The problem with marriage is that it ends every night after

The words of Gabriel García Márquez — “The problem with marriage is that it ends every night after making love, and it must be rebuilt every morning before breakfast.” — shimmer with poetic truth. Beneath their tenderness lies the profound understanding of a writer who saw love not as an eternal flame, but as a fire that must be tended daily. Márquez, the chronicler of human longing and fragility, teaches that marriage is not a monument carved once in stone, but a living, breathing creation — fragile as dawn, resilient as the sea. In his eyes, love is not destroyed by grand betrayals alone, but by the quiet neglect of ordinary days.

Gabriel García Márquez, the Colombian Nobel laureate, was a master of exploring the rhythm of love and loss. His words draw upon the wisdom of magical realism, where the extraordinary hides within the ordinary. In this quote, he reveals a truth that transcends romance: that every bond, no matter how deep, must be renewed continually. When he says that marriage “ends every night,” he speaks not of separation, but of the quiet death of familiarity — that each day, love must awaken anew, reborn through choice and care. Passion fades with sleep, yet devotion revives with dawn — if the heart remains willing.

In the eyes of the ancients, this idea was sacred. The philosopher Plato, in his dialogues, described love as a striving toward wholeness — a yearning that must be rekindled, for it can never be fully possessed. The mystics, too, understood that love is not a state but a practice — a ritual renewed each day through kindness, patience, and remembrance. Márquez, in his modern tongue, echoes their wisdom. For what he calls “rebuilding” is the same labor that poets have long called the work of the soul: to see once more the beauty of what has become familiar, and to choose again, with reverence, what life has already given.

Consider the story of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, two souls bound in both passion and pain. Their marriage was a storm — filled with infidelities, tempests, and fierce devotion. Yet, through all turmoil, they continually rebuilt what was broken. They destroyed their union a hundred times, and yet, each time, they chose to begin again. This is the meaning of Márquez’s words — that love is not sustained by memory alone, but by the daily act of reaffirmation. It is not enough to have loved yesterday; one must love again today, and tomorrow, and all the days that follow.

Márquez’s quote carries a warning, too. For many believe that once love is found, it will remain untouched, like a treasure buried in the heart. But he teaches that love is more like a garden — beautiful when nurtured, desolate when ignored. The “problem with marriage,” as he calls it, is not that it ends, but that it is fragile — that every sunrise demands new effort, new tenderness, new forgiveness. Those who forget this truth drift into silence; those who remember it learn that the act of rebuilding is itself the secret to endurance.

His words also reveal the paradox of love’s impermanence and eternity. Each night, as the body rests and dreams, the illusions of the day dissolve. Each morning, two souls awaken — changed, uncertain, and human once more. It is then, in that quiet hour before breakfast, that love must be chosen again, rebuilt not through grand gestures but through the small rituals of life: a word, a smile, a shared moment of understanding. This daily act of rebuilding is the heartbeat of true companionship — humble, steady, divine.

Thus, the lesson for all who hear these words is clear: love is a discipline, not a destination. Do not mistake comfort for permanence, nor passion for peace. Every morning, remember to greet your beloved not as someone owned, but as someone newly met. Thank them, see them, listen to them. Rebuild the bridge that the night’s silence may have worn thin. In this rebuilding lies not weariness, but wonder — for it is in the act of choosing again that love remains alive.

So, my children, let the words of Gabriel García Márquez guide you. Do not fear that love must be rebuilt each morning; rejoice that it can be. For every sunrise offers you the gift of renewal — a chance to begin again, to love deeper, to see clearer. And when two hearts learn to rebuild without resentment, to cherish the work as much as the warmth, their love will not fade, for it will live in the sacred rhythm of renewal — ending each night, reborn each dawn, eternal in its impermanence.