I first read One Hundred Years of Solitude during a balmy Italian Summer at about age twelve.
The image of Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s little goldfish has stayed with me ever since.
Every day, the Colonel carefully, patiently, and lovingly constructs miniature golden goldfish in his workshop, only to immediately destroy his work and start over.
To García Márquez, it is a metaphor for the madness which pervades the town of Macondo.
To me, it resembles much more closely our self-defining efforts of identity construction.