Love in the Time of Cholera: A Juxtaposition of Medium reviewed by T. Buresh 'Moustache' Doyle Which are you, Love in the Time of Cholera? Are you book or film? Are you words on a page, or are you moving images on a deceitful screen? Will you ever afford me an answer to this question? Probably not, as neither book nor film can communicate independently of its predetermined path of communication. That fact alone, however, will not stop my investigation. I'm not sure who you think you are, Love in the Times of Cholera, tricking the masses into believing that one story could be told in two separate and uniquely enjoyable ways. And I'm not sure where you get off glorifying cholera, as if it is in any way associated with love. Cholera -noun An acute, infectious disease, endemic in China and India and occasionally epidemic elsewhere, characterized by profuse diarrhea, vomiting, cramps, etc. Love -noun A profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person. Tell me Mr. Gabriel Garcia Marquez, how exactly have you linked both love and cholera? Moreover, how could one suffering from cholera expect to take part in love? It might be safe to assume that the party not afflicted by cholera would be reluctant to take part in acts of love knowing that his or her partner may, during said love act, vomit or defecate. That's not sexy, right? As a discerning judge of literature and film and a huge fan of Marquez, notable his One Hundred Years of Solitude, 'Love in the Time of Cholera' has left me with a bad taste in my mouth and in the market for a new futon pad. 'Love...' is, at day's end, a volatile mix of diarrhea, vomit and emotion and unsure if it would rather be a film or a book. It is gross and it is disingenuous, and it will ruin love for everyone who is exposed to it.