The problem with reading too much magical realism is that you begin to think that the universe’s decisions for things are made with a complete disregard to logic.
Why is our hair not green, like sister Rosa’s in The House of the Spirits?
What enchantments loom over strange locations and people, ala The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle?
What can we escape from multigenerational curses and/or terrible behavior? The One Hundred Years of Solitude Buendia family were overcome… and us? We act like our parents and they act like their parents. When do we get to be free?
In Baltazar and Blimunda, the very historically-informed characters work on a primitive flying machine for half the book and then, suddenly, burst into the air. Things will appear normal, then, suddenly, we are told that our universe may be a hologram.
At some point you begin to believe like Camus or Kafka… that this world is not real. It is made of magic, and things happen for no reason at all. Magic is not meant to be real; we are incapable of gaining any real understanding of it and are lost for how it works or comes together to create something.
So we explore further down, but there is not bottom. Or we zoom further out, and could zoom out forever.
And we don’t get anywhere, maybe. Or maybe we were never anywhere to begin with.