From time to time it occurs to me that being such a fan of Márquez and reading his work at an impressionable age (all ages, in my case), really did damage to my brain. Every hooker I now meet I think: she must be a witty well of awesome stories ... and every artsy bum I allow to engage me in a conversation and, perish the thought, asks to do my portrait, I expect him to turn out to be a secret, world-weary genius ...

... Ye. No.