There aren't many authors who know their way around paper as sensually as Gabo does. He treats literature as his lover, almost. You can see it in his rich narrative and the vibrant textures of his plots. The way he caresses the words and molds the characters, it is almost as if he has personally experienced every emotion of every character. Like they still live with him.
To him she seemed so beautiful, so seductive, so different from ordinary people, that he could not understand why no one was as disturbed as he by the clicking of her heels on the paving stones, why no one else's heart was wild with the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veils, why everyone did not go mad with the movements of her braid, the flight of her hands, the gold of her laughter. He had not missed a single one of her gestures, not one of the indications of her character, but he did not dare approach her for fear of destroying the spell. Love in the Time of Cholera
I don't know what draws me to Gabo's writing so powerfully. Maybe it is his home genre of Magical Realism (something shared by Salman Rushdie, my other favorite author) or the quality of not quite being real. The mystical touch, the earthy beauty.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close One Hundred Years of Solitude