However, I find it more likely that he knew what he was doing and chose to write the novel simply repeating names such as José, Arcadio, Aureliano, and Remedios. There are a couple names he uses only once, such as Ursula and Amaranta. While this technique is ultimately confusing and almost frustrating, if not completely, utterly frustrating, one would think that an author worthy of winning the Nobel Prize has a method to his madness. He does. When one learns the meaning of the names he uses for his characters, again and again, one can understand why these names, as well as the variants on the combinations.

            Starting with the first name, and only the first name, of the father in the novel, one can understand why Marquez names him “José.” The name is a derivative of the English name Joseph, which is almost immediately recognized as a Biblical name by many people. “José” means literally, “God will increase.” One can read this as a reference to the way José Arcadio Buendia is constantly trying to increase his wealth and technology through inventions brought by the gypsies, or perhaps increasing the town’s prosperity as he is the founder of Macondo. Biologically, he increases the town’s population with his own children, some of whom have several children of their own. Joseph is sometimes considered Jesus’s earthly father, which of course relates to the head of household stance José Arcadio Buendia takes while he is still of sound mind and living in the house, not under the tree.

            The name “Ursula,” literally translates into “young bear.” While she does in fact start out young, as she references marrying José Arcadio Buendia, she lives to an unbelievable age in the novel. However, she keeps her ferocity and protectiveness over her family, much like a mother bear and her cubs. Even when her children get out of line when they are grown, she is not afraid to confront them and attempt to make them see what they are doing wrong.

            “Arcadio,” means “from Arcadia,” which is a region in Greece known for being a pure, untouched wilderness, as well as adventure. While the name does not seem to imply much in the way of José Arcadio Buendia, it definitely fits his son, José Arcadio. When the gypsies leave town after a visit, he runs away with them, not returning for years. José Arcadio finally comes back, and has basically regressed in his behavior as a civilized man. All of the boys named “Arcadio” from here on out have the same wild sense of adventure.

            The name “Amaranta,” means “unfading,” which certainly describes Amaranta in the novel. Her “unfading,” characteristic mainly applies to her view on men. She wants Pietro Crespi so badly she threatens Rebeca out of extreme jealousy, but when she finally has the opportunity to marry Crespi, she refuses him and drives him to suicide. General Gerineldo Marquez also wants to have her hand in marriage, and even though she cares for him, she refuses and ultimately dies alone.

            The last of the direct, biological children of Ursula and José Arcadio Buendia is Aureliano. His name translates into, “golden,” which can certainly be connected to the fish he makes when his career as a colonel eventually ends. All boys with the name “Aureliano,” are said to have a distinct, solemn look in their eye; all seventeen of his sons have this look. His talent and drive as a rebel military leader can also be described as “golden,” since he is so good at what he does, especially in the beginning of the wars.

            While the names “Rebeca,” and “Remedios,” are important names as well, they do not repeat, at least as much, with the exception of Ursula. “José,” “Arcadio,” “Amaranta,” and “Aureliano,” are a few of the most repetitive, important names in the novel, and there is no doubt as to why Gabriel Garcia Marquez chose them.

http://www.thinkbabynames.com/meaning

http://wiki.name.com/en/Baby_Names